The routine of cleaning and polishing the old guitar calmed him just as much as it always had, and his hands were steady again by the time he tightened the last of the strings. Leaving the case open on the table, he carried the now clean instrument into the living room and settled himself on the couch. The guitar seemed to find its own place on his knee, and he cleared his throat softly in preparation as his fingertips settled on the frets. Settling down with the slight weight on his knee, his elbow propped comfortably on the round body, Michael plucked the strings gently, tentatively, allowing the vibration of the strings and the easy rhythm of the chords to guide him as he tuned the guitar. Before long, he was playing again, the words and the music flowing out of him as smoothly as they always had, and for the first time in longer than he could remember, Michael felt peace– mostly.
Now and then as he played into the silence of the house, his eyes drifted toward the stairs, his mind moving up toward the mess still waiting for him in the attic; he hadn't been back up there to finish cleaning everything yet, and the memory of Nicolette's letter lying under the wreckage still haunted him. He tuned his mind more determinedly to his music, only to have it wander back again; when his mind wasn't lost in the music or focused on the mess in the attic, it was flickering hopefully over the blank screen of his cell phone, still stubbornly refusing to light up with Renee's call.
Glancing over at the clock on the wall, Michael shook his head and resolved to ignore the tightness of anxiety that had settled in his chest and shoulders. He played harder, his fingers beginning to ache as the vibration of the guitar strings traveled up into the bones of his hand, and he left the sweetness of the old classic rock ballads behind, moving instead into the sad and lonesome songs that better fit his current mood.
Soon enough, the windows had darkened with the twilight, the evening was half over, and his phone was still dark, still silent. When would she call? She had finished her last class over an hour ago ...
Finally, with a heavy sigh, he slipped the guitar from his lap and left it resting on the couch as he stood. "Well,” he muttered bitterly. ''If I'm gonna spend the whole night staring at the phone like a bitch, might as well get up and put on a damn dress. Or clean. Or fix my damned lipstick or something." Scooping the phone from the table, he swiped his finger over the screen to check the volume of the ringtone, knowing even as he opened the screen that that wasn't his true intention. His stomach tightened in anticipation and his mouth twisted with dry humor as his hungry eyes scanned the notifications for missed calls. Zero. She hadn't called. "Oh my God, I'm such a bitch."
Chapter Thirty-One
When his phone finally did ring, Michael missed the call. He had packed his guitar back into the case, but hadn't been able to bring himself to hide it in the shed again. Instead, he'd tucked it into the small coat closet under the stairs. He had emptied the dishwasher, had run the vacuum. He had debated just taking charge and calling Renee over a dozen times, each time discarding the idea. Now that he had opened himself up and taken a step with Renee, Michael was dying to see what would happen next; was he facing rejection and the loss of his most valuable friendship? Or was he on his way to something exciting and new?
"Hey. Sorry I missed you a while ago," he said breathlessly into the phone when he called her back.
"No problem, I had time to check in on your mom," Renee laughed. "She sounds good, but you sound like you were running a marathon. You okay?"
"Yep, I'm all good," Michael panted. "Just got done wrestling an old broken table out to the truck."
"You have an old broken table?"
Michael laughed, raising one arm to wipe sweat from his forehead. "Yeah, up in the attic. But it was a really old one, from back when furniture was built to last.” He listened to her murmur of encouragement, the tension in his shoulders slowly seeping down through his chest and into his stomach. She didn’t seem ready to get into things just yet, so in an attempt to follow her lead, he went on.“It didn’t look that sturdy, but it was pretty solid.”
“Mmm, it must have been heavy,” she said quietly. He could imagine her face, thoughtful as she worked through things she wasn’t saying. Her brows would be woven together, with a slight wrinkle just between; her mouth would be pursed, the smallest hint of a dimple just beside her mouth on one side. And her eyes ... she’d have those beautiful eyes lowered, probably watching her hands wring themselves the way they did when she was nervous.
“It was,” he said. His breathing wasn’t heavy anymore– at least, not from the physical labor of muscling the heavy tabletop down the narrow attic stairs. He couldn’t tell if the goose bumps that raced up and down his arms and shoulders were from the night air as his sweat cooled, or from the anticipation of finally having this conversation.
"I've been thinking," she said, when the silence between them had grown heavy. Her voice was soft, and he could hear her breath catch as she spoke. Was it excitement? Or nerves?
"I figured," Michael answered. He leaned back against the porch railing and looked out into the night; the stars lit the yard in front of his house, and through the screen of trees, he could see the lights of the other houses nearby, comfortably close but still securely at a distance. "What you been thinking about?"
"You."
"Me. Okay." He swallowed against the feeling that he was suffocating, and took the leap. "Any chance you wanna share those thoughts with me?"
"Probably," she teased. "I did call you to talk, after all." He heard the telltale beeping of her microwave in the background and smiled; Renee was addicted to popcorn and only rarely spent an evening at home without a bowl of it beside her reading table.
