Her hand leaves its place on my arm. I look back up to see her press her fingers to her temple.
“You okay?”
Talia shakes her head, still bowed.
“Let’s sit down.” I steer her toward the closest chairs, fifteen feet away. Once we’re sitting, Talia lays her head on my chest, still holding her temple on the other side. Only makes sense to put an arm around her shoulders. I lean closer to ask, “Headache?”
“Mm hm.”
“This happen a lot?”
“More than I’d like,” she says, “but not really.”
“Do we need to go?”
Talia hesitates. “Can’t ruin everyone else’s night.”
Not having to watch her with Campbell again would be the polar opposite of “ruining.” “We can’t torture you.”
“Is she hurt?” A short, skinny guy with bright blond hair and a glaring red shirt stands over us, casting Talia a concerned frown. Might be my imagination, but it seems like Talia buries her head against my chest more.
“She’s fine,” I answer. “Just a headache.”
“Would you like me to get something? Water?”
Talia shakes her head again, covering the whole side of her face now. I don’t know if she knows this concerned dude or not, but his hovering isn’t helping.
“No, thanks. We should go.” I half-haul, half-help Talia to her feet. She keeps her cheek pressed against me and slides her free arm around my back. I hug her close and guide her away from this guy. Where’s Campbell?
I finally spot him across the floor. “I’m going to leave you here for one minute to get Campbell. Okay?”
“No.” She clings to my back. What am I supposed to do, drag her through the dancing crowd? I wait until Campbell cycles closer to signal to him. As soon as he sees Talia, he practically runs over, Maddi in tow. “You okay?”
I signal for him to keep his volume down. “Headache.”
Campbell glances at Maddi. My date. And I’m standing here holding another woman.
A woman who’s my friend and isn’t feeling good. Not just a woman I really want to be dating.
“Let’s get you home.” Campbell takes Talia’s elbow and the three of us walk out, Maddi trailing behind. Once we’re in the parking lot, Talia shrugs us off to rub her temples.
“I’m sure we’ve got something for you at our place,” Campbell says. “And I think some ice cream. What do you say, Maddi?”
“Actually, I should get going. Seven AM shift.”
I should remember what she does, but I don’t. Can’t blame her for wanting out of this date.
We drop Maddi off at her car and bring Talia upstairs with us. Though she seems a lot better, Campbell digs through a cabinet and produces a bottle of Tylenol PM. Talia shoots me a wary look, but takes two.
“We should wait to make sure it works. You might need more.”
“I guess,” she says. We settle into our usual spots for dinner: me and Talia at either end of the couch, Campbell in the chair by her. He starts a movie, but focuses his attention on Talia.
Why did I agree to a roommate? How much would I have to pay him to move out?
I pretend like the movie, an action flick I’ve seen before that substitutes a series of explosions for a plot, absorbs my full attention. I’m not sure whether Talia and Campbell’s conversation fades or I do, but the next thing I know, I’m waking up to the credits. I glance around — Talia’s out, too, and Campbell’s gone, probably bored with us. I suppress a yawn and check the time. After midnight.
Seems creepy, but I watch Talia for a minute. Like I need the reminder how beautiful she is after watching her dance with another guy all night. Instead of looking peaceful in her sleep, she seems smaller. Vulnerable. Like someone who needs shields.
It’s late; what she needs is to get to bed. “Hey,” I say — or I try to say, but just after waking up, my voice is only a whisper. I shake her knee. “Wake up.”
Her eyelids flutter, and she moans softly. “I am awake.” To prove it, she snuggles into the couch cushion.
“C’mon. You should get home.” I pull myself to my feet, and a slight rush of dizziness tells me I did that a little too quickly. I pause to keep my balance. Once I’m good, I take her hands.
She slowly opens her eyes and sighs like she’s resigning herself to being kicked out. I pull her up and let go. The second I release her, Talia wavers, her arms flying out like she stood too fast, too, and might topple back onto the couch.
