Yeah, no.
While the oven preheats, I take my phone to the couch and browse Facebook. Grateful people. Sad people. Angry people. Drooling babies. Cute dogs. Same old, same old.
Then I see a status update from my brother, which is equivalent to a UFO sighting.
Jameson Sloan
Today at 5:04 p.m.
Come support Ice Holes hockey tonight @ Ice Arena, 8:00 p.m. It’s the playoffs and we need support!
The fact that he didn’t text me to invite me means one of two things. Either he remembers my overt condemnation of grown men beating each other up with sticks and pucks, or Kevin is playing tonight.
My bones start itching. When I told Dr. Wilson about the sensation, she said it means my instincts are trying to talk to me. If that’s the case, then right now they’re screaming, “Stop procrastinating on making amends, asshole! Talk to Kevin after the game, then you never have to see him again!”
Fuck.
I haul myself off the couch and turn off the oven, then impulsively call my dad. He picks up on the second ring.
“Mia! Jessica and I were just talking about you. Are you going to Jameson’s game tonight?”
I’m still not used to how happy he sounds when he hears from me now. But damn, it’s nice.
“Uh, are you?” I hedge.
“Yep. We’re leaving in a few minutes. Can we pick you up?”
In the background, I hear Jessica say, “Come with us!”
What do they call it when the universe conspires to make something happen? Oh, right.
Bad luck.
33
barn burner
Oh, ice hockey, how I love to hate you. But what female can truly hate such a gorgeous display of masculinity? The sheer physical strength required to skate so fast, so gracefully, is astounding, as is the necessary mental acuity to keep track of a tiny, flying disc.
I haven’t been to a game since Kevin and I broke up. Not even to support my brother, who offered at least ten times to kick Kevin off the team. I honestly didn’t care and told him as much. It wasn’t like watching the games was my favorite pastime.
Though Jameson never mentioned anything else about defending my honor, a few weeks post-breakup I did overhear him explaining to Dad the reason for his scabbed, bruised knuckles. My twin kicked some cheater-ass, almost landing Kevin in the hospital. But because men are weird, apparently the Fight Club reenactment settled the issue—Kevin still plays defense for the Ice Holes.
Jessica and I sit on the top row of bleachers outside the rink, munching on popcorn drowned in butter and wincing every time someone hits a wall. My dad can’t handle being so far from the action and is pressed up against the plexiglass barrier along with a handful of other enthusiasts, alternately cheering and cussing.
“Should he be getting so worked up?” I ask as I watch him pound on the glass. He’s not the only one going apeshit, but I missed whatever happened to cause the hysteria.
Jessica smiles and taps her watch. “He’s not allowed to yell more than once every five minutes. If he does, we have to leave.”
My eyes widen. “You’re savage.”
Just then, my dad turns and looks up at us. Jessica holds up five fingers. He grins sheepishly in return, then nods and turns back to the glass.
“Can we keep you?” I ask fervently.
Jessica laughs, blushing a pretty pink. “That depends on your dad, Mia. Oh! Look at Jameson go!”
My brother weaves expertly around opponents, the puck flying just ahead of his stick. Making it look effortless, he feints a few times, does an awesome spin, and slaps the puck into the goal just as the buzzer ends the second period.
“You want anything?” asks Jessica. “I’m gonna hit the ladies’ room and grab a soda.”
I shake my head. “I’m good, thanks.”
She moves agilely down the bleachers as the teams skate off the ice for a breather. The score is 2-1 in favor of the Ice Holes. I watch my brother’s teammates congregating on the bench. Three seats down from my brother, Kevin removes his helmet and squirts water into his mouth.
Oddly, seeing his face doesn’t escalate my anxiety. I’m not even that nervous. For a long time, my selective memory painted Kevin as some evildoer who deserved slow dismemberment, but like Dr. Wilson is trying to teach me, things aren’t usually as simple as good and bad. Yes, he cheated on me, but I had a part in our demise, too. I was pretending to be someone I wasn’t, and that wasn’t fair to either of us.