"So you did," he said smiling despite the churning in his stomach. "But you're making me work awfully hard for it, you know. And eating popcorn without me, too– that's just mean."
Renee laughed. "Guilty. But you aren't here," she teased. "So ... no popcorn for you. You miss out." By the time she'd finished talking, the teasing note had gone from her voice though, and she was speaking very softly.
Tipping his head in surprise, Michael stared down at the phone in his hand before bringing it back up to his ear. A thousand times, Michael had teased Renee for having popcorn without him, and a thousand times, she had responded by telling him sassily that he knew where his kitchen was and how to work a microwave. Maybe the deviation from their usual banter meant nothing, maybe it was only the result of her nerves as the dynamic between them took on a new and unfamiliar shape. But maybe ... No. She wasn't the kind of girl to drop hints like that. Was she? "Hmm. That's sad," he said, trying again. "I hate being the guy that misses out. 'Specially if it's popcorn."
The microwave beeped again in the background, a long shrill tone that was quickly followed by the rattling sound of shaken popcorn. Michael listened as she tore the bag open and sniffed. "It's all buttery too,” she said. "I bet you're really sad to not be sharing this with me, huh?"
"Meanness, Renee Keaton," Michael answered, pretending to pout as she crunched, laughing, on a piece of popcorn. "That right there is just pure meanness. It's not nice to show someone what they’re missing and then rub it in their face."
She laughed again as she poured the popcorn into a dish, a few unpopped kernels pinging loudly as they fell against what he assumed must be a glass bowl. "Well, Michael," she said, "if you hear the ice cream truck coming, and you see it stop at your house, and you know you like ice cream, but you don't go get it, you can't pout if someone else eats the one you wanted. It's the same with popcorn. You want some, get some."
Is that a dare?
Standing there, with a breeze still blowing over his bare shoulders and the hardwood of the porch rail at his back, Michael shook his head, his eyes on his truck as an idea took root in his mind. "What if it's too late for popcorn? I think all the stores are closed by now."
"I guess that depends on how bad you want popcorn,” Renee answered. "Where there's a will, there's a way."
Nodding in acceptance of
her unspoken challenge, Michael slipped his keys from his pocket and stared down at them. Alright, then, let's see where this goes. Steering the conversation in a new direction, Michael stepped quietly back into the house, his keys still in hand. The tone of disappointment in her voice as he kept the conversation light made him smile as he made his way through the house; she clearly thought he had decided not to follow the original line of their conversation, and he waited to see if she would choose a more direct approach as he turned off the lights and snatched his t-shirt from the couch. They chatted about her yoga classes that day as he pulled his shirt on, and he asked if Harvey had shown up to class. As Michael sat down to tie his shoes, Renee told him that no, Harvey had not come to class. His wife, however, had come – bearing apologies– and had been a model student in her husband's place.
"I'd have tossed her out of class and told them both not to come back," Michael grumbled as he headed for the door. He didn’t like the idea of people who had scared her having that kind of access to her. The thought of her vulnerability made something unfamiliar but not entirely unpleasant unfurl inside of him, like a beast awakening from a long sleep, and as he locked the door to his house, he marveled at the strange desire to wrap her up and tuck her into his pocket, like a precious thing he could hide and protect.
"No, l wouldn't do that," Renee said softly. "I think she was just very unhappy and very hurt. She seemed nice though, you know? After we cleared things up." She laughed bitterly, the sound followed by a heavy sigh. "Then again, I thought Harvey seemed nice, too. Maybe I just have lousy judgement."
"Maybe you've been buying your ice cream from the wrong ice cream truck," Michael teased, going back to their earlier banter.
Renee snorted, and the sound of crunching popcorn returned. "Maybe I'm lactose intolerant and should stay away from ice cream."
"Maybe you're bullshit intolerant and it has nothing to do with lactose," Michael retorted. He pulled the phone away from his ear long enough to mute the device's microphone; he didn't want Renee to hear him getting into the truck.
Oblivious to Michael's quiet stealth, Renee laughed again, this time with more cheer. "Bullshit intolerance!" she exclaimed. "Oh, that's a good one! Haha! I'll have to remember that one for next time!"
Activating the microphone again, Michael laughed with her, enjoying the ease that had settled between them again. "Still hogging all the popcorn?" he teased. By the time she had informed him that she had no other choice since sharing popcorn by phone wasn't technologically possible yet, Michael had sneakily started his truck, rolled the windows up to block road noise, and begun the drive to Renee’s house.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Renee still had no clue that Michael was coming as he made the turn onto her street. Chelsea's car wasn't in the driveway either; she must be out again with her boyfriend, Nick. Michael smiled as he approached the driveway, listening to Renee tell him about the movie she was watching– waiting for the moment when she’d realize she wasn’t alone anymore.
“– so then he said, 'You really are a very sexy woman.' And I'm not even kidding Michael, she said, 'No really. Swear to God, I'm not.' Oh my God, I love her! Every character she's ever played has been a stroke of gen– hold on, Michael, I think someone just pulled into my driveway."