I catch her to steady her, cinching one arm around her waist. Her hand lands on my chest, and her gaze locks on mine.
Yep, we’re both awake. And very, very aware of her body against mine. All I can hear is my pulse beating in my ears, telling me exactly what I should do.
I’ve hugged her, held her, danced with her — but this is different. Because there’s only one thing to do now.
Kiss her.
I don’t know whether I feel or sense her take a tiny breath, tilting her chin up a centimeter.
Definitely going for it. It thrums in my heartbeat: kiss her, kiss her, kiss her.
As I start to lean in, a door in the back opens. Campbell — the guy who took Talia on a date tonight, and who I gave the go-ahead with her.
I draw back, steadying her by the elbows instead. “You okay there?”
She fixes on the floor. “Yeah. Fine.”
“Good.” Just like my stomach sinking is good. Right.
“Oh,” Campbell says. I finally release Talia and turn to him, standing in the hallway, holding my T-shirt quilt and a tacky afghan from my bed. “You’re up.”
“Yep,” I say.
Talia nods, still staring down. “Better go.”
Campbell gives me this look that’s indecipherable but bordering on scary. How much did he see? Talia books it for the door. She lets herself out before Campbell or I can get there.
“I was only gone for a minute,” Campbell says, “so I know nothing that serious could’ve happened. Right?”
I glance at the door, then look back to him. I have no idea what just happened, except that it wasn’t what I wanted. I turn away, and that’s when I see Talia’s coat on the counter. Without consulting Campbell, who, again, was technically her date, I grab the jacket and jog after her.
“Talia,” I call down the hall. She looks back but steps onto the elevator, holding the door for me. She looks . . . tired.
Brilliant assessment.
I reach the elevator and hold out her jacket.
“Thanks,” she says.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she says again, not quite meeting my eyes. “Long day.”
I let that lie hang between us. “I’m sorry —”
“Don’t worry about it.” She finally looks up — and lets go of the elevator door. “Good night, Danny.”
The door slides shut and it’s quiet in the hall. I’m alone in a way that feels much worse than being caught alone with my roommate’s date.
Did I totally misread this situation, or that moment she wanted me to kiss her? Or was she confused by sleep and the drugs Campbell gave her?
Campbell’s waiting when I get back. “Tell me you didn’t just kiss my date.”
“I didn’t kiss your date.” I wanted to. I should have. But I didn’t.
Campbell says nothing else, so I push past for my room. A cadaver would’ve kissed that woman. Why didn’t I? Because she was on a date with my roommate?
I shake my head at myself and start getting ready for bed.
I told Campbell he could date her, that I didn’t have anything going on with Talia. And I didn’t. But I wanted to. Now I want to even more. I think she wants to, too. Yeah, she’s flirted with Campbell a little, but I don’t see her sharing her secrets with him.
I’m going for her.
I toss my shoes in my closet, and they hit the floor with two decisive thumps.
Is this a good idea? Getting friend-zoned again? Even I’m not that
much of a glutton for punishment. I go to brush my teeth, but I end up staring at my sorry self in the mirror. Maybe Talia will be happy with Campbell. He’d be happy I didn’t go after her when I told him he could.
Yep, Campbell will be happy. Talia will be happy. At this rate, why don’t I go ahead and make Mom happy too? How about Kendra?
Everybody’s happy except the guy in the mirror. I wash my face just so I don’t have to look at him any longer.
I am so tired of making everyone else happy. I just can’t — I couldn’t make Kendra happy. I never could have, either, because Talia’s right. Kendra was mentally ill. I tried my hardest to make her happy, and it wasn’t enough, and that’s not my fault. It wasn’t my job.
I’m drying my hands when it all comes together. I couldn’t make Kendra happy, and I didn’t have to. I don’t have to make anyone else happy. Ever.
I march to my room and open my laptop. The latest email from Roger-the-real-estate-agent is already in the trash, but I undelete it and click reply. Is that house we saw still available? Let’s make an offer. We. Me and “Georgia MacBride.” I don’t add that before I hit send.
