The Girl He Knows

by Kristi Rose

  I gulp and nod. “I wouldn’t say repeatedly, I mean we...uh... Please don’t be mad.”

  “I’m not mad because you and Hank have been playing house. I’m mad because you haven’t told me. When did this start?”

  I blow out a puff of air. “Right after you canceled going to the surf competition.”

  She pauses three beats. Is she lining up the events, figuring out the timeline?

  “Oh my God! You mean to tell me the day you came to my house and turned redder than a beet when I asked who you were sleeping with, it was my brother?”

  I nod.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Her brow is pulled in, her nose scrunched up, and the hurt I’ve caused is reflected in her eyes.

  “I was afraid you would think I crossed some line. I never intended for it to happen—”

  “Or continue to happen,” Kenley says.

  “Shut up.” I point to Kenley but keep looking at Gigi. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. We aren’t serious or anything. Please don’t be mad.” It’s like bailing water out of a sinking boat.

  Everyone is quiet, and I bite my thumbnail, waiting for Gigi’s next move. She stares at me for what feels like an eternity, and I know she’s processing it.

  “That’s too bad, Paisley, because I can’t think of a better person for you than my brother. You already fit into my family, and I’d love to have you for a sister.” Gigi reopens her book and leans back.

  “Now wait a minute,” I say. “Let’s don’t take it too far. I don’t think Hank is looking for a girlfriend. I know I’m not looking for a boyfriend, and it wouldn’t work out between us because he’s kind of been my rebound guy.”

  “Stupid, isn’t she?” Josie asks.

  There’s a round of agreements before Jayne starts filling Gigi in on Jake, the parts I conveniently forgot, and she shoots me a look of disappointment.

  “Have you not learned anything? You should snap up my brother and run.” She looks back at her book, irritated.

  “What exactly do you mean? I’ve just begun dating again and yes, some have been epic fails. Would it be fair to start a relationship with Hank because we have a good time together and are comfortable with each other?” I shake my head. It’s a sound argument.

  “That’s why people start relationships. Some even start them on less,” says Jayne.

  “And Hank’s got even more going for him. He’s trustworthy and honest,” says Gigi.

  “Not a shitbag. A good dancer, and sexy as hell,” finishes Josie.

  “Hell, I’ll take him.” Heather raises her hand.

  “Don’t hurt Hank, Paisley,” Gigi whispers. “That’s when this will have gone too far.”

  “As if I could, honey. Trust me. Hank has no more interest in me than I do him.”

  I reach out to hug her and am relieved when she returns it. It’s good to know she doesn’t hate me.

  Chapter 24

  I wake up, mouth dry and feeling heavy as if I’m covered with a weighted blanket. It’s hard to lift my head from the pillow. My brain feels as if it’s pressing against my skull, desperate to be free. Any sudden movement and I may spontaneously explode. At the pace of a turtle, slower than a sloth, I roll onto my back and crack open one eye.

  The annoying streams of sunlight invading my hotel room make me wince in pain and close my eye. Do Gigi and the others feel as bad as I do? I reach blindly for the night table and pat it, searching for my glasses. I ease them on and open my eyes one at a time to scan the room. The drapes to the balcony are open and Gigi’s sitting out on there, enjoying the sun. She’s drinking something, hopefully the magic elixir for this hangover. I would give up my nana for the pain to go away. I roll out of bed and ease my way to the sliding door.

  “Is there anything medicinal in that drink for me?” My voice is husky, too much hollering the night before.

  “Straight up coffee.” She smiles. “I ordered you some breakfast and a gallon of coffee.”

  I move out onto the patio and recoil in horror at the bright light, hissing as it burns my eyes. I glare at Gigi, who is laughing.

  “Why are you so perky?” I snarl.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t have drank so much.” She hands me a mug of coffee and the vapors boost me up, a bit. With deliberate steps, I ease into a chair. Gigi’s sunglasses are lying on the table and I put them on over my glasses to help cut the glare.

  “And has your tolerance gotten so high those drinks didn’t affect you?” This is my friend who laces her iced tea with whiskey.

