I caught what was no more than curiosity on my father’s face, and what was easily concern on my mother’s. “Are you all right, Dominic?” Her brows knitted together as she looked him over, chest to head.
“Sorry, yes,” he replied, returning the glass to the table, but not without me noticing the slight tremble in his hand. “My throat was dry,” he explained, then launched back into annotation. “I’ll be interning from the end of June through September—maybe longer if I enjoy the work and if they have room for me. If not, there’s potential for employment in a few other states.” He coughed, cleared his throat again, but otherwise perfected an equanimity so believable I couldn’t be sure was genuine. I meant to steal a glance at his hands, but they were hidden beneath the table. “I suppose I have a lot of my uncle’s hyperactivity in me,” he asserted, procuring a chuckle. “Growing up in a town of less than five hundred was starting to wear on me. I was ready for a change of scenery, so when my uncle said he could use me on a project starting in April, I decided to move a little earlier than planned, and finish out my senior year here in California.”
“Oh, that makes sense,” my father said, nodding. “I’m sure it will be a great experience for you—give you a chance to decide whether you like it or not.” He took a deep breath, reaching up with one finger to settle the sliding glasses firmly back onto his nose. “Still, it must have been hard leaving all your friends behind, without spending one last summer together.”
I watched Dominic from the corner of my eye; watched him swallow as if he tried to choke down rusted nails; watched his whole body go rigid and flaccid in one inhale and exhale through the nose; watched all the fine muscles in his jaw, cheeks, and neck work together tirelessly, all meaning to hold back something—a scream perhaps.
He looked up, met my father directly in the eye. “Yes, sir,” he replied very quietly. “It was.”
As I watched him, I felt faintly ill. My hands and feet ached; each toe curled inward, digging into the flexible sole of my sandals, bending it backward. My fingers were slick and taut, slightly bent at the knuckles and extended. Every bone large and small, reached involuntarily toward Dominic, notions of absquatulation thrumming throughout me like I was a plucked wire. They couldn’t know, but it didn’t make witnessing this any easier to endure. I wanted to take him and go.
“Foster’s friends are great, though,” he added almost absently, struggling for composure. He turned to me, a smile like a scar dragged crudely up one cheek. “I’m glad to have met Jake and Emily and Madison.”
“They are wonderful people to know,” my mom agreed wholeheartedly, her voice soft and sincere. I suspected she presumed him to be missing his friends. Utterly absorbed by Dominic, though, I wasn’t able to discern more than a sensitivity to her tone; what she made of his sudden shift in demeanor, I couldn’t know for certain. A moment later, I heard her ask, “So are you working now? Or just enjoying free time before things get busy for you?”
“Yes ma’am, I am.” He smiled, but his tone still sounded stiff to me. "I help out a mechanic friend of mine a few days a week. It’s nice to get out of the house and I have an antique Mustang that I couldn’t bear to leave back home; Lenny gives me space to work on it and a discount on parts in exchange for my service.” Maybe it was only obvious to me that Dominic was attempting to change the subject.
“His car is beautiful,” I offered, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically. “And the inside is just as nice.”
“Yes, I agree.” My mother smiled sheepishly. “I may have peeked in the other day when you came to visit Foster.” Then again, maybe not I thought, amending my postulation of a moment ago. She didn’t look to make eye contact; though I knew she didn’t have to. “That sounds like a wonderful arrangement for both of you,” she added, her almond eyes reflecting the ochre candlelight. “Does your aunt work as well? Or just your uncle?”
“She used to. She’s retired now,” Dominic explained, his spine gave a small but sharp crack as he relaxed into the chair. “She used to teach English at Shorecliffs, actually. Now she works part-time at Nelson’s Nursery down the street.”
“Oh, really?” she asked, interest genuinely piqued. “I love Nelson’s. Sometimes I’ll drive down there just to wander around. Whomever designed that place did—” She caught Dominic’s slowly burgeoning smile and broke off with a laugh. “Your uncle designed it, didn’t he?”
