Her smile was like sunshine. “Then okay.” Her tongue poked out again. “Another one. No, two?” That little grateful duck of her head. “If you don’t mind?”
I would scramble up another six dozen eggs if it kept Claire looking at me like this. I turned away from her and got to work.
“I’m going to get some more hot sauce,” I promised her as I held out the second plate of perfectly scrambled eggs. “But in the meantime—”
“In the meantime, this is perfect,” she finished.
I couldn’t help myself. I let my fingers whisper along her cheekbone. I’d touched her before. This wasn’t strange. And tucking her silky hair behind her ears, that wasn’t strange either. I didn’t want her to get her hair in the eggs I’d made her. It was nothing more than that. Just a friend helping a friend.
But the color rising to her cheeks made a liar out of me. “Ethan.”
“Claire.” A strangled sound.
This time she looked at me the whole while. She didn’t move away as I bent to her. She had ample time to pull away from me, to stop whatever it was I thought I was doing.
But she didn’t.
So I kissed her.
Her lips were so soft. Lush and perfect and yielding. She tilted her chin to me, and for one delirious moment, Claire King was kissing me right back.
Until she yanked her head back. Her eyes went wide. She clapped her hand over her mouth and stared at me in horror.
“Oh God. I’m so sorry. I don’t—Claire, I’m so fucking sorry, I didn’t mean—.” My apologies stumbled over each other to reach her first. I staggered back with my hands up, then pressed them together in prayer, ready to drop to my knees and beg her forgiveness for being such an asshole. “Claire,” I started again. “I’m really sorry. That was so wrong.”
But her expression didn’t change. She didn’t seem to hear me.
“Seriously,” I asked, suddenly more concerned for her than my own stupid self. “Are you okay? You look pale again.”
Her answer was to shove me to the side so hard I actually lost my footing. She rushed past me. A door slammed.
But it wasn’t my front door. It was the door to the bathroom. And the next thing I heard was the awful retching sound of Claire vomiting in my toilet.
Chapter Eleven
Claire
This is hell.
I am in hell.
Ethan knocked softly on the bathroom door. “Claire? Are you okay?” When I gagged and threw up again, he chuckled, “Okay, I guess that’s my answer.”
I coughed and grabbed a wad of toilet paper to wipe my mouth, then sagged against the wall. Then I flushed the toilet before the smell made me throw up again.
What the actual hell was that?
Shadows under the door told me Ethan was still lurking on the other side. What if I just curled up and died right now? What if lightning struck his house and burned me to a cinder? That would be lovely, I thought. The idea of ceasing to exist was less terrifying than the knowledge that I'd just thrown up after Ethan kissed me.
We’d kissed before. At parties when he’d had too much to drink. Moments I was feeling wild and his seriousness irritated me. These things happened. No big deal. Definitely not worth the way my heart was banging around in my chest. Definitely not worth losing an entire plate of eggs and… oh God, those poor wasted honey buns. They deserved better than this.
“Claire?” The door handle jiggled. “I know you’re going to hate me if I come in, but I don’t care.” The door swung open.
I groaned and buried my face in my hands before I had to see him looking at me. Whether he was grossed out or sympathetic, it didn’t matter. They were equally awful. My stomach gave another threatening lurch. I lunged for the toilet bowl and heaved again. Nothing came out. Except for frustrated, horrified tears.
Ethan ran the tap, then knelt down next to me. Quietly, he handed me a glass of water. “Small sips,” he warned as he rubbed slow, soothing circles between my shoulder blades.
The water was cool and tasted better than anything ever had before. I wanted to chug it straight down and then leap to my feet and insist that this was all over, I was better, all set thanks, I’ll be going now. But my hands shook too hard to even hold the water glass.
I set it on the floor before I spilled it. “I guess,” I croaked miserably, “I’m glad you didn’t have hot sauce?”
He smiled. “Me too. That would have smelled pretty terrible.”
“Shut up.” I sniffled.