  “I had one drink.” She lathers cream cheese on a bagel.

  The thought of a dairy product makes me gag. “What? You lie. You had just as many drinks as I did.” I tear a bagel into quarters and toss one piece in my mouth.

  “Nope, only one drink and I switched to club soda. Our dancing made me thirsty.” She wrinkles her nose at me with her silent “so there.”

  I try to wrap my mind around what she says, but I’m still a tad drunk, thereby making cohesive thought difficult.

  “Huh?”

  Gigi laughs again. “It’s not like I’m a lush.” She hands me an orange and I peel it, breaking off the skin bit by bit. Nothing is making sense anymore. Isn’t she a lush? Doesn’t she drink because of her horrible marriage?

  “You pour Jack Daniels in your tea at home.”

  Gigi burst out laughing and I wince at the noise.

  “It was sweet tea. Pete’s pre-K teacher thinks he has ADHD, and, before we hop him up on drugs, we’re changing his diet to see if it makes any difference. One of the things we’ve cut is sugar drinks, including tea. As his role models, we’ve cut sugar out of our diet too. Though sometimes I sweeten mine when he’s not around. I hide it in the Jack bottle.” She shrugs.

  My mind cycles back through the other things I’ve witnessed and possibly misinterpreted. I’m about to ask more questions when she sobers me up in instant.

  “I called Hank and I thought we could swing by before heading back to Daytona.”

  I drop the orange on the table, where it bounces and lands on the floor. I grab at it, the sudden movement causes my stomach to turn. I pause midposition and rest my head on my knee.

  “Does he know I’m coming?” I mumbled from below the table. Last time I saw Hank was at the Swan Ball, where I purposefully stepped on his feet when we were dancing and denied him an apology for my jealous snit.

  “He knows we’re together. Is there some problem?”

  I grab the orange from the patio floor, dust it off on my shorts, sit up, and finish peeling it.

  “Nope. No problem.” I shove orange pieces into my mouth, avoiding her stare.

  We take our time with breakfast, and I take a long shower before we check out of the hotel and head to Hank’s. The others are still sleeping in or have already left for home. Gigi drives since I’m still loopy.

  Turns out Hank lives close to our weekend party haven, in a nice neighborhood with large trees covered in Spanish moss. The houses are older but updated, and many are on the water. Old-fashioned streetlamps line landscaped sidewalks, and a park sits in the middle of the neighborhood.

  Gigi pulls up to a small ranch on the water. Hank’s truck is parked in the driveway. I’m assuming his motorcycle is tucked in the one-car garage.

  We get out, and I let Gigi lead the way. I’m nervous and jittery. I wish I could blame it on last night’s booze but it’s because something has changed between us. What does he think about my jealously toward Melinda? Will it be awkward with the three of us being in the same room and Gigi knowing about our sexcapades?

  Gigi rings the doorbell several times in succession as she smiles at me. I smile back and, if possible, feel more self-conscious because she won’t stop smiling or ringing the bell.

  Hank jerks open the door. “Knock it off, Gigi. One time will suffice. Leave your shoes at the door.” He points to a mat just inside the door and walks away, the door left open. />
  We kick off our flip-flops and pad our way into the cozy living room.

  I admit to having preconceived ideas about men and their bachelor pads. I guess Trevor set the standard since I conjure up visions of his college place and prepare to compare it with Hank’s.

  Hank’s place is a complete surprise. Instead of concrete blocks or bricks and boards holding up his television, Hank’s is encased in distressed armoire. An overstuffed couch and chair are centered around a fireplace and the armoire.

  Signs of his travels are scattered throughout. I stare at two identically framed cartouches, hand painted on old yellowing papyrus paper, as Gigi flops onto the couch and begins to pester her brother for a drink.

  “What’s this say?” I stare at the beautiful hand drawn symbols.

  He stops midway to the kitchen. “The one on the right is my last name, and the other is my first name.”