“More or less.” He laughed with true feeling and I allowed myself a deep breath, welcoming circulation back into my hands and feet. “My aunt’s not one to sit back and let other people take care of things for her—this especially. They never had any children of their own, my uncle was incredibly busy with the business, and I think she felt as if her students were her kids. Nelson’s is her baby. My uncle’s company may have their emblem on the contract—but my aunt designed it,” he concluded, smiling wryly.
My mother and father shared an amused glance. “Oh, we don’t know anything about that sort of thing, do we darling?” she said, batting her eyelashes affectedly at my father, then turned to smirk at Dominic. “After so many years of dreaming of owning a greenhouse, both James and I had very specific visions of what it would look like. Thankfully, those visions were mostly identical—though not always.” She laughed and shook her head, eyes remembering a moment that was likely not so funny at the time, but in hindsight offered a sort of fondness for having endured it. Something occurred to her then and her eyes tightened. “Your aunt . . . does she have shoulder-length wavy blonde hair?”
Dominic looked up over his plate and nodded, unable to answer since he was still chewing. He was the only one who hadn’t quite finished his meal.
“Oh! I just realized that I know exactly who she is. I see her there all the time, arranging flowers or watering down the soil. She wears a wide-rimmed, bright red hat, right?” she asked, gesturing by raising her arms above her head to indicate the width.
“That’s her,” Dominic confirmed with a smile, but sounded a little off again. His dark eyebrows rose high on his forehead, stayed there as if held by invisible fingers. “So . . . you’ve met her?”
“I have, yes,” she said pleasantly, leaning forward on her elbow.
I felt Dominic go rigid, and turned in time to see some of his color drain. Not all of it, but even in the poor lighting I could tell his richly bronzed skin had paled to something much lighter. What was happening? I wondered. Why should this bother him?
“Though not formally. We didn’t exchange names,” I heard my mother add a few seconds later, and wondered if she noticed a change in pallor, too. I turned to see, but found her expression abstracted. Dominic was quiet for the moment. I felt like I was watching a tennis match, glancing back and forth between the two of them. “It’s a funny story,” she ruminated, making a moue that could have been a grimace or smirk as she scratched above her lip. “And a little embarrassing. Was it last Tuesday that we ran out of soil?” My father thought about it for a moment, then shrugged. She did the same, continuing to muse. “Well it was either Tuesday or Wednesday, I know that much. I was in a hurry when I left right in the middle of a project. Normally I like to look around for a bit, but I needed to get back, so I just grabbed two bags. However, when I got up to the register to pay, I realized I had left my wallet at home. I was so embarrassed and asked your aunt if she wouldn’t mind holding the soil up front for me, and told her I would be right back. But, she insisted I take the soil right then and just pay her next time. It was so nice of her, and it saved me a trip home! Such a kind lady.”
“She is,” Dominic agreed, smiling weakly. “That happens a lot actually, you shouldn’t be embarrassed. She’s told me that sometimes people will put things in their cart and forget to pay at all.”
“You’re kidding!”
“I think people just get caught up looking around,” he said casually, tapping the dull side of his unused knife on the table runner in irregular, succinct movements. It made no noise, but just watching him do it incr
eased my anxiety.
“Oh, well, yes.” She laughed lightly. “I can certainly see how that could happen. It’s a lovely place to wander around. Reminds me of the greenhouse, in a way.” She glanced at me suddenly. “You haven’t been down there, have you, Fost? Oh, you really should g—”
“No,” came a whispered abhorrence. All three of us turned to look at the dark head moving back and forth so quickly it couldn’t be comfortable.
I couldn’t tell whether my heart’s pace raced, so that I could no longer feel each individual beat, or if it had simply stopped beating for a moment, suspended in time. Whether rock or blur, it hurt; I could tell that much. I felt the telltale flush start to crawl up my throat; though this time, rather than a balmy warmth, it seemed to strangle the fullness I had felt only a short while ago, leaving me cold and numb.
Dominic turned toward me then, and I gathered I must have worn a look aptly matching my body’s condition. His whole face crumpled around eyes dark as coal, bleak as hungry hands in search of food. Even the candlelight couldn’t touch them.