Now I just have to find the right way to tell Mom.
The last thing I want to do today is dance. Because dancing will remind me of Danny, which will remind me of how I haven’t texted him back all morning, which will remind me of how he didn’t kiss me.
Why didn’t he kiss me?
The only good thing about last night was avoiding Vasily. (Russian spymaster seeing me out with my real-life friends? Less than ideal.) He hasn’t said anything about seeing me, and now here I am, around the corner from Danny’s, dancing with Marcel, Vasily spectating. We don’t have a routine, so we’re going over basic steps, but my footwork is precise, my lines are good, and I even remember to smile. I feel like I’ve been doing this for years (instead of not doing it for years). Whenever I turn, I catch a glimpse of Vasily grinning. Yep, everything’s going perfectly according to his plan.
Not mine, unfortunately.
Vasily moves to his iPod stereo and stops the song. “Looks like you’re doing well.”
Marcel nods, and so do I. But if this works out, how can I stay close to Vasily afterward? Have him choreograph with us? Unlikely he’ll want to help out the competition that much.
“Let’s try the rumba.” He’s saved this dance for last, for obvious reasons. Always been my weakest, and it’s not the footwork that trips me up.
“One minute,” Marcel says. “My laces need adjusting.” He kneels.
“Joanne.” Vasily beckons me to where he stands by the stereo in the corner, and I obey. He places his hands on my shoulders. “Close your eyes.”
I indulge him.
“Think about the person you want to be dating.”
“Vasily —”
“Please.”
I pinch my lips together to hold in the protest and pretend.
“Picture him taking you in his arms, holding you close.”
Despite my best efforts, my brain replays the seconds Danny held me and almost — almost — kissed me.
“Think about what you’d like to have happen next.”
I try to distract myself, thinking of my objectives here, thinking of the waiver I need to rewrite for Mr. Terfort himself, thinking of Mom and Tyler and all the reasons I shouldn’t think of Danny.
But his eyes, his lips, his arms keep pulling me back into that memory.
What would I like to have happen next? Duh, I want him to kiss me, but I want more than that. I want to date him without worrying, without my baggage, without pressure. I just want to be in that moment, kiss him, love him, be with him, not worrying about all the moments to come. I want to close my eyes for his kiss and never have to open them again.
I want the impossible.
“Now,” Vasily interrupts. “Imagine that you know this is your final chance to be with him, but if you say a word, you’ll break this spell. Tell him what you want with your eyes.”
“They’re closed.”
Vasily laughs and turns me around. I open my eyes, and Marcel’s waiting there. An inch or two taller than me, blond, blue eyes. The opposite of Danny.
But I know what Vasily was trying to do, and I’ll give it a shot. Marcel escorts me to the center of the floor. Vasily starts the music. Marcel pivots me into a closed dance position.
I lock my gaze on his, pretending he’s Danny, and we start. Marcel’s obviously a good leader. He starts with the basic walks, rocks and twists, then guides me into the open position. We work up to the more advanced figures, turns, and fallaway.
We finish, as always, with a flourish. Vasily cuts off the music, applauding. We chat with Marcel a minute, gathering our stuff and changing our shoes. I should offer to take one or both of them to lunch, but that would make it harder for me to go see Danny.
This is getting sad.
“How’d I do?” I ask Vasily once Marcel leaves us alone just inside the doors.
“Very well. You’ll give me and Galina a run for our money with a decent routine.”
I laugh and push open the first set of doors. “How was the rumba?”
His eyebrows draw together, and my heart sinks half an inch. “It was better,” he begins. “The intensity was perfect — but . . . your expression was not quite there. Next time, let’s work on showing more lust, less love.”
Love? That word rockets into my chest. He catches the next door for me, peeling off with a wave, but I drift to a stop on the sidewalk.