"Maybe it's your sister. Think she forgot something?" Covering the microphone, Michael slipped out of his truck and quietly pushed the door closed.
"No, the headlights were wrong on the wall, hers aren't as bright. Wait, hang on. It's a truck. It almost looks like ..." her voice trailed away as Michael stepped up to the door of the house and pressed the doorbell. "Wait, let me grab my bat. Now they're knocking."
Grinning, Michael stood beside the door. "Just open the door," he laughed. "I think it's the ice cream man."
Renee made a small quiet sound of surprise, and the door opened. "What are you doing here?" She stood in the doorway in a pair of faded pink cotton capris pants covered in bright orange smiley faces, topped with an equally worn and faded orange tank top. Her hair was spilling messily around her shoulders, she had a fine dusting of popcorn salt down the front of her shirt, and her mouth had fallen open in shock as she stared at him. She was gorgeous.
Michael shrugged. "I really wanted some popcorn."
"Well, it's kinda late," she answered, propping her hands on her hips.
Michael's heart plummeted. He stood still, struggling to maintain a neutral expression, but he could feel the weight of his mistake pressing heavily on his shoulders. She hadn't been hinting then; he'd misread everything. He swallowed against a lump of nerves in his throat and stuffed his hands in his pockets, unable to meet her eyes. Now what? "Look Renee, I –"
"Don't be weird," she broke in, laughing. "Just come in, okay? We'll talk."
Heart pounding, Michael followed Renee into the house. "That wasn't very nice."
She laughed again, but sobered as she turned to face him and took his hands in her own. "I know. I'm sorry. But it's only fair, you know. You scared me first."
"Alright, fair enough," he conceded, glancing around the room. They stood together in the small foyer, a photo of Renee with Chelsea, Cass, and their mother hanging on the wall above them. A small shoe storage dresser served as an entryway table, covered with a mess of small but cheerful trinkets of female domestication. Beside the small but pretty piece of furniture was a small box, bearing a large photo of the sculpture Renee had purchased as a wedding gift for Harmony and Xander– a gift meant to be given jointly, from he and Renee. But would it now be given from the two of them ... as a couple?“So. You said you'd been thinking of me," he said quietly.
Renee sighed. "Michael, how could I not? You're handsome, you're strong, you're funny ... you're responsible. You're reliable. You're honest."
"Mmhmm. But?"
She looked up from their joined hands in surprise. "But? What but?"
"There's always supposed to be a but, isn't there?" Michael shrugged. "That's how conversations like this go. Boy meets girl. They have a few things in common, maybe they become pals. Maybe one of them misreads some inadvertent signal and gets a little too chummy. Usually the guy," he pressed on, encouraged by the light of amusement in Renee's eyes as she watched him speak. "And then they have the talk."
"That sounds terrifying."
Michael's breath froze in his throat as she released one of his hands and laced her fingers experimentally through the fingers of his other hand. They had been close enough to touch many times before, and much more closely than this; he closed his eyes briefly, struggling to ignore a sudden tightness in his jeans as his body responded to the whisper of her touch. "It is terrifying," he said. "Have you never had the talk?"
Renee frowned, but her cheeks had flushed with amusement. She looked up from their joined hands and met his eyes as she led him through the living room and down the hallway. "I don't think so. How does it go?"
Quirking an eyebrow at her in question, Michael went on. "You know, it's supposed to have stuff like, 'We're better off as friends,' and 'I just don't really see you like that.'"
"I see. So something like, 'It's not you, it's me' would be good."
They had passed the dining room and the kitchen, the bathroom and the entry to Chelsea's bedroom. His heart was pounding so hard, he was surprised she couldn't hear it, and as he walked, still led by the gentle tug of her hand, a bead of sweat slipped down the groove between his shoulder blades. He swallowed. "Yep. That's generally how it goes."
"So I guess since you're the one who kissed me, you're the one who got too chummy then, right?"
"I guess so," he answered. He could hear his blood rushing behind his ear drums, and his stomach was in knots. He wanted to run, to back away and go back to the way it was before, before he could ruin everything. Before Renee could change her mind. But at the same time, he was standing with her on the threshold of her bedroom, and all he wanted in the world was for her to pull him in. He could see the glow of the TV on the wall
s, could smell the bowl of popcorn sitting, half-empty, in the center of a quilted blue bedspread embroidered with sunny yellow swirls. And he wanted to spill that popcorn everywhere in the haste of passion, wanted to see her hair spill over the pillows, to see her naked skin in the glow of the television. He wanted to strip those ridiculous smiley pajamas from her body and drop them on the floor, then fall to his knees and devour her.
"You're not listening to me," she said, grinning up at him.“Where’d you go just now?"
"What?" Michael asked stupidly, shaking his head to clear away the imaginary high of hearing her whisper his name in the dark. "I'm sorry, what?"
"I said," she repeated, laughing, "that if you're the chummy one, I guess I’m supposed to give the speech, right?"
More Than Friends (Kingsley #4) Page 15