“Amelia!”
I look around the crowded bleachers for the source of the voice but don’t see anyone looking at me.
“Over here!”
A skinny arm waves at me from the third row. Attached to the arm is a familiar—and shocking—face, currently grinning from ear to ear. Vincent. I gawk for a second, then smile and wave back. Scanning the area, I don’t see Leo. Two women bracket Vincent, all of them wearing beanies and jackets. Could it be Marianne and Celia?
What the hell are they all doing here?
My gaze snaps to the opposing team’s bench. Like clouds parting, two players shift and #17’s jersey comes into view.
Chastain
For the love of God, seriously?
“Are you here to see my dad?”
In the lapse during which my brain half-melted, Vincent climbed the bleachers. There aren’t many people on the top rows, so he perches beside my propped feet and smiles up at me.
My vocabulary finally returns. “Uh, no, actually. My brother is on the other team.”
His nose scrunches. “Aw, that sucks. We’re gonna whoop them in the last period.”
I can’t help laughing. “Is that right?”
Vincent nods confidently. “My dad almost went pro. He’s the best player in the league.”
My mind flashes back to one of the sessions at Oasis and Leo asking, “Do you have a weakness for hockey players?”
Wow, Universe. Just wow.
“Do you like my dad?”
Focusing on Vincent’s face and the bright curiosity there, I nod. “He’s pretty cool.”
“Yeah. For an old guy. How old are you? Do you have a boyfriend?”
This freaking kid.
“I’m, uh, twenty-eight. And no.”
To my endless gratitude, the buzzer interrupts Vincent’s next, no-doubt-awkward question. The teams hit the ice, skating around the newly polished surface. I lose sight of #17, but not for long. A figure—familiar even through pads—stops at the glass opposite Vincent’s abandoned seat. Through the clear visor, I see Leo’s questioning look to the women.
All I can do is watch, a bystander to life’s hilarity, as the women turn and point up, as Leo’s gaze lifts, scanning, then lands like a blow on my face.
His eyes widen. His mouth drops open.
“There he is!” cries Vincent, standing and waving.
Leo recovers, grinning and waving at his son. My stomach does a little flip, then my ovaries join in with an irrepressible shimmy. Leo’s final glance is for me, and it’s so full of heat that my toes curl. All my excuses and defenses melt like smoke.
Just like that, I know—I’m getting on the train and riding it until it crashes.
The puck drops and it’s instant pandemonium on the ice. Tapping Vincent on the shoulder, I ask over the noise, “Do you think you can give me your dad’s phone number?”
“Sure! What for?”
I think fast. “I, um, want to talk to him about those surfing lessons.”
Vincent’s whole face lights up. “Awesome!”
The lie doesn’t sit well, but the truth isn’t an option. I only hope that when this bites me in the ass, it won’t hurt too badly. And won’t hurt anyone else at all.
Putting my guilt aside, I smile at Vincent as I enter Leo’s number in my phone, then promise I’ll do my best to convince his dad about the lessons. I doubt Leo will go for it, but at least it’s a promise I can keep.
34
careful what you wish fo
r
On my couch with a glass of wine and a purring Ferdi, I reflect on the surreal night I’ve had. From the phone number that’s burning a hole in my phone, to seeing my dad and Jessica kiss for the first time, and finally to my frank, surprising conversation with Kevin after the game.
I almost didn’t talk to him. Vincent was right—Leo’s team wiped the ice with the Ice Holes. Leo himself scored four goals, basically making everyone else look like schmucks in ice skates. Vincent also confided in me that his dad played horribly the first two periods, and he’d secretly worried they’d lose. Although vain, I couldn’t help but wonder if his sudden change was due to knowing I was watching.
Experience told me Kevin took winning—and losing—very seriously, and I balked at the notion of making amends when he was in a crappy headspace. But the desire to get it over with won out, and after saying goodbye to Vincent and telling Jessica that Jameson would drive me home, I camped out by Kevin’s car and waited.