It wasn’t fair. One tiny word against the thousands he’d used to assure me of his feelings. It wasn’t fair, granting his “no” opulent power and strength, while not affording the rest with equal virulence. It wasn’t fair, to make an assumption so hastily without giving him a chance to explain. In Fair’s world, I would have felt vindicated and courageous; the pain would have contained as much glory as the act of Valor itself. I didn’t live there, however. I lived here, where things hurt and where hearts cried, even if only on the inside. Had anything been fair, he would never have noticed those poisonous tears, the ones like cars using my veins for travel. He did, though.
He noticed.
Chapter Twenty-nine
I held the tenuous advantage of being a few steps ahead of him. Just a little further and I could stretch out my fingers and graze the banister of the staircase. I honed in on it and sucked in a breath. Everything surrounding the stairs faded to a murky gray, leaving only the smooth browned wood, pulsing in golds and whites, offering sanctuary and relief—even if only temporary. I just needed a moment, maybe two, to escape to my room and wash this look off my face. If he saw it, I would have no chance.
Though my will was strong, my legs were uncooperative and incredibly weak; they felt as if they might give way at any second.
He called out to me, quietly. “Foster.” Maybe only a foot behind me now, I thought. “Wait.”
“I’ll be”—I didn’t have enough oxygen to finish and gulped down more—“be right back,” I managed breathily. One yard at most remained in front of me. You have to go faster, I impelled, but my legs were already moving quicker than they should ever be permitted to. Any faster and I wouldn’t be standing on my feet for very long. Two feet now . . .
As far as my parents were concerned, everything had been rectified upon Dominic’s readily plausible, if not wholly convincing explanation: Nelson’s Nursery was meant to be a surprise for me. One that Dominic would prefer I not spoil by visiting before he could prepare whatever it was he intended to surprise me with. For obvious reasons, the discussion ended there. I had every assurance there was in fact a surprise—or there would be . . . now. He would see to it that there was, I thought without resentment. Somehow, though I lacked confidence in my ability to do so, I would have to find a way to convince him otherwise. Fabricating a surprise for me because he had no other option but to invent one, would only be painful for us both.
I couldn’t be sure if my role in the ruse had fallen flat or felt contrived, but as genuine shock had yet to wear off, I was inclined to believe I’d portrayed a fairly convicting moment. That this meant I was an accomplice to deceiving my parents, I tried not to overly focus on. Dominic had been on a ledge, and it was either push him, or take his hand and pull him back.
Dominic’s odd and somewhat unnerving reaction validated, the conversation had transitioned smoothly, Dominic himself regaining the entirety of his composure. Dinner had concluded in high spirits, my mother assuring us no help was needed in the kitchen cleaning up, and promises that dessert would be brought to us shortly. I had made strawberry shortcake soaked in honey, one of my grandmother’s recipes handed down from generation to generation. It was delicious, but I had no appetite for it presently. My thoughts were scattered, but also pinpointed. I needed to find a way to leave the room without making it look like I was fleeing. I had surveyed my options, handing my mother the empty plates smeared with red sauce, while Dominic and my father huddled together over his newest toy—a new cell phone—looking engrossed as they chatted companionably. This was further indication that my father had been wooed thoroughly by Dominic’s charm and gregarious nature. I couldn’t help but smile despite the knots upon knots in my stomach, coiled around dinner like enraged roots taking siege of a tree. Of all the numerous worries I’d entertained over the last couple days and hours, that Dominic would have any trouble enchanting my parents had never been one of them; it would have been like trying to outrun the sun in the middle of the Mojave desert. I had spotted an opening, and seized the opportunity.
The plan after dinner was to work on our Senior Piece. On the pretense of heading up to my room to collect my Music folder, I had vacated the dining room, leaving Dominic and my father to their absorption.
Now, as he called my name again, I knew he couldn’t be more than one leap behind me. Inches away, I reached for the banister with my left hand, raised my left foot and propelled myself forward, all to be jerked backward into hands much stronger and more capable than my own. I squealed in both surprise and defeat. He overcompensated, pulling rougher than necessary when he turned me, so that we ended with our bodies pressed up against one another, his arms wrapped awkwardly but tightly around my waist. There was a second that neither of us moved, neither of us spoke, save for voluminous looks passed between the stillness of our suspended chests. Then he stepped back, creating a little space between us, though not much.
