Dammit.
That’s it exactly—she pinpointed the emotion I couldn’t name, the thing that’s stuck with me the most strongly in the months since Franco and I slept together.
Belonging.
In those moments in his arms, I belonged. It was fleeting, and foreign, but amazing. I just…fit.
I groan, and push off the bed. I strip, brush my teeth, use the bathroom, and flop into bed again, hearing Laurel’s voice on a loop. Belonging.
It was a fluke, though, wasn’t it? It had to have been a fluke.
It was a fluke. A one-time-only performance, unrepeatable—with him or anyone else. I just have to accept that.
Don’t I?
Chapter 8
It’s Saturday, a little past four in the afternoon, and I’m lounging with my feet in the cool water of the beautiful in-ground pool in James Bod’s backyard. Sipping a sugar-free mojito made by Ryder, I’m listening to an absolute darling nine- or ten-year-old-girl with beautiful nut-brown hair in frizzy, braided pigtails. She is telling me everything there is to know about a series of books called Ever After High. We’ve been sitting together for fifteen minutes, and I thought I’d be bored when she sat down and started talking, but I’m not. I haven’t gotten a word in edgewise, and we haven’t even exchanged names.
I’m amused and bemused.
“…And then—and then Raven wouldn’t sign the book! I just knew it!” She pauses to take a breath.
A deep, bear-like voice booms from far overhead. “Nina.”
I look up, and so does the girl beside me. James, his massive frame blocking out the sun, Oakleys, as usual, perched on his nose, a can of some local IPA looking tiny in his gargantuan paw is speaking.
“Yes, Papa?”
Papa? I frown up at him.
He waggles a finger at the girl—Nina, it seems her name is—and then at me. “Are you talking at her, or with her?”
Nina wiggles uncomfortably. “At her.”
“A conversation is…”
“A mutual discourse between two people.”
“And a monologue is…”
“Something nobody outside of a theater ever wants to hear,” Nina replies in a way that indicates this is a commonly repeated lesson.
Nina kicks her feet in the water, watching as James—her father—ambles away across the yard again. “I tend to go off into monologues a lot and not let anyone else get a word in edgewise. Papa says I need to learn to listen more and talk less.”
“Listening skills are important,” I say. “As are introductions. I’m Audra Donovan.”
She shakes my hand and smiles at me. “I’m Nina Bod.” She points across the yard at another girl with similar brown hair in similar messy, uneven pigtails, who seems to have Imogen and Jesse cornered by the adult drinks cooler. “That’s my little sister, Ella.”
“Nina and Ella Bod, hmmm?”
She nods. “Yep. We’re named after Papa and Mama’s favorite singers, Nina Simone and Ella Fitzgerald.” She pauses, takes a breath, and then launches into another monologue. “Mom died when I was five, and Ella was only one. Mom was gonna have a baby, but Papa says things just went sideways, whatever that means. Mama went to be with Jesus, and so did the baby. I don’t really remember her very much, ’specially ’cause Papa misses her so much he won’t talk about her ever, and Ella doesn’t remember her at all, so it’s just me remembering her. Which is super hard, sometimes, but I have an old photo album under my bed with pictures of her. Plus, Papa has this old camera and he used to take a lot of pictures of her, but then she died so he stopped and I stole the camera and now I keep it under my bed and look at the pictures sometimes. But that’s a secret. I don’t think Papa would stop me, but he’d get sad and he’s just starting to be less sad, even though you can’t really tell most of the time unless you know him really well like I do, since he’s such a grumpy old bear all the time, but he really is a lot less sad now than he used to be.”
“Wow, I—”
Nina claps her hand over her mouth. “Ooops. I shouldn’t have told you any of that. Papa says I need to learn to keep private business private and not go spewing our collective family tragedy out to any old person who’ll listen to my ever-running mouth.”
I laugh. “I won’t tell him you told me, how about that?”
She glances at James who’s popping the top on a beer and eyeing us. “Oh, I think he already knows. He’s a really good guesser at things like this.”
I laugh. “I imagine he is.”