Dr. Wilson and I ran through different scenarios of what might happen when I told Kevin the truth, from good to really bad. In reality, it was somewhere in between. He was surprised to see me, glad I was doing well, and apologized multiple times for his infidelity.
I made amends for destroying his record collection and finally told him about the baby. He wasn’t angry that I kept it from him, more confused as to why I didn’t want his support—financially or otherwise. I tried to explain, but eventually realized the futility of articulating something I didn’t fully understand myself.
By the end of the conversation, we were laughing about the bonfire on the front lawn like two friends reliving wilder days. He waved off my offer to replace the records or give him money for them, then we laughed again when I joked that we’d both be dead by the time I paid him back, anyway. We hugged and that was that.
By the time I went looking for Jameson—and found him chatting up a blonde near the concessions stand—the parking lot was nearly empty and Leo and his family long gone.
Now, my phone sits like a lead weight in my hand. Nina Simone croons from my record player, and Ferdi is doing cat yoga to reach his belly with his tongue.
“Fuck it,” I mutter and gulp the remainder of my wine.
MIA: Hi, it’s Amelia. I’ve reconsidered your offer
His reply comes twenty minutes later, long enough for me to think myself into a hole of regret, eat two string-cheese sticks, drink another glass of wine, and seriously consider dyeing my hair blue.
LEO: I don’t think there was an offer on the table for surfing lessons
MIA: The other offer, smartass
LEO: Ah, good. Where do you live?
MIA: Venice...
LEO: Leaving Marianne’s. I can be there in 20. What’s your address?
My heart jackknifes into my throat. Oh, shit. A small part of me was hoping he wouldn’t reply at all. Another part was planning a rendezvous several days from now. Like after a waxing appointment and copious Kegels. Not right now.
Ferdi gives me a kitty grin and licks his chops.
I text Leo my address, because I’m apparently still a slave to impulse. At least this one. Him. And because even now, my skin feels laced with live wires and all I want is Leo to turn the voltage higher and higher until I combust. And finally, because I might still be 10 percent crazy.
Even though Dr. Wilson said I shouldn’t think so much about wrong and right but instead pursue what makes me happy, I have the feeling this isn’t what she meant.
Too late now, sings Vagina happily.
Heart is resoundingly silent.
Even though I’m waiting for it, I jump when the knock comes. I texted him the gate code a few minutes ago, got a reply that he was close, and have spent the intervening time staring at the front door and periodically sniffing my armpits to make sure my deodorant is still working.
My fingers spasm on the doorknob, but I manage to turn it and open the door. Leo. The sight of him steals my breath, his tall frame taking up most of my doorway, the ocean breeze flowing around him and bringing his scent to me. My mouth waters.
He’s dressed down in sweats and a black tee, his hair wet from a recent shower. Our staring contest lasts until he clears his throat. “I wasn’t sure you’d actually open the door.”
My first attempt to speak is an unintelligible sound. I cough in embarrassment and try again. “Um, hi. Come on in.”
I step back to let him pass, then close the door and lock it. Leaning against the wall to give my shaking legs a break, I watch him look around my small sanctuary. My eyes track his every movement, my brain still not convinced he’s really here.
“I like this. It’s very you.” Turning, he smiles softly. “Colorful. Eclectic. Lovely.”
“Thanks,” I squeak. “Do you want something to drink? I don’t have anything fancy. Just water or wine. It’s like the Last Supper up in here.” I snort, then throw a hand over my mouth.
Leo grins, eyes dancing. “You’re nervous.”
I wince. “What gave it away?”
He takes a step toward me. “To be honest, I’m nervous, too.”
“You don’t look nervous,” I retort, then lose control of my mouth. “You look perfectly calm, like this is no big deal. Do you do this often or something?”
His smile kicks up a notch as his brows lift. “Do what? Obsess for months over a woman I can’t have? Make impulsive decisions like stalking her at a party to basically beg for sex? Drive over the speed limit to get to her house like an addict in search of a fix?”
