Definitely, Maybe in Love

by Ophelia London

  “How can you possibly guess something like that?”

  “Elementary.” I took a swig of Diet Coke. “Put ten men in a room and play ten different pieces of classical music, six will say Clair de Lune is their favorite. There was an actual study.” I gave Henry a look. “At Duke, maybe.”

  He folded his arms. “Rudimentary research,” he accused, but I could tell he was trying not to smile.

  “I don’t disagree.” I pulled up my feet to sit cross-legged. “It’s the same theory if you were to ask those same ten men what their favorite flower is. Seven will say iris, but only if you show them a picture.”

  Dart seemed confused at first, but nodded in agreement after thinking it through, probably picturing an iris. “Yeah,” he said. “She’s right about that one, too” He pulled Julia close. “I love irises, sweetie.” He kissed her temple. “How do you know that, Spring? Another research project?”

  “Sort of,” I said. “Men can’t help it, they’re naturally attracted to the iris flower because it looks exactly like the inside of a woman’s—”

  “Spring,” Julia cut me off. A moment later, however, she pressed her lips together and laughed under her breath. Dart was watching her, looking confused but amused. The subtle subconscious connection evidently hadn’t occurred to him yet. Henry, though, was chuckling heartily into both hands.

  “Three guilty pleasures?” Julia asked, then she and Dart gave their answers and cuddled. Lilah sneered out something about Amsterdam.

  While pondering on the subject, I ran my index finger along the top of my can. Three guilty pleasures? If I was going to be honest, this would take some thought.

  “Sports/Talk radio,” I began, counting off the answers on my fingers. “Strawberry frosted Pop Tarts, and novels.”

  “French novels?” Henry asked.

  “Gross—no.” I cringed at the insinuation.

  “Not those kinds. I meant like the one you were reading when we ate breakfast together at the café.”

  This caught Lilah’s attention. She dropped her cell, sat up and glared at me. Her acrylic fingernails were like claws as they dug into the knees of her designer jeans.

  “British,” I explained. “Nineteenth century.”

  “What’s your favorite?” Henry asked.

  “Why?”

  “I’d like to know.”

  “More of your polite conversation?” I asked, tilting my head. “Nothing else to do because it’s raining?”

  Henry laughed and leaned forward. “You remember me saying that?”

  “Kind of hard to forget.”

  Lilah had risen onto her knees, glancing from Henry to me then back at Henry like she was watching a tennis match.

  “So?” Henry prompted. “What’s your favorite book?”

  “The Scarlet Pimpernel,” I answered, trying to ignore Lilah’s icy glares, which was difficult, as I could actually feel them. “What’s yours?”

  “To Kill a Mockingbird. Why The Scarlet Pimpernel?”

  We needed to move on before Lilah really did stab me, but I didn’t think Henry would let us until I gave an answer. “Well, for one reason, I like how it mocks the evil of the bourgeoisie.”

  “You have a problem with the wealthy social class?” he asked. “Maybe it was the French revolutionists who needed to be mocked.”

  “Ha! Talk about oversimplification.” I folded my arms. “It was the aristocrats who caused the war. Those people were excessively concerned with respectability and success and money.” I looked directly at Henry. “Sound familiar?”

  He shrugged. “That’s no crime. It was how ten generations were taught to live.”

  “And that’s an excuse? Wait, let me guess, that was how you were taught to live.”

  He took a beat. “I learned a lot from my father.”

  Even from across the room, I could see he was trying not to smile. Deliberately pushing my buttons, and enjoying it. “Ya know what, never mind.” I threw my hands in the air.

  “Are you declaring defeat?” Henry asked. “Again?”

  I felt a flush creep across my cheeks. “There are other people in the room,” I said after clearing my throat. “I’m sure they’re not interested in this dysfunctional conversation.”

  “I am,” Dart said.

  “Me, too,” echoed Julia. “You guys are more entertaining than The Real Housewives.”

  I sighed. “Have you even read the book?” I asked Henry, more calmly.

  “He doesn’t read novels anymore,” said Dart. “French or otherwise.”