She glances at me. “Are you Imogen’s stubborn girlfriend who Papa says is making Franco act like somebody pooped in his oatmeal?”
I snort, choking on my drink.
She sighs, shaking her head. “Me and my mouth. I wasn’t supposed to repeat that either. But I’m curious.”
“He said that to you?” I ask.
She shakes her head solemnly. “Oh, no. Papa never talks like that in front of us. But sometimes the uncles come over and they drink that nasty brown stuff and talk loud, and I hear them because Papa thinks I’m sleeping but I’m not. Uncle Ryder and Uncle Jesse came over the other day and they were talking about Uncle Franco, and they said it was because Imogen’s girlfriend was being stubborn, and they were the ones who said that oatmeal thing about Franco. Even though I know for a fact Franco doesn’t eat oatmeal, because he stayed the night one time and Papa made oatmeal for us the next morning and Uncle Franco wouldn’t eat it because it had something called carbs in it.”
“So you have Uncle Franco, Uncle Ryder, and Uncle Jesse.”
She nods. “Yep. But they’re not our real, actual uncles, you know. Papa was an only child, which is why he’s so bossy with us. It doesn’t make sense to me, but Papa says a lot of weird stuff. The guys are Papa’s best friends, and Papa says they’re like brothers, so that’s why they’re our uncles.”
“You’re lucky to have so many awesome uncles, huh?”
“Yeah.” She looks at me. “But if you could do something to make Uncle Franco go back to normal, I’d really appreciate it. He’s been kind of lame lately, and I’m so not here for it.”
I laugh hard, because Nina is really something else. “Yeah, I’ll see what I can do. No promises, though.”
“What did you do, anyway?”
I sigh. “Well, that’s hard to explain, kiddo.”
“Hard to explain, or hard to explain to a ten-year-old?”
I laugh again. “Can’t put much past you can I, Nina?”
“Nope. Papa says I’m too smart for my own good, and just smart enough to know it.”
“Sounds about right, I’d say.”
She eyes me again, and I can tell that she’s not finished with me yet. “So, did your husband die or something?”
Again, I choke on my drink. “What? God, you’re something else.” I wipe my chin, and then wipe my hand on my skirt. “No, I’ve never been married.”
“What? You’ve never been married? Do you have a boyfriend?”
“No.”
“So why are you alone? You’ve got to be as old as Papa, and he says he’s two days older than dirt. Plus you’re pretty, so it can’t be because you can’t get a man.”
I shake my head. “He’s not that old, actually. Forty is the new thirty, you know.”
She frowns. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“No, I guess not. I’m alone because I like being alone.”
“I think Papa would say that’s donkey splat.”
I rest my drink against my forehead. “Even ten-year-olds are calling me on my bullshit,” I mutter to myself.
She grins. “You shouldn’t say curse words in front of me. I’m like a parrot, but smarter.”
“Then you’re smart enough to know not to repeat it.”
“I’ve heard Papa say that one, too, so it’s not like I’ve learned it from you.”
“Well, thank god for that.” I glance down at her. “Would you mind if I went and talked to some of the other adults now,
Nina?”
She shrugs, smiling at me. “Nope. I’m gonna go ask Uncle Ryder if I can play Candy Crush on his phone.”
I glance at Ryder. There’s a huge spreading oak in the backyard, and at some point James made a huge swing out of thick ropes, half a tractor tire, and a wooden plank—the swing is easily big enough for two adults sitting side by side, and Ryder is on it with Laurel beside him, the pair chatting easily. They’re laughing, leaning close, thighs touching—I picked Laurel up and we drove here together, and spent the first few minutes making introductions all around, but it was obvious within minutes that she and Ryder were interested in each other, so I made sure to leave her an opening to go talk to him without me.
I pull my phone out of my purse, which is sitting on the ground a few feet behind me, out of range of the pool, and extend it to Nina. “Here, play on mine. It looks like your Uncle Ryder is having a conversation.”
Nina clearly misses nothing. “Ohhhh.” She grins. “Well, that is the kissing swing.”
I frown at her. “The what?”
“Papa calls it the kissing swing.” Her face falls. “He used to, at least. He never goes on it anymore. Him and Mama used to sit on it and swing and kiss while I played out here.”