A look crossed his face, wry as it was weary. “Are you upset? You were running from me,” he murmured without accusation.
I swallowed and glanced down instinctively. “I wasn’t—”
“Not with your feet,” he interrupted, intuiting my response. “I want to hear it, Foster. I want to hear it; whatever it is you’re feeling,” he said emphatically, “I don’t want you locking it away from me. It’s not fair.” The command was gentle, but it was still a command.
Warm liquid pooled in my throat and I swallowed heavily, staring into eyes still dark, but no longer bleak. “I—I was just going to get my music,” I whispered and smiled weakly.
He frowned and stared at me intently. “Please don’t do that,” he pleaded half-angrily, his brilliant eyes stunting me and rendering coherent thought impossible for a moment. He squeezed my wrists and lifted them to rest on his chest. “I know you’ve convinced yourself you’re protecting me, Foster, but I don’t want you to. You can’t. This”—he broke off, shrugging in exasperation—“this situation—it’s my fault.” I didn’t believe any of this was his fault, and I shook my head. He shook his harder. “It is,” he remonstrated, firmly but without harshness. “I put you in horrible position back there—and that’s exactly what I promised myself I wouldn’t do. More importantly, it’s what I promised you I wouldn’t do.” He made a quick look of disgust, snorted with bitter amusement. “I should have expected that,” he muttered to himself. “Of course she would have met my aunt! I didn’t even think . . .”
“You were the one put in a horrible position,” I said, looking up into his face ravaged with shame. “Not me.”
“I put myself there,” he said, almost defiantly. “I put myself there when I made the decision not to tell you everything.”
“You’ve already explained that,” I said.
“I have, yes.” He paused, looked away scowling, then resumed watching me closely. He seemed to scour my face, and again left me with that strange sense that he was searching for answer
s within my flesh. “And I stand by the decision I made,” he said, his voice low, soft and remote. “But it’s not one that sits well with me. I hate this,” he whispered through clenched teeth, pushing the words out. “I hate it so much that I’m tempted to spill it every single time I see you. I’ve picked up the phone at least a hundred times since we’ve met, each time with the intention of asking you to meet me so we can have this conversation I know needs to happen. And then . . . and then I realize how selfish that would be—that the only person it would benefit is me. So I don’t do it. I won’t do it—not until it’s right.” He appeared to be recommitting himself this moment, renewing the sworn promise to himself not to succumb to temptations and impulses. I understood that for him this meant victory and strength, but I knew it also meant that he would continue to carry this burden alone. I ached to know. I ached for him to stop hurting, for these afflictions to end.
“You don’t have to continue promising me,” I said, leaning my cheek into his hand. “I already know you’ll tell me when you’re ready.”
“Friday,” he replied without hesitation, though I could hear both fear and resolve in his voice. “I’m telling you tomorrow.” He gave a quick eye roll, and exhaled roughly. “Any longer and I really will go insane, and then I won’t be able to tell you anything because I’ll be harnessed to a bed, surrounded by people in white constantly asking me things like, ‘How does that make you feel, Dominic?’” I laughed at the incredibly in-depth illustration he painted, and put my hand over his. “Still, that’s no excuse for what happened in there. At the end of dinner. I’m sorry, Foster. I should have handled myself better than that. And I should have found another way to fix it.”
“No,” I said, my voice sounding like a croon, “however you need to tell me . . . tell me. Please don’t worry yourself about that. What I want you to know is that I’m not keeping score. I’m so glad you wanted to do this, have dinner with my family and get to know them better, but it doesn’t mean . . . it’s okay that you’re not ready to do the same with me.” His dark eyebrows were pressed together, blue eyes blazing with consternation, confused and trying. Then all of a sudden they broke apart, like two relay runners, bolting in opposite directions. He took a breath through his nose, and held it, nostrils flared.
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