by Mary Frame
“I get the impression Albert has gotten even more distant since Cindy died,” I say.
Jenny nods. “He really loved her, but who wouldn’t? She was like Snow White. She was the glue that held him to what was important when the business tried to take over his life.”
The back door opens and a few seconds later Marc pops into the kitchen. “Can I help you ladies with anything?”
“You know boys aren’t allowed in here,” Becky says.
He sees me holding the baby and walks over to us, putting his finger in Colin’s palm so his little hand flexes and closes around it. “There’s already a boy in here.”
“Babies don’t count. They can’t repeat our conversations.”
“You don’t want us in here so you can talk about us.”
“Finally, he gets it.”
Marc leans into my shoulder, rubbing a thumb against Colin’s head. “He’s so sweet.”
“He is.” I watch Marc’s eyes warm and crinkle and my heart melts a little bit more in my chest.
He meets my eyes and for a couple of seconds everything else disappears.
Then Colin farts against my arm.
We freeze for a second and then burst into laughter.
“Sorry,” Becky says. “He’s a little tooting machine after he eats.”
I wave off her apology, still sharing the moment with Marc.
His eyes linger on my face before he steps away. “Well, and with that gassy accompaniment, I am out of here. I can tell when I’m not wanted.”
“We love you, Marc,” Jenny calls to his back as he leaves the kitchen. “So,” she turns to me. “Who is Marc dating now that Marissa is out of the picture?”
“No one. I don’t think.”
“Poor guy, he spends all his time working.”
“Just like his dad,” Becky mutters.
Janice emerges from her room, where she’d been hiding, and Jenny changes the subject. We chat about other things until the turkey is ready.
Dinner is excellent. We eat in the formal dining room, but it’s not stuffy, and conversation is comfortable. It’s easy to see why Brent and Marc spend their holidays here.
Afterward, everyone files into the den for the Uno championship.
I lose in the first round and then sit back and watch for a while.
When Luke goes to put the baby to sleep—he’s already been passed out in his chest carrier for a couple hours—I decide to make my own escape.
“I need to call my family,” I use as my excuse. It’s only six back home, so everyone should be around.
“I’ll walk you up,” Brent says. “I have an early flight and a long day of practice tomorrow.”
Everyone gets up and there’s a bunch of hugging and kissing and goodnight wishes before we’re allowed to leave the room.
“No hanky-panky in the halls,” Becky calls.
“They’re not going to do that.” Janice rolls her eyes.
Once we’re at my door, I have my hand on the knob to escape but Brent stops me with a hand on my arm. I turn and face him.
“I’m glad you came with us. I hope you’re having a good time.”
“They’re an awesome family. Thanks for inviting me.”
There’s a tense moment. His hand is still on my arm and then it happens.
He leans.
There’s no one watching. What is he doing?
I tense. Is he going to kiss me?
But then his head moves up and his lips press softly against my forehead. After a quick second, he pulls back.
“Sleep good,” he says. His eyes are searching mine, but I don’t think he’s going to find what he wants to see.
Once safely ensconced in the guest room, I resist the urge to bang my head against the wall.
What the fuck was that? Is Brent . . . ?
No. Not possible. It’s just the holidays and maybe he’s a little lonely.
That’s got to be it. After all, he can’t be interested in . . . well, you know.
I pick up my cell phone and call Gemma. As soon as she answers, voices and laughter filter through the earpiece from the background.
“Happy Thanksgiving!” she calls into the phone.
“Who’s that?” someone asks.
“It’s Gwen.”
“Happy Thanksgiving!” comes the chorus.
“Are you having fun? Tell me what’s going on,” she says.
I give her an update and assure her that I’m being treated well, I’ve consumed at least twice my body weight in turkey, and I have a room to myself. I want to talk to her about the awkward moment with Brent in the hall, but I can’t. I can’t talk to anyone about it. I can’t even fudge the story. After all, they might think it’s weird that I don’t want to kiss the guy I’m supposed to be dating.
She passes me around to Gabby, who then passes me to Mom, who then passes me back to Gemma.
“I love you, have fun, call me when you get home.”
We hang up and in the ensuing silence, I find myself staring at my reflection in the mirror above the dresser.
I can’t stop thinking about the moment in the hall with Brent. Dear God, please don’t let him have feelings for me.
I get ready for bed and try to read on my phone to settle my thoughts but I can’t focus on the words.
I’m too pent up. There’s only one thing I can think of to save me.
I need pie.
Chapter Thirteen
The thing that’s important to know is that you never know. You’re always sort of feeling your way.
–Diane Arbus
MARC
I’VE ALWAYS BEEN COMFORTABLE with the Hamiltons. They’re the only family I’ve ever known.
But right now, there’s a monkey under my skin itching to break out.
Brent walked Gwen up to her room fifteen minutes ago.
I’m sure they both went to their respective beds. Mostly sure.
Or maybe he’s in her room right now, removing her clothes, kissing her neck, a malevolent voice whispers.
