“What?” His eyes, wary and reluctant, searched mine. “Are you—did you think—” He licked his lips and swallowed. “A moment ago, when I asked you if you were upset,” he paused, turning his chin a fraction to the left. “What did you think I was referring to?”
A chill having nothing do with the open, airy room crept up my body. This was the moment I realized Dominic and I were having two different—very different—conversations. I would have given anything for a moment to process, to see if I could piece together the last couple of minutes and come up with an alternative conclusion, but I didn’t see any way of doing that—at least not without it being obvious I was doing so, or exhausting Dominic’s short supply of patience.
“Foster.” His voice was mild, calm even. He had blinded himself to me, long lashes resting deceptively serene inside the hollows above his cheeks. Still, I could feel what he held back, like a ticking time-bomb doing everything possible not to detonate. He inhaled, seeming to gather strength and tranquility from a place beyond. “If you could stop thinking about answering and just answer me—please.”
A highly evolved instinct told me to lie. I clamped down, trying to suffocate it. “That—that you’re not ready for me to meet your family.”
“And why is it you think I’m not ready for you to meet my family?” he asked evenly, eyes still closed.
“I don’t—I’m not sure why.”
His mouth twitched, the only indication he was restraining himself. “Okay,” he said curtly, sounding as if he was trying to accept my answer, but didn’t. His eyes opened halfway, fluttered momentarily, and remained cast down, fixed on the marble floor. Tired of assumptions and misunderstanding, he spoke directly. “Does it have to do with what we spoke about before?” Without waiting for me to answer, his eyes swung up, landing on me like two search lights. “I thought so.” He nodded once. “So this whole time you thought—oh . . .” He was putting things together quickly now. If I had ever wanted to freeze time—it was now. “And you were trying to console me? Trying to make me feel better about it?” Reluctant understanding was rapidly being replaced with bleak astonishment and dismay. “You ran from me.” He shook his head, darting from one truth to the next, landing on a bullseye every time. “Not because you were angry or upset with me—because you didn’t want me seeing your face—because you didn’t want me to feel ashamed or guilty—for not wanting you to meet my aunt. I’m such an idiot.” He spoke in monotone, as if he were commenting offhandedly about the weather or something in the mail. Then he raised a hand, raking it roughly through his hair, and stepped backward to look at me. He dropped his hands to his side and smiled. “You were doing what you always do; sparing my feelings for yours.”
I had tried to hide it, and it hadn’t helped. I was a hundred percent honest with him and it hadn’t helped. What was I supposed to do?
I crossed my arms over my stomach and gripped my elbows hard. “You told me you wanted the truth,” I pointed out, feeling helpless and unhelpful. “And now you’re angry and upset.”
“I am,” he said definitively. “I’m angry and upset with myself; for being arrogant and stupid enough to believe my words would be enough. How can I expect you not to think those things when all I do is give you every reason to?” He shrugged, and left his shoulders near his ears. “The answer is I can’t.” I moved toward him, saw his hands turn into fists, and stopped. “I’m trying so hard to do the right thing, but it doesn’t seem to matter what I say or do—it just continues to blow up in your face.” A gross echo of a smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. “Your face. It blows up in your face, not mine. It really doesn’t seem very fair.” The thing masquerading as his smile widened, stretching the interlining of my heart so that it tugged, growing taut and hard. He took a step away from me, sniffed, then with effort lowered himself to the second step of the staircase, perching elbows above wide knees. I flinched as hands and face met with such force, they created an audible slap! He rubbed roughly from forehead to jaw, as if he meant to scrub his features away entirely, and then groaned.