I feel like there’s a hell of a story in between Nina’s throwaway comments, especially since I didn’t realize James even had children.
Nina hops up. “I just remembered my best score is Fruit Ninja on Uncle Franco’s phone, so I’m going to ask if I can borrow it.”
And off she scurries, prancing and dancing, spinning and tripping and twirling and stumbling in the way of little girls. She goes right up to Franco and tugs on his shirt, putting her hands together in a pretty-please gesture. Franco grins down at her, and that smile of his is heartbreaking and heart-warming and panty-melting all at once, because he very clearly absolutely adores that little girl with every fiber of his being. I watch him play tough guy before relinquishing his phone. Then he gently, playfully shoves her away; her response is to full- on bodycheck him, all without pausing in her frantic two-fingered assault on his phone.
Franco’s gaze travels the backyard, hopping from Jesse and Imogen, who are still dutifully listening to Ella’s diatribe, to Imogen’s friend Nova—whom I’ve only briefly met for a minute when I first arrived—who is busily mixing drinks in the kitchen, and then to Ryder and Laurel. As he sees Ryder and Laurel on the swing, he nudges James and points them out. James’s face goes through a quick series of expressions: joy at his friend clearly crushing on the new girl—yay for me and my matchmaker skillzzzz!—and then to pain and wistfulness. He must be remembering the times he’s spent on that swing. His reply to Franco is something muttered under his breath, which I can’t make out.
Franco’s gaze slides, inexorably, to the pool. To me. My heart patters in my chest, as his eyes meet mine. We’ve managed to avoid each other so far, but it’s only been twenty minutes. And those twenty minutes have been tension-filled. Nina provided me with a lot of distraction, but I’ve been hyperaware of Franco and every move he makes.
I look away, return my phone to its pocket in my purse, and head inside to talk to Nova. A newer friend of Imogen’s, Nova Benson is one of the tallest women I’ve ever met, probably standing right at six feet, and she’s built like an Amazon. Strong, fit, clearly no stranger to the gym; she’s just flat-out statuesque—the Greeks and Romans couldn’t have carved a more perfect representation of a powerful warrior woman.
Nova has bright, flaming red hair, bright vivid blue eyes, and a mischievous hint to her smile, something I noticed the moment I met her and notice again now as I join her in James’s kitchen. She must’ve just come from work, as she’s wearing maroon scrub pants and the same kind of sneakers Imogen wears to the hospital. Instead of the matching scrub top, Nova wears a white, ribbed tank top, and an electric blue bra underneath, both of which show off her breasts. Somehow, though, Nova makes the look seem casual and sexy and effortlessly cool all at once, especially with a pair of mirrored aviators holding her hair back, and a stunning number of bracelets on both wrists: braided-thread friendship bracelets, silver bangles, an Alex and Ani bracelet with a dozen charms, a worn black leather cuff on each arm, a plastic hospital bracelet on her left wrist—that one is old, and very clearly has a story behind it—there are too many bracelets to count, extending halfway up her forearms. My first thought, which comes out of my mouth the moment I’m in the kitchen with her, is:
“Do you take all those bracelets off every night, or what?”
Nova laughs, shaking both wrists, making the various bangles jingle. “Yep! I have a whole dresser drawer dedicated to bracelets. I couldn’t possibly wear the same ones all the time—that’s…that’d be anathema to the entire point of wearing them.”
“Does it take forever to put them on every day?”
She shrugs, and goes back to muddling the mint. “Not really. A minute or two, depending on how many I’m wearing. I was working today, obviously”— she gestures at her scrub pants—“so this is a minimal amount.”
“Are there any you don’t ever take off?” I ask, blatantly fishing for the story of the hospital bracelet.
Which is where her eyes go. “That one,” she says, tapping it. “But that’s an old, painful, shitty story and this is a party.”
I feel bad, now, asking about that. She smiles at me, and the hint of mischievousness is there, and also a knowing expression that tells me she knows I was fishing and doesn’t mind, and also forgives me for bringing up the past.