Images flash in my mind like evil gremlins, and I shove them away. Because of the distraction, I lose the last game of Uno to Becky. And then one by one, people head to bed. By the time I make it to my room, the house is quiet.
Brent’s room and mine are attached by a bathroom. When I go in to brush my teeth and get ready for bed, I stick my head against his door. Right away the soft vibration of Brent snoring reaches me, the sound releasing a bit of tension I’ve been holding since he and Gwen went to bed.
Of course nothing is really happening, but I remember what he said the other night. He wouldn’t mind if there was something there. Maybe he just has an inkling. It doesn’t mean he has real feelings for her, right? Would he have told me if he did?
It’s not like I’ve mentioned my own thoughts, but that’s only because it’s never going to happen and I’ve been embarrassed and shamed enough when it comes to women. After all, even Brent doesn’t believe anything could happen with me and Gwen.
My thoughts are turning me into a loser.
Time to eat my feelings.
Downstairs, the oven light is on, casting a soft glow over the kitchen and highlighting a figure standing next to the counter with a fork in her hand. She doesn’t see me at first, too busy digging into the pie tin in front of her, taking small bites and then doing a cute little shimmy each time.
I lean in the doorway and watch for a couple of seconds before laughter overtakes me.
She startles and turns at the sound.
“Get your hands off my pie,” I say.
She lifts it up and looks at it from different angles, as if searching for something. “Excuse me, but I don’t see your name on it. Did you come down here to commandeer the desserts?”
“I did, but I see you’ve beat me to it.”
“Here.” She opens a drawer and pulls out a fork, holding it in my direction. “We can share.”
Walking toward her, I know, somewhere in my bones, th
is is going to be about more than sharing food in a dark kitchen in the middle of the night. The thought doesn’t stop me from walking over and taking the proffered fork.
“You can have this side, and I get this side.” She motions down the center of the pie with a finger.
Over the next few minutes we stand together, digging into opposite sides of the pie with nothing but than the occasional clink of our forks against the pan disrupting the comfortable silence.
But then her utensil starts creeping closer and closer to my side. I watch it with interest, and when she finally passes the invisible center divider, I halt her progress with my own fork. “En guard.”
A laugh bubbles up in her throat and she reclaims her utensil, holding it up like a sword.
We clash a couple times before we’re both laughing and nudging each other to keep it quiet.
“You’re really good at fork fencing,” she says after our laughter has subsided and we’re back to eating the pie.
“Maybe that will be my new career. Think it has potential?”
“I think you could corner the market on using forks as a deadly weapon. Are you really thinking about it? Leaving your dad’s company?”
“I don’t know. Maybe Brent’s right and it’s a bad idea. I want to do it, but . . . who would take care of everything at the company?”
“What if you pick your replacement? Then you can make sure they’re good enough.”
“But they’d also have to be able to take on my dad. Not many are up for that level of babysitting.”
“You’ll never know unless you try.”
“Maybe you’re right.”
We’re standing really close. So close I can see the rise and fall of her chest as she breathes out and catch a whiff of her shampoo—vanilla and honey—when I breathe in.
“It’s not just about the company. Don’t think of me as less than a man for admitting this, but it’s scary to step out of my comfort zone and into the unknown.”
Her eyes don’t leave mine when she speaks. “You are one of the best men I’ve ever met. You could never be less than anyone.”
I don’t know how to respond to that. Thankfully, I don’t have to because she keeps talking.
“I didn’t know if I would make it as a photographer, but leaving the modeling world was the best decision I’ve ever made. Besides midnight pie.” She holds up a pie-filled fork. “Most things worth having are worth fighting for.”
“Are they?”
Our eyes meet and I wait for her to look away, but she doesn’t.
I put my fork on the counter. She puts hers down, too, her eyes never leaving mine.
I’m not sure who reaches first. There’s mutual grabbing and then she’s in my arms.
The same place I’ve been imagining her for weeks.
Her lips are softer than I imagined. Her hands are on my shoulders, gently pulling me closer. My fingers are on her waist, feeling the warmth of her skin under her thin shirt.
Our lips pull together softly, gently, everything in slow motion, and then her tongue slips into my mouth.
She’s sweet and tart, better than the half-eaten pie on the counter. Like honey and sunshine.
Her hands cup my face, trying to get closer still.
My limbs have developed a mind of their own. I can’t stop from reaching down and grabbing her ass and pulling her into me. More. She needs to be so much closer.
Without shoes she’s only a couple inches shorter than me and I’m slayed by how perfectly her body curves into mine.
She pulls back on a gasp. “Marc.” The word is full of want and regret.
It’s the regret that stops me short. “I’m sorry.”
I don’t know why I’m apologizing. I’m the least sorry I’ve ever been, but it seems like the right thing to say now, like maybe what she wants to hear? It’s also the biggest lie I’ve ever uttered.
She pulls away even farther, until my hands drop to my sides, bereft.