  “Anymore?” I asked, picking up on that word. “But you said To Kill a Mockingbird. Why is that your favorite? Or was?”

  Henry didn’t answer right away. His elbows were on the arms of his chair, his fingers under his chin. After a few long moments, I thought that maybe he didn’t want to share his answer. Maybe it was something personal. But how could that be? It was just a story.

  “I think enough top secret information has been divulged tonight,” I said, breaking the silence. “I’m done playing.”

  “About time,” Lilah muttered. “Henry, want to watch a movie?”

  “My mother read it when she was a teenager,” Henry said, picking a piece of lint off his lap. “To Kill a Mockingbird. The day she accepted my father’s proposal, she gave him a copy and told him that Atticus Finch is the kind of father she wants her husband to be.”

  Oh. Well…frack.

  My insides went all weak and spongy as Henry Edward Knightly, III, and I gazed at each other. I felt weird, the same flutter in my chest that I’d experienced the first night I met him, coupled with what felt like a hot air balloon inflating inside my chest, pushing against my heart.

  “Atticus Finch,” I said, “is arguably the most memorable father in western literature.”

  Henry tilted his chin, appreciation in his eyes. I swear I could taste cranberries on the back of my tongue.

  “But you do realize,” I added quickly, “that he was such a remarkable father because he was a widower.”

  Henry blinked, his gaze moving to the empty space next to me, then dropping to the floor. For a frantic moment, I wondered if he was angry, or worse, hurt. I had no knowledge of his parents. Maybe his mother had died and he really was being raised by a widower. And there I went making an insensitive crack. I wanted to staple my mouth shut.

  “Touché.” When I glanced at Henry, he was grinning. “Please remind me to call home later and tell my parents what you said.” He closed his eyes and laughed as if replaying my words in his head. “That might be the funniest piece of literary insight I have ever heard. A widower.” He rocked with laughter. “Classic.”

  “Are we done with this?” Lilah groaned.

  “I’m not nearly done,” Henry said, tilting his head just enough so I could see him looking down at her. Then he tilted his chin to me and winked.

  I’d been winked at plenty of times before, but never had the attention felt like actual intention. That flutter was back in my chest, my palms were tingling, and I couldn’t look away from the man in argyle.

  “We’re almost finished, Li,” Dart assured his sister. “We still have to get Henry’s answers first. Three guilty pleasures.”

  “Oh, yeah, umm.” Henry pulled himself forward, fingering his chin. “Let’s see. Harley-Davidsons, comic books, and…” He raised a lightning-quick smile at no one in particular. “And a certain woman who’s not afraid to tell it like it is. Definitely my guilty pleasure number one at the moment.” He slowly moved his eyes toward me and winked again. “Oh, and cranberries.”

  The chair beneath me, the floor, the whole world seemed to melt away and I was hovering, floating, suspended in mid-air, secured in the atmosphere by Henry’s eyes.

  The room went silent, and I became very aware of how hard my heart was beating. I could hear it behind my ears. Could everyone see it through my shirt? I dragged my gaze to the front window, studying the leaves moving under the porch light, willing my neck and c
heeks to not turn red, willing myself not to spring from my chair and—

  “I would have thought clearcutting is one of your guilty pleasures, Henry.” Lilah had addressed him but was staring at me.

  “Clearcutting?” I repeated.

  “I thought that might piss you off, Spring,” Lilah said, looking and sounding terribly pleased with herself.

  “Don’t tell me you’re for that,” I said to Henry. “Even after all we know?”

  He folded his arms. “There’s no evidence that—”

  “Yes, there is. And you know that. It’s in my research. We’ve talked about it. A lot.”

  “That study from the University of Oregon is riddled with holes and fictions. And didn’t you once compare the situation to The Hunger Games?”

  “You’re seriously bringing that up?”

  “I’m bringing it up because your facts are wrong.”

  I sprang from my seat. “Stop saying that.”

  Henry was on his feet, too, meeting me in the middle of the room like we were two boxers. “This is what we call a debate, Spring,” he said. “We’re exchanging ideas, improving each other’s knowledge base. Or didn’t they teach you that at Occupy Wall Street?”