“Uhh—”
Three more steps swallow the space between us. He palms the side of my face, the contact of his hot hand ricocheting down my arm, across my chest, and settling like a shot of liquor in my belly.
Gaze on my mouth, his thumb strokes lightly across my lips. I watch his eyelashes flutter and feel the beginnings of something dangerous. So, so dangerous.
“Amelia,” he whispers. His eyes lift to mine, indigo in the candlelight. “I want you so much.”
Danger has never sounded so good.
35
glow so bright
Leo lifts my chin gently, reverently, and grazes his lips over mine. That second—that one, perfect second—we sigh together in relief, in abject surrender. There’s no going back now. The train has left the ever-loving station.
Strong hands sweep down my arms and settle on my waist, fingers stretching up to claim the space just beneath my braless breasts. My nipples tingle in anticipation, but he only teases me there with slow strokes, not moving any higher, as he takes decadent, deep kisses from my mouth. Every cell in my body is awake and screaming for morepleasenow, but when I squirm in need he only whispers, “I didn’t wait this long to rush.”
Moving from my lips, he kisses my cheek, my jaw, then finds an incredibly sensitive spot on my neck just beneath my ear. He murmurs approval as I arch forward, seeking friction but finding none.
“Leo,” I gasp, “please.”
He pauses his worship of my throat and speaks against my skin. “I like the sound of you begging, Amelia. But I also like it when you take what you want.”
I grab his hips and pull him against me. We groan together at the contact of hard against soft. His teeth nip at my throat before his head lifts, eyes finding mine.
“Do you feel how much I want you?”
I’m currently rubbing myself against said feeling like a cat in heat. Nodding mindlessly, I hook one leg around his hips for better access. His smile molds to mine.
“Where’s the bedroom?”
“Over there somewhere. Who cares,” I mumble.
Finding the waist of his sweatpants, I yank them down. They don’t move very far, but my brain doesn’t understand that my leg is in the way. I continue my futile tugging until Leo chuckles and grabs my thighs, hoisting me into his arms.
I lick and nip at his jaw, neck, and ear as he walks down the hallway, turns into the bathroom, reverses and turns, and finds my candlelit bedroom. He foll
ows me down to the bed, putting delicious pressure between my legs. At my needy moan, some of his control unravels—enough that he finally gives my breasts the attention they crave, palming and kneading them like his mission in life is to memorize their shape. When his mouth closes over one tight peak, wetness seeping through my shirt, the animal inside me claws to the surface.
I clumsily attack his clothing, muttering nonsensically about slow sucks and gimmegimmenow, until he vibrates with laughter and finally helps in my quest. His shirt is first, whipped off with one hand, then his pants are kicked clumsily down his legs. While he’s occupied I manage to get my own shirt off and wiggle out of my shorts and underwear. Another joined sigh, another surrender, as our bodies find each other with nothing between.
His hand delves between my legs. I spread eagerly for him, arching up to capture his lips. He groans into my mouth, “You’re wet for me, Amelia.”
“Always,” I mumble, my hands seeking and finding his thick cock. “You’re hard for me, Leo.”
He thrusts lightly between my palms. “Always,” he whispers back and dips one, then two fingers inside me. “Still have your IUD?”
“I love it when you talk dirty to me.”
I feel his smile against my cheek. His thumb circles my clit, teasing around it but not quite where I want the pressure. Which he knows. Of course.
“Yes,” I concede, “and I haven’t been with anyone since you.”
His head rears back, startled eyes on mine. “Really?”
I frown. “Yes, really. Random dick isn’t my thing.”
His nose crinkles even as his lips twitch with a smile. My heart wakes up, squeezing painfully at the adorableness of his expression. To distract myself, I give him another firm squeeze. He twitches in my hands.
A little frown puckers his brow. “I’m—I need to be inside you. Do you want more foreplay?”
The Fall Before Flight Page 16