I stood stock-still. The faint sounds of clanking glasses and dishes being stacked, were carried to us by the reverberating corridors and high ceilings. I could even hear the low hum of my parents’ voices, the occasional burst of laughter, though no discernible words could be made out. This was comforting. Above the din of murmurs and the harsher noises of glass and porcelain, the music began to play. The cleanup ritual commenced as it did every evening. It came low and soft through the speakers hidden in the ceilings. Even without being in the same room, I could visualize my mom’s hips swaying at the sink, my dad’s head bobbing as he dried dishes, searching out the rhythm. My responsibilities varied, depending on how big a production dinner had been. I enjoyed the music, but my body knew better than to try and move to it. My hips were a product of the Kelly genes. It didn’t bother me at all; I was perfectly content to sing along, finding harmonies as I wrapped leftovers, swept the floor, or wiped down counters. We took turns choosing the music; my iPod was as much mine as it was each of theirs. Tonight it was my mother’s playlist that wafted through the walls. Fleetwood Mac. Stevie Nicks’ tambourine jangled to the beat, easy and untroubled. As the instrumental introduction segued into the first verse, Christine McVie’s soulful voice rang out.
You say that you love me . . .
How bizarre, I thought to myself a little dreamily. This dreaminess was superseded by a lucidity that made me nearly choke and gasp in recognition. I could hardly remember a time where I was more aware of truth; as if it had a trademarked fragrance all its own, and for the longest time I had been smelling the counterfeit versions. This was real, potent; it engulfed me and made me feel weightless and grounded all at once. I could soar if I should like to, or root myself among the earth should that be my wish. It was my choice. Still looming above Dominic who had yet to unfurl his hands from his face, embroiled in a quiet war with himself, it seemed to me that I couldn’t have picked a more incongruous or hapless moment to have this realization. But there it was:
I’m in love with him.
There was no denying it, and while later I might reel from what this actually meant for someone like me, for now I reveled.
“Would you like some dessert?” I asked him. Two long fingers parted and one blue eye peeked out from between them.
“Foster.” His tone was very dry, but less depressed than I had expected. “I’ve heard of changing the subject, but . . .” He didn’t finish, allowing clear implication to travel between us.
“I’m not trying to change the subject,” I replied, then laughed softly at the sound of my voice. My voice. It sounded calm and smooth, melodic even—it sounded like my mother.
With a slowness having nothing to do with caution, I began lowering myself, wondering if I would immediately balloon back up. I didn’t, but situated myself comfortably on the same step beside Dominic, securing the hem of my dress beneath my kneecaps. A flash of déjà vu struck me. What a difference from the last time I had sat, in what felt like an endless wait, upon these steps. A sort of wondrous stupefaction met with my merriment. Dominic didn’t take his eyes from me. Neither did I take mine from him. He noticed this—an unusual display of confidence for me—and his curiosity intensified. Though I knew him capable of blotting all emotion from his features, confiscating all signs of his mood from me, he didn’t do that now; the corners of his mouth twitched impatiently, his hands removed entirely from the face of the boy I loved. A thrill shot through me at the mention of those words said silently and indubitably. At any moment I was certain to erupt, or burst, or start to pulse and glow—something extraordinary, surely.
Full of playful suspicion, he narrowed his eyes, then bit back his smirk unsuccessfully. “What?”
“Hm?” I felt my own smile stretch impossibly wide, thinking that it would touch my ears if it grew any wider.
“Something’s happened,” he determined, amused but cautious. He continued to search my face, st
aring intently. I allowed him an unobstructed look; he held my chin level, eyes unequivocally open, smile ebullient. He made a sound—half snort, half grunt. “Yeah. I don’t know what it is, but something’s definitely happened.” I watched his eyes reflect sudden certainty. “You’ve been thinking.”
I nodded. “Yes.”
“Yes?” He rubbed fingers back and forth across his lips and held them there in loose fist, thinking. “But you’re not going to tell me, are you?”
“I do have something I want to tell you.”
“Okay . . .”
I could see he was wholly curious and maybe just a little nervous, mentally and physically preparing for whatever was coming next. He angled toward me, shoulders forward, tailbone wedged into the supporting stair, forearms resting like a bridge across his knees.