I’m impressed by the amount of expression she can put into a single look.
She slides a pink cutting board toward me, on which are a handful of limes and a knife. “If you’re going to pester me, at least make yourself useful.”
“We’re making more sugar-free mojitos?” I ask, slicing limes in halves and then quarters.
She nods, squeezing limes into a bowl and adding more mint. “Franco got a taste of yours before Ryder brought it to you, and he wanted one, and then everyone wanted one, and Ryder tapped out after making yours, and I used to be a bartender in college, so…here I am, making eight mojitos.” She shrugs. “Well, sort of mojitos. I’m using extra lime juice and a touch more pure LaCroix instead of adding simple syrup, so it’s not really a mojito, but it has the rum and the lime and the mint, so we’re just calling it a mojito.”
She slides a glass toward me.
“Try that one. I made it for myself to test the recipe.”
I sip at her drink, and I blink in surprise. “Wow. I thought Ryder’s was good. That’s amazing.”
“Yeah, well, that’s what six years of professional bartending will get you.”
“Six years, huh?”
She shrugs and goes back to muddling mint in the lime juice and doling it out into the glasses. “I have my MS in nursing.”
“A masters in nursing? What do you do? Which department?”
“Neurology. I’m an assistant to one of the top neurologists in the area.” She gestures outside. “I have the names right, right? Franco is the one with the long hair, with whom you have some sort of complicated history, Ryder is the other ginger at the party, and James, our gracious host, is the one who looks like The Mountain from Game of Thrones, except a little older and a hell of a lot sexier.”
I nod. “That’s the gang. And obviously you know Jesse.”
She adds the rum next. “A little. Imogen invited me over for a glass of wine one night, and he came over for a while, as well.” Her eyes shoot to mine, questioning. “I’m not sure if he lives with her, or she lives with him, or both, or neither.”
I laugh. “I don’t know either, honestly. I think it’s complicated. I know she’s at his place a lot these days, but he also basically remodeled her entire house himself, and is still working on it, so he’s there a lot, too…I don’t know. It works for them, so whatever.” I feel like I’ve deftly avoided the question of Franco.
“And Franco? What’s your deal
with him?”
I sigh. I guess I was wrong about the “deftly” bit. “Um. We had a thing. Now we don’t have a thing. The end.”
Nova dips her middle finger in the lime juice and flicks it at me. “Nice try, but I’m an expert at topic avoidance technique. You can’t bullshit a bullshitter.”
“That wasn’t an avoidance technique,” I say, upping the ante by chucking an entire half of a lime at her head. “It was a shutdown technique. A little-known tactic called I don’t want to talk about it.”
Nova must have taken kung fu with David Carradine or something, because she snags the flying lime out of the air with a lazy swipe of her hand. “You asked about my bracelet, so I asked about your obviously still-a-thing thing with Franco.”
“Ahh,” I say, laughing. “I see how it is.”
“Tit for tat.”
“Hopefully it’s not tit for tit,” I say, “because you’ll win that game, I’m afraid,” I say gesturing with the knife at her absurdly massive mammaries.
She snickers, shaking her breasts at me. “Be afraid—I’ve knocked people straight the fuck out with these monsters.”
James and Franco enter at that moment, stopping short at the open sliding glass doorway between the back porch and the kitchen, their eyes wide, watching the scene between Nova and me unfold.
Nova lets out a short breath, waves the muddler at the men, grinning easily. “Shoo, now, boys. Nothing to see here.”
James tugs on his beard, his eyes hidden, perpetually, behind his Oakleys. “Not sure if I believe that. I might need another demonstration of whatever was going on just now.”
“Not likely, bud,” Nova says. “Sorry. That was a girls’ club conversation, and you don’t have the right equipment to be a member.”
I don’t have any quippy comebacks—Franco is in the room with me, and I’d almost forgotten how he tends to suck all the oxygen out of my lungs, along with all of the sense out of my head. I hear voices, James and Nova, mainly, but it’s all just buzzing, like the adults in Charlie Brown movies. Franco is staring at me, his expression as unreadable as ever, and I’m staring back, and probably drooling.
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