“Sorry.” He put the glass on the vanity, then turned back to me.
For the second time tonight, he tucked my hair behind my ear. The only person who had ever done that to me before—besides my mother—was my brother Finn. Back when he and I were still good. It was a simple, brotherly gesture.
But Ethan wasn’t looking at me in a brotherly way.
I scrambled back and flushed the toilet again. He took his cue and stood up, extending his hand. “Here.” He helped me to my feet with a sheepish smile. “Should I be offended that you threw up right after I kissed you?”
A ghost of a smile tugged at my lips, and something that had been knocked askew by the look in his eyes settled back into place where it belonged. “You always knew I was a harsh critic,” I told him, tucking my hair behind my other ear.
He looked mortified. “I’m really sorry about that, Claire. I don’t know what came over me.”
I suddenly felt terrible that he felt so terrible. I wanted to say something reassuring. Stop freaking out, it doesn't matter, remember when I attacked you at Jonah's open mic? You got your payback. Don't be weird, and besides, I told you that beer smelled funny.
But before I could speak, another wave of nausea hit. The world spun sideways. I dropped to my knees with a groan and retched over his toilet again.
Yes. I was in hell.
When I was done heaving and wiping my mouth, Ethan silently ran another glass of water. “Swish,” he said quietly. “Don’t swallow this time.”
I wanted to joke that I always swallowed. But I didn’t have the energy. And if I opened my mouth, I might start to cry.
Ethan extended his hand with a raised eyebrow. “You okay?”
I nodded that yes, I was done vomiting in front of him now. He took my hand. I kept my head down, eyes trained on the heels of his bare feet, where the corrugated skin over his tendon flexed and rippled. Out of nowhere, I remembered seeing this same sight during track meets, the strong tendon reminding me of a tree trunk branching upward into the muscles of his calf.
I was so focused on his feet that I didn’t pay attention to where he was leading me.
Until I saw his bed and stopped short.
He turned and immediately dropped my hand, though some part of me wished he hadn’t. “I’ll take the couch tonight.”
“Are you kidding? No way.”
“And I’ll call your mom,” he said, ignoring me. “You’re not driving.”
“Ethan.”
“Don’t be stupid, Claire. Driving tonight would be stupid, and you’re not a stupid girl.”
I eyed his bed. Why didn’t it surprise me that Ethan Bailey was the type of guy who made his bed every day? He even tucked the edges of his dark comforter underneath his pillows like they do at hotels. Just looking at his bed sent another wash of exhaustion through me. “I’m the opposite of stupid,” I agreed, half yawning.
“Which means you’re smart. Yes, I know.” I hadn’t realized my eyes were closing until I opened them again to see Ethan thrusting a T-shirt at me. “Crown Creek Track and Field,” he read. “It’s nice and soft.”
“You still have it?”
“You need my help getting changed?” When my eyes flew open again, he was grinning evilly. “I’m fucking with you, Claire. I was wondering if I could make you throw up again.”
“Go to hell, Bailey,” I murmured without heat. I was so tired I felt like I was underwater.
“I’ll go to the kitchen, how about that? Gi
ve you privacy.”
He shut the door behind him. But I could still hear him moving around outside it. The swish of water as he washed up the dishes. Footsteps, his tread light for a guy his size. Was he trying to be polite? Why would I even ask that? Of course Ethan was polite.
He was a good guy. My friend.
Pulling his cloud-soft track shirt over my head was like pulling sleep down into my body. I fell into his pillow and exhaled. His pillow smelled like him. The aggressive bleach smell of his laundry detergent, along with the sweeter smells of sawdust and wood shavings. I turned my face into it and breathed.
“Claire?”
I didn’t open my eyes. Sleep hovered just within reach. “Hmm?”
“Sorry. I wanted to let you know I’m running out real quick.” His keys jingled in his hand.
It was a struggle, but I managed to open my eyes. “Where are you going?”
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then did that thing where he rubbed the back of his neck real fast. He was nervous. “It’s just…I remember my sister being like this.”