When I saw that he was settled, I spoke. “I trust you.”
From somewhere beyond, a dish broke with an ear-piercing shatter. Dominic blinked in reflex, but didn’t look away. It was evident that he had been expecting me to say something else, or more of it. “You trust me?”
“I trust you,” I said again, and reached forward to take one of his hands, holding it like the warm filling between my own cool hands.
“I—I’m not opposed to that—not at all, but do you think you might elaborate a little?” I smiled lightly, unaccustomed to watching Dominic struggle for words, but knowing the feeling well enough to be touched.
“Our problem is that we’re in a tough situation and we don’t want to be.” He gave me a pointed look as if to say, this is obvious, but continue. So I did. “You want me to know everything, but feel as though you must wait. I want to reassure you that what you have to say won’t negatively affect our relationship, but that cannot be done without you actually telling me what that is. You can’t help but fear the unknown, I can’t help but doubt the present, and consequently neither of us has the ability to do what we would like; which is to see the other happy.”
He inhaled through his nose. “You have been thinking,” he said, his tone impressed and mocking.
I smiled, flushed, and continued. “It’s your nature to want to be honest, open, and direct. It’s my nature to be cautious, guarded, and . . .”
He smirked, one eyebrow lifting wryly. “Tortuously indirect?”
I laughed. “Thank you very much.”
He bobbed his head good-naturedly. “My pleasure.”
“You’ve never had to question your words because you’ve always been able to support them with your behavior. But you can’t do that this time because—because things are different.” He chuckled in such a way that said this was both the truth and an understatement. “And I’ve spent the majority of my life existing halfway between a truth and a lie, making it difficult for me to know what either of them truly looked like. It was only through meeting you that I was forced to begin speaking whole truths. But that doesn’t mean whole truths are always speaking to me. I question the validity of things based on what I believe to be feasible. My thoughts are shaped by reason and logic. Your thoughts are shaped by words put into action.” I went to take a quick breath, but saw his face and paused. His lips were pursed; a fine line of confusion ran down the center of his forehead. His lips shrank back and moved to one side as he spoke from the corner of his mouth.
“How about we pretend I’m not quite as intelligent as you think me to be? I’m following . . .” One eye winked shut, creating deep wrinkles that ran from the corner to his hairline. “But just barely.”
I continued to hold Dominic’s hand between mine, squeezing and drawing strength from the tangible weight of it, the virulent pulse beating in steady rhythm. I wasn’t nervous. I wasn’t afraid. I was only desperate that he would understand. If not, we would continue to find ourselves where we were now: hurt, frustrated, and unceasingly disappointed.
“We have to accept that for now, there’s no moving forward,” I said bluntly. He was watching me, more intently than he had all night. His dark brows were drawn together, his onyx hair shooting up from the crown of his head, spilling in thick clumps across his forehead. The blue eyes were haunted and mesmerizing as always, but I found I was able to look directly into them without my thoughts faltering in consequence. This was new for me and somewhat of a pleasant surprise. “We don’t have an easy situation,” I said, thinking of Jake and Maddie and the non-complexities their relationship afforded them. “We don’t have a perfect understanding of the other.” The faces of my parents materialized, the years upon years spent together learning everything there was to know. “We don’t have complete honesty.”
“There seems to be a lot we don’t have,” he acknowledged, a note of sad resignation in the composed voice. I caught movement below, and followed his hand until it passed my visual field, disappearing in the tangle of my curls. He pushed the hair away from my face, securing it behind my ear, then stroked my cheek once and dropped it. “So what do we have, Foster?”
I smiled. “What we have . . .” I said, my husky voice more certain than I had ever heard it. I picked up his fallen hand and kissed the top of his knuckles very lightly. “What we have is trust.”