  I step further into his living room to see other pieces of art on his walls. The collection is breathtaking. In addition to the Arabian art are oil paintings of Italian villages and watercolors of French bistros. An Egyptian camel saddle sits next to a Japanese apothecary cabinet, standing close to four feet high.

  Seeing the proof of his travels sends a thrill of excitement and fear through me. There are so many places I’ve never seen, my travel experience being limited to the United Kingdom and back. Real croissants in Paris? The Coliseum in Rome? Exciting until I think of leaving my family behind. Not watching the twins grow up would make me sick to my stomach.

  “Have you been to all these places?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” he mumbles as he hands me a glass of iced tea before shuffling away.

  “He has more Japanese stuff in his bedroom. You should go see it,” Gigi says.

  For a man, Hank has extraordinary taste. Yeah, he has stacks of DVDs along a wall and serves my tea in a beer mug, but overall, I admit I’m impressed, right down to the Persian rug gracing his living room floor.

  I want to sit but Gigi’s sprawled on the couch, leaving the love seat to Hank and me. I go to the couch anyway. She tries to put up a fight but I sit, forcing her to scoot down before I plant my butt on her head.

  “Your place looks great, Hank. I would love to see the places you’ve seen.” I smile and take a drink.

  He doesn’t acknowledge my words with anything but a nod and a yawn. He looks tired. He’s dressed in navy shorts and a yellow T-shirt emblazoned with the US Navy logo. His hair is tousled, and it’s longer than normal. He has dark circles under his eyes and at least two days’ worth of beard on his face. Gigi kicks him, and they give each other a brief look.

  “Sorry, Paisley, I’m just tired and jet-lagged.”

  “That’s OK. Where’d you go?” A basket sits next to the couch, stacked with magazines. I sort through several National Geographics, Smithsonians, and a variety of foreign ones with their native script scrawled on their covers.

  “We went to the Middle East.”

  His words catch my attention and I swing my gaze to him. Middle East? Where there’s currently a war? It makes sense with him being in the Navy, but I never put the two together.

  “Is it safe?” I look between the siblings. It’s a stupid question but it comes out anyway. Hank shrugs. Knowing I’m not going to get a further response, I flip back to the magazines and pull out one written in what I assume is Arabic.

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d be worried about your reading material.” I hold up the magazine. “Can you read this?”

  “Sure.” He offers nothing more, and instead stares at me as he takes a drink.

  “What’s going on here?” asks Gigi.

  She’s referring to the silent dance we’ve been doing, me avoiding anything with substance and Hank refusing to engage in conversation until I ante up.

  “Paisley owes me something,” he tells her without breaking eye contact with me. His lips twitch and he gives me a bawdy wink. I try to suppress a laugh but holding it in makes me it come out in an unflattering way and Hank’s smile gets larger.

  “Come on, you can do it,” he says.

  An apology? Over Melinda Bane. Not going to happen.

  Never, never, never will I apologize to Hank Lancaster.

  We continue to stare at each other, our version of a Mexican standoff. I don’t even think he’s blinked.

  “All right. I’m sorry.” I fling a magazine at him and we laugh.

  “Was that so hard?” He catches the slippery volume with one hand and quickly drops it. He reaches across his sister and pulls me off the couch and into a one-armed half hug. He tucks me into the crook of his arm, trapping me in a headlock, and proceeds to briskly rub his knuckles across my scalp giving me the first noogie I’ve had in several years.

  “Stop it.” I push against him trying to break free. “Gigi, help.”

  “Oh, no. You’re on your own.” She’s still lying on the couch.

  Hank lets me go and walks away laughing, leaving me half on the love seat.

  “You’re a jackass.” I yell as he walks into the kitchen. I pat down my hair then reach for another magazine. This time I pick up Am Bràighe, a magazine for Scots with pages of Gaelic words. I look at Hank, puzzled. He’s leaning against the wall drinking a beer.

  “Can you read this?” I ask snottily. Even raised in a house where it was frequently spoken, I’d stumble over some of the passages.

  He shrugs and looks smug.

  “How many languages do you speak?” I narrow my gaze. In high school he took Spanish and Latin.