“Being like what?”
“Tired.”
“I had a long day.” There was silence, and I realized I’d drifted off. I opened my eyes again.
He’d knelt down so that his face was close to mine. Close enough that I could feel the puff of air across my cheek as he sighed. “Come on, Claire. You’re a ball of energy, you know it. No one can keep up with you. I’ve never seen you like this before.” He paused. “But I saw my sister like this. When she was pregnant.”
I jerked like he’d touched me with a live wire. Scrambling back, I swung out wildly. I don’t know if I was trying to hit him for saying something so horrifically stupid, or if I was trying to bat the words out of the air before they landed on me. “Fuck you!” I choked. “I’m not pregnant!” Air went down the wrong pipe, making me cough, but I struggled to make it sound like I was laughing. “You’re such a weirdo, Bailey.”
He shrugged. “Well, I’m still going out to get you some saltines and ginger ale.”
“Fine.” I fell back onto his pillow. “Do whatever makes you feel better, but I’m not pregnant.”
I rolled away from him.
I didn’t so much fall asleep as crash headlong into it. I had no idea how long I lay there, dead to the world, but the next thing I knew, there were noises in the pitch dark.
I rolled over. “Sorry,” Ethan whispered. “I thought you’d want this. Flat ginger ale. My mom swears by it.”
My throat was parched, and I had the worst taste in my mouth. “Yes, please.”
He turned on the light. “Slowly,” he urged as I sipped. “And here’s a sleeve of saltines.”
“I’ll try not to get crumbs in your bed.”
“I won’t kick you out.” He laughed.
I grinned at him. “Good one, Bailey.” Maybe it was the nap, or maybe it was the fact that joking with him made me feel like things were normal—even though they were decidedly weird at the moment—but I was starting to feel okay. Like myself again. “How much did you spend at the drugstore, geeze?” I asked, reaching for the laden plastic bag.
There was a logo in there, visible through the translucent plastic. I narrowed my eyes. “What the—?”
It was a box of E-Z One-Step pregnancy tests.
Ethan cleared his throat. “Just in case.” He frowned. “Are you, ah…. Fuck it. Are you late, Claire?”
“Did you really just ask me that?”
He at least had the decency to look ashamed.
I rolled onto my back and heaved a sigh. “Okay fine, why even try to maintain my air of feminine mystery after I barfed all over your house, right? I’m on the pill, Ethan. Specifically, I’m on the pill all the time.”
I waited a second. When he didn’t make any noises or gestures of understanding, I sighed again. “Jesus, you guys have it so damn easy, you know that, right?”
“I’m aware,” he said softly.
“You remember all those track meets I used to miss?”
“For your stomach, yeah.”
I shook my head. “Not my stomach, my uterus.” When he coughed into his hand, I had to laugh. “Hey, you asked. But my cramps were so awful that my doctor told me to start taking the pill every day. I don’t get periods anymore.” I shook my head again. “I don’t have time to lose a solid week of every month to moaning and heating pads.”
He rubbed his neck really fast again. “I just think…I remember my sister being this way,” he finished lamely.
I shook my head and laughed. “Okay, psycho. Whatever.”
As soon as I said it, there was an echo in my head. My own voice, saying those exact words the week before Halloween. Words said to another man as I lay in his bed.
No.
Not possible.
Not even in the slightest.
Ethan leaned over me. “Night, Claire,” he murmured as he tucked my hair behind my ear and gave me a gentle, chaste kiss on the forehead. A sweet little friendly gesture meant to help me feel safe enough to go back to sleep.
Except now I was wide awake.
Chapter Twelve
Ethan
I was half inside of my fridge, sniffing a suspicious carton of milk, when I heard her. “Hi.”
I jerked back, bashing my arm and making the condiments on the door jingle musically as they rattled together. Rubbing my elbow, I gave her an apologetic grin. “Whoops, forgot you were here.”