It wasn’t easy for Dominic to see it that way. To him, trust came as a result of complete honesty; something I had just admitted we didn’t have. Whether it was due to my long-standing, quite convoluted perception of what that was, or plainly the indelible understanding that Dominic was a trustworthy person, I saw things somewhat differently. Only when I pointed out that he had been forthcoming from the very first conversation we ever had—the night we spent talking in my car outside The House of Hope, the night he ruined my world of half-truths, the night I unknowingly began to fall in love with him—did he begin to see what I was trying to tell him.
“You could have kept that from me,” I pointed out, “but you didn’t. In all the ways that matter most, you have been honest with me.” I couldn’t promise him I wouldn’t continue to have doubts. And he couldn’t promise me that he wouldn’t fear the future. So because it had to be, it was; this trust was enough for the both of us.
For now.
~
“I didn’t realize how hungry I was,” Dominic muttered into the small white plate held inches below his mouth.
His eyes flicked up briefly, filled with eater’s contentment. I was about to notify him that a great glob of pink sauce was smeared at the corner of his mouth and across his right cheek, but thought better of it and pressed my lips together, stifling a laugh. He dove into his third piece of dessert with all the subtly and restraint of someone whose last meal was days ago, and as if the next one wasn’t guaranteed. In all fairness, he had every reason to be hungry. During the first part of dinner, when conversation had been at its most loquacious, he hadn’t much opportunity to eat. And in the latter part, I thought he probably didn’t have much of an appetite. Watching him now, I determined he was more than making up for it.
“I’m glad it’s good,” I said. “I wasn’t sure how well it would turn out.”
He shook his head. “Not good. This,” he said between bites, “is exceptional.” He chewed for a long moment and shut his eyes, suddenly looking very pained. Then he moaned, a large lump slithering down his throat a moment later. “What’s in it?”
“Sugar?” I teased.
“Mm.” He was so engrossed, however, he missed the joke entirely. “What else? It’s really . . . moist.” I watched nervously. The bite he positioned on his fork was so large it began to lean, threatening to topple off one side. Dominic adroitly caught it on the plate and scooped what he’d missed into his accommodating mouth.
I smiled, happy to see him enjoying himself. “The cake is soaked in honey,” I said. He raised the plate, stared at the rapidly diminishing square and immediately dropped his fork into the bright spongy surface. It gave way, breaking in half.
“I think this is probably the best strawberry shortcake I’ve ever had.” He glanced up, the expression on his face sheepish, but luxuri
ating in a half-masticated bite. “Please don’t ever tell my mother I said that, though.”
I laughed again, tracing the edge of the plate and collecting a sizeable dollop of whipped cream on the tip of my index finger. “I promise,” I said, sucking my finger until I could taste only skin.
Dominic suddenly stood up and put the plate down on the coffee table. Then he dragged a hand across his mouth, staring at me after he successfully removed the strawberry sauce. Immediately I decided I didn’t like the new addition on his face—specifically the look in his eyes.
“Okay,” he announced ceremoniously, extending his arms down to me and bringing me to my feet. “I’m ready.” He stared, unblinking, his face expectant and less than a foot away from mine. I stared back, thinking that he was so . . . so close.
“Ready?” I swallowed, finding my throat thick all of a sudden. “For what?”
His lips curved marginally to the left; a dangerous look if I ever saw one. “What else? To hear you sing for me.” The rest of the smile appeared at my face’s response to this, every white tooth blooming inside the rose petal lips. “That was part of the plan in coming over tonight, right? To work on the Senior Piece?”
“Yes.”
He cupped my cheeks, chuckling softly. “Are you nervous about singing in front of me?”
“Immensely,” I managed breathlessly.
He watched me a moment, his eyes narrowing in deep concentration. “Does it help to know I’ve already heard you sing and I think your voice is the most beautiful voice I have ever heard?”
“No,” I answered impetuously. “I mean, thank you,” I amended, a little dismally. “But no—it doesn’t help. I haven’t sung for anyone other than Rhoda in over a year.”
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