  “Lots,” Gigi says. “Hank minored in foreign language.”

  Her smile is proud, his shrug casual.

  I fling Am Bràighe at him when he starts to laugh. I hate them both.

  “When did this happen? All you ever talked about was the Academy. Besides I thought you were an intelligence officer?” Not a linguist, and I’m pretty confident there is a difference between the two.

  He takes a slow drink of his beer before he answers, “Once you learn one romantic language, it’s easy to learn the others. At the Academy, I found I had a natural aptitude for languages so I studied others there. It’s not a job requirement, but it’s come in handy on the rare occasion. It makes me marketable after I’m done with the Navy.”

  I roll my eyes, Hank and his ten-year plans. He’s always thinking ahead. There is no doubt, I’m impressed. To learn more than one language is amazing. I grew up in a home where Gaelic was spoken frequently, yet I only speak broken phrases and read it slightly better. I could never take on a third language, much less several.

  “Hmm,” is my lame response and I excuse myself to the restroom. When I come out, Gigi’s left for a walk along the water. Alone with Hank, I’m instantly nervous.

  “Gigi knows,” I tell him.

  Hank is lying across the love seat, flipping through the TV channels. I thumb through the magazines again and bite my lower lip to keep it from trembling. This awkwardness is a new experience for me.

  “And yet you are still alive.” He pauses on a sports channel.

  “OK, you’re right. Gigi did not find it to be such a big deal,” I say.

  “I’m sorry. What did you say? I didn’t quite hear you.” He smirks.

  I stick out my tongue and blow a raspberry.

  “Admit it. You were jealous,” he says.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Me dancing with Melinda.” He stretches and looks over at me.

  “This again? Don’t start with me, Hank.”

  “Yup, jealous.” He’s so smug.

  “Oh, brother. Could I please get some more tea?” I hold up my empty glass and give it a slight shake for emphasis. I’m not going down this road. He frowns at me and points to the kitchen.

  “Help yourself. It’s in the pitcher.”

  I make my way to the kitchen and jerk open the fridge. A giant bottle of hot sauce comes flying out and shatters on the kit
chen floor.

  Instantly, Hank is at the kitchen entryway, “Don’t move, babe. There’s glass everywhere.” He points to my bare feet.

  He leaves and comes back wearing flip-flops. He steps his way into the kitchen and scoops me up in his arms.

  “Did you step on any glass?” He carries me away from the shards.

  “Nope.”

  It’s hard to think, being this snug against him. Up close, his facial stubble looks longer and his dark circles even darker. He doesn’t smell like cologne, and I realize his natural scent, a combination of soap and deodorant, is very intoxicating and much more pleasing than some cologne. I gulp, overwhelmed by a wave of such strong sexual desire, it makes me dizzy.

  “I can help clean up.” My voice is hoarse.

  Hank stops at the sofa and leans in.

  Please let him kiss me, I pray. All I need is to kiss him. I know it’s the surefire answer to curing my hangover, bad mood, and sudden wave of need. We seem suspended in time as I wait for him to make up his mind.

  Guess it isn’t my lucky day because one moment I’m flying through the air and the next I’m bouncing on the sofa. Hank’s back is facing me as he heads to the mess.

  I lie there to catch my breath and gather my bearings. Why am I such a sucker for him? I push off his couch, retrieve my flip-flops, and head back to the kitchen to help clean up. Hank is scooping up the glass, and I reach under the sink to pull out a kitchen cleaner and sponge and begin cleaning up the splatter.

  “Sorry about the mess,” I say.

  “It’s all right. When I put it in there, I knew I was asking for trouble, but was too tired to care.” He watches me bend down to wipe up the floor and waits for me to hand him the sponge to rinse out.

  “Good. I don’t feel so bad then.” I smile at him.

  It’s up to Hank to break the tension between us. The proverbial ball is in his court. “What are you doing next weekend?” He hands me the sponge.

  “Josie’s getting married up at Amelia Island. You remember her?”

  “Yeah, she’s real mouthy and chatty.”

  “That’s our Josie. What do you mean by chatty?”