That was a bald-faced lie. How could I forget the reason why I woke up on my couch with a very confusing hard-on? Claire was in my bed, wearing my shirt, and I wasn’t going to let myself feel anything about that.
But now she was in my kitchen, her hair all mashed against her face, looking at me with an expression I’d never seen her wear before. I was seeing Claire with her guard down, her eyes slightly bewildered, the set of her mouth soft and vulnerable.
“Thanks for letting me sleep here.” She rubbed her eye with her fist like my baby niece did, and it tugged at something inside of me. The outline of her breasts against my T-shirt tugged at something completely different, and I turned quickly back to the stove.
“I figured you wouldn’t want eggs again,” I babbled. She needed to put her lipstick on, put her bra on, cover those pretty toes. I hated myself for what I was feeling right now. “So I made pancakes.”
“What? No, I just need coffee and I’ll get out of your hair.”
She still wasn’t wearing her lipstick, I could still see the outline of her breasts, and her toes were still wiggling on my floor, but at least she was being a stubborn pain in my ass. That put me back into more familiar territory. I turned back to her. “Claire, sit down. You threw up all over the world last night. You need something in your stomach besides coffee.”
“Fine, make your pancakes. But I need coffee now. This is nonnegotiable.”
“You know how to work a drip coffee maker, or are you going to ask me where I keep my espresso machine?”
“Well, where do you keep your espresso machine?” She mimed searching through my cupboards in a panic. “Oh heavens, no milk frother? How do you live?”
Now she was being a sarcastic pain in my ass. My blood pressure slowed to more manageable levels. “I grind my beans at the store, too, so they aren’t even fresh.”
“You’re an animal, Bailey.” But she set up the coffee maker with expert movements, measuring out a precisely level scoop as I flipped the pancakes. “Which mug do you like?” she asked as she opened the cupboard right over the coffee maker. I noted with pleasure that she'd claimed for herself the same mug I’d given her last night. It was my favorite, but now it was hers.
“Red one," I said instead.
She wrinkled her nose at it. “It says Merry Christmas.”
“It’s almost Christmas.”
“It’s not even Thanksgiving yet.”
“Well, I don’t have a Thanksgiving mug. I’m so sorry my mugs are seasonally inappropriate.
”
“Now I know what to get you for your birthday.” She nudged me with her hip. "A selection of seasonally appropriate mugs."
I hid my smile as I pretended to focus on the pancakes. I couldn’t let her know how much I liked this. Having her bustle around, invading my space, being close to me like this? I felt like I was seeing something rare. Who else’s house had she slept over at?
I swallowed. Well, that was a dumb question. Claire was single. She dated guys. Probably slept over their houses and drank coffee from their favorite mugs all the time. I wasn’t special.
And I wasn’t jealous either.
She ate her pancakes without syrup—which was freaking odd—and drank her coffee before checking the time. “Weird,” she commented. “I usually have to leave for work right now. But you’re so much closer. I don’t have to rush.” She tapped her fingernails on the tabletop. “It feels strange to have so much extra time. Can I use your shower?”
“No, sorry. You slept in my bed all night, but for some reason my shower is off-limits.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m going to use up all your hot water for that comment.”
She was indeed in my shower for a very long time. Long enough for me to have to pull out my textbooks and start studying rather than think about Claire’s naked body.
I didn’t want to think other things about her body either. But my sister had no filter about being pregnant. “It’s not normal for you to be sharing this with your brother,” I’d complain when she’d call me to let me know exactly how huge and tender her breasts had gotten. “I really, really don’t want to know.”
“Men should know what we go through” was always her reply. It had been since we were kids. Which was why I knew to always carry ibuprofen and a tampon on me, just in case a friend needed them. It was why I knew to tell Ryan he needed a trash can in his bathroom if he was going to have Naomi over like he wanted. “And if she’s suddenly withdrawn and doesn’t want to be touched," I'd added, "just be quiet and bring her chocolate.”
Ryan thought I was a genius, when really I was just a victim of an oversharing sister.
Now And Always (Crown Creek) Page 6