“It’s okay.” Without another word, she slips backward, not meeting my eyes, crossing her arms over her chest.
After a pause, she turns and flees the room.
Although the oven light is still shining, the cozy warmth is gone.
In a daze, I put the pie back in the fridge and the forks in the sink. I’m not hungry anymore.
What kills me is the regret in her eyes. What does she regret, exactly? That it was me? Or something more palatable, like maybe because of what she told me about her career goals and leaving the city and not wanting anything serious.
I was a fool to kiss her. And keep kissing her. And touching her. And wanting her. But I did. I do. It’s not just the fact that she’s gorgeous. She’s kind and smart and funny and everything about her is beautiful. My fingers feel the loss of her skin like a missing limb.
What have I done?
Chapter Fourteen
Don’t think too much. The best pictures come naturally.
–Chiara Ferragni
GWEN
THE NEXT DAY, BRENT’S gone when I wake up. Marc and I will be driving back to the city. Alone together for almost two hours.
What was I thinking?
I was thinking that Marc is the most attractive person I’ve ever known, and I want to sit in his lap, kiss him senseless, and then do other, dirtier things that I can’t think about without bursting into flames right here and now. Why is this happening? I don’t want or need complications.
I’m supposed to be focusing on my career.
And for crying out loud, I’m supposed to be dating his brother. I have to forget that thing I can’t stop thinking about ever happened. But how can I do that when the phantom taste of his lips on mine is so strong, so sweet and soft and sincere?
I stuff a sweater into my bag and yank the zipper shut. It’s not like we could happen even if I wasn’t planning on leaving the country. Can you imagine? First I date Brent, then suddenly I’m showing up with his brother? Everyone would know it’s a scam. That would ruin Brent. I like Brent. But not like I like Marc. And none of this is relevant anyway because I’m leaving New York as soon as I can.
Then why are you still thinking about it?
“Uuugh, I am so fucked.”
“Did you say something?” Janice is standing outside my door, watching me, her eyes guarded and suspicious.
“I said I like trucks.”
“That doesn’t sound like what you said.” She leans against my doorframe, full of teen arrogance and jealousy. “So you’re driving home with Marc today?”
“Yep.”
“You know, he’s a really great guy.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Maybe even better than Brent, in a lot of ways.”
I know she’s trying to turn me from Brent. Young crushes are so heartbreaking. But it’s still an echo of my own thoughts.
“Are you almost ready?” Marc is suddenly next to Janice in the doorway and when I meet his eyes, my stomach drops. He’s freshly showered, making his hair darker than normal, but he didn’t shave so there’s the perfect bit of stubble around his mouth and along his jaw. I’ve never seen it. before He’s always so clean-shaven. The added bit of scruff makes him look even sexier than usual. I wonder what it would feel like against my face. Or my chest. Or lower.
I swallow. He asked me a question.
“Yes.”
He nods, smiles softly, and then turns and walks down the hall.
After Janice rolls her eyes at me, she turns and follows him.
I take a deep breath.
I can do this.
Jenny packs us a small cooler full of leftovers. The entire family comes outside to say goodbye and there are hugs and kisses and then we get in the car.
We’re silent as he maneuvers the car through the neighborhood and I watch the houses pass by.
It’s the most uncomfortable silence I’ve ever had with Marc, and it’s my own fault. I need to stop thinking about last night.
I wonder if he feels t
he same because he tinkers with the radio for what seems like forever before finally settling on some classic rock.
“No reggae this time?”
“Did you want to listen to something else?”
“No. This is fine.”
More silence.
Should I mention the kiss? He isn’t mentioning it. He said he was sorry. He obviously regrets it. Maybe he’s like most of the men I’ve met: he’s attracted to me, but there’s nothing beyond looks or what they could get from me to use for their own benefit. Maybe that’s really all I have to offer. Or maybe it’s like Lucky, a way to control and manipulate. But no, Marc isn’t like that. Right?
I want to ask him. The question is on the tip of my tongue—Are you really sorry about last night? But I can’t do it. I can’t put myself out there like that. What if he says no? Or what if he says yes?
That might be worse. The feelings growing inside me are new and fragile, like the most delicate flower in the middle of a thunderstorm. Can I trust myself? I thought what Lucky and I had was real, too. In fact, I thought I was in love with that motherfucker. I’m not exactly the best judge of character.
“What are you doing for the rest of the weekend?”
I shrug. “Working. You?”
“Same.”
Silence.
He clears his throat. “There’s a Citgo up here that Brent and I stop at for the most unhealthy road snacks we can find. Want something?”
“Sure.”
The Citgo is a typical gas station convenience store, rows of sodium-infused snacks, candy, a soda machine in the corner, and a row of glass refrigerators in the back.
We head down one of the aisles. Marc reaches out and grabs a box of Zingers and tosses them to me.
“Pumpkin-flavored Zingers?” I grimace. “I’m basic, but I’m not that basic.”
He takes the box back. “They actually sound kind of good.”