Then it hits me: I used that word, too. The pieces click into place. He’s become the person I want to see every day, the person I come to when I need help or to talk or to escape — the one person I can trust with the truth. Instead of hiding from him, I want to hide with him. And that floating feeling when we’re together, like my heart’s high on helium, that’s not normal.
My heart raced when he held me — not just because he’s attractive and I’m human. Because I love him.
I love Danny.
I wander a few steps down the sidewalk, numb, and not from the cool fall air.
I love Danny. I love Danny. Duh. And — once I do an SDR — I can run up there and tell him, and we can finish what we started last night, and it’ll be amazing. Wonderful. Perfect. The person who’s been there for me whenever I needed him, who knows exactly how to encourage or distract or help me, who I can trust with everything, who sees me. Of course I love him. As long as last night was a fluke, there’s nothing, nothing at all, to keep us apart.
I turn to start my SDR, ready to practically skip away, but before I take a step, my phone rings. I pull it out — my mother.
I shouldn’t answer for her. But there’s always that one tiny chance this time she’ll care. So once I check my back — clear — and slip back into the studio, I do. “Hey, Mom.”
“Talia Rosalie Reynolds!”
Middle names. They exist either to embarrass you, let you know your mom’s off-her-rocker angry, or both. Guessing this call isn’t because she cares. “Valarie Marie Tyler Reynolds Westing Davies.”
She sputters without actual words, because listing off all her married names implies she’s failed not once, but three times.
Finally she recovers. “Talia, I know you’re ignoring me.”
From the woman who’s gone up to a year without contacting me? That’s rich.
“How dare you? After all I’ve done for you?”
“Yeah, Mom.” I cover my face, not bothering to hide the weariness in my voice. “What would the boys and I do without our matching sets of baggage?”
After half a second of silence, she unleashes a sarcastic cackle. That sound’s more blood-curdling than any movie villain’s evil laughter, because her anger has chilled into pure hatred.
Yelling I know how to handle. This mood is a different beast, unpredictable and dangerous, even if I’m out of range of her physical blows.
“You’ve always had a vivid imagination,” she says. I can prac
tically hear her sneer.
“Sure, Mom.” I’ve been away from her for thirteen years. She’ll have to try harder than that tired old line.
And try harder she does. “I guess I should’ve seen this coming. You’ve never appreciated me. I always had to be so careful how I treated you. I walked on eggshells your entire childhood.”
This isn’t true, I repeat to myself over and over. Not true, not true, not true. She lies. “Our memories are apparently different, then.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way.”
Don’t know how that makes sense, but fending off her mental attacks is quickly sapping my strength. I lean against the wall next to a poster of Vasily and Galina. “Was there a reason you called?”
“Don’t pretend you don’t know.”
Uh, okay. I wait for her to elaborate.
“I know you clicked ‘Ignore request’ when I tried to add you on Facebook.”
My spine straightens. “Wait, what?”
“You. Are. Ignoring. Me. And I won’t tolerate it.”
I have to scoff at that classic narcissist statement. She ignores me, goes weeks without thinking about me, but the minute I don’t hop to when she wants my attention, I’m the bad guy.
The situation only makes the irony richer. “Mom? I don’t have a Facebook account. I deleted it after college.”
“Oh really?” she snarks. “Then whose profile did I find?”
That. Is a very good question. Ice drizzles down my spine. I’m not the only Talia Reynolds on the planet, but is someone impersonating me? And if so, why? “Was the profile picture of me?”
“No, it was a photo of a waterfall.”
One count of safety. “Did their info match mine?”
“Yes, it said your hometown was Temecula.”
I would never, ever list Temecula as my hometown. I barely lived there a year, and it’s a year I’d love to forget. (The closest I get to a hometown is where I went to college, and . . . sorry, Rexburg, I had a blast, but I’m not claiming you.)
“And it said you were in med school.”
Spy Another Day Prequel Box Set: Spy Noon, Mr. Nice Spy, and Spy by Night in one volume (Spy Another Day Prequels clean romantic suspense trilogy) Page 36