  “Oh, good one,” I said, getting right up in his face. “Real mature.”

  He took in a deep breath then let it out, placing his hands on his hips. “We were talking about this the other day. Nature has its worthy place, but there is no evidence that cultivated and harvested timberlands are any less healthy than forests left to themselves. Our former president worked with legislators for eight years to resolve this very issue.”

  “This isn’t a debate,” I pointed out. “You’re lecturing me. Again.”

  He kept talking, practically right over me. “More than fifty percent of wild fires burn down old-growth trees.”

  “Exactly!” I exclaimed. “The trees burn down because people like you”—I poked his chest—“keep screwing with the environment. And for the record, that former president of yours is a moron…if you’ll pardon the expression.”

  His face drained of color. After a moment, he parted his lips, shifting his jaw back and forth. “Spare me your liberal opinions,” he said, reaching one hand up to massage the back of his neck. “And the word moron is not an expression. So who’s the moron here?”

  I knew my face was red, if not purple. Knightly turned around and mumbled something under his breath that I couldn’t hear.

  “What did you say?” I asked, staring at his back.

  “He called you pigheaded,” Lilah answered with a sneery smile.

  “Lilah,” Dart said in a warning voice. “Stay out of this.”

  She shrugged and examined her nails. “That’s what he said. I heard it.”

  “Really.” I glared at Knightly when he finally turned around. “That’s what you called me?”

  He looked me dead in the eyes. “The shoe fits, doesn’t it?”

  “Okay, okay.” Dart cut in, stepping between us like a referee. “You’re both badasses and overly opinionated, and we’re all impressed.”

  I was so ready to go upstairs and put this night out of its misery. Julia and I were going home tomorrow. It couldn’t happen soon enough.

  “You called her something else once,” Lilah said. “What was it, Henry? Oh yeah, a dirty hippie.”

  “Lilah!” Dart snapped. “I think you’d better shut up.”

  I stared at Knightly, waiting for him to say that he’d never call me something so offensive…waiting for him to say anything in my defense. But he didn’t speak. After a long moment, he wasn’t even looking at me.

  As reality set in, the room around me turned bright white, then it tilted to the side. My eyes felt dry and stingy. I slammed them shut, pressing a hand along my brows.

  How had this happened? How had I allowed myself to let down my guard? Sure, I needed his help with my research, but I shouldn’t have begun to think of him as a friend, someone who understood me like no one else.

  “Spring, are you okay?” Julia asked.

  “Fine,” I muttered. “Good night.”

  “Don’t go. Not like this.”

  “Let her go if she wants,” Lilah said. Her eyes narrowed as they held on mine. “Henry, I need to talk to you about something important, anyway,” she added, still staring me down as I headed toward the stairs.

  Chapter 13

  Behind the locked door, I turned the faucet on full blast, and dipped one hand under the tap, focusing on the way the track lighting over the mirror distorted the shape of my fingers beneath the stream of water.

  Distracted for the time being, my breathing grew more stable. I grabbed a towel and ran a corner under the water. My eye makeup smeared down my cheeks as I rubbed it over my face. I dropped it into the sink and stared at myself in the mirror.

  It had been ten years since I looked like this: the flushing cheeks, the flaring nostrils, the overall scrunchiness of my face. Yep, I was about to cry.

  But I wouldn’t.

  Getting into a stupid argument with Knightly did not warrant tears. I’d known from the beginning what I was getting into, and just because he could be charming and warm and human was no excuse to have gotten close, close enough to allow him to hurt my feelings so deeply that I felt actual pain in my chest. If I got burned by backfire, I had no one to blame but myself.

  After shutting off the water, I climbed onto the counter and sat with my feet in the sink.Time ticked on, but I wasn’t ready to leave the bathroom. It was the only room with a lock. So I memorized every ingredient listed on the back of the bottle of mouthwash behind the mirror. He should really use a kind with no alcohol, I found myself considering. I can always recommend my brand—

  But no, I couldn’t. In fact, barring any accidental run-ins with him in the kitchen, I could probably get away with not speaking to him for the duration of my sentence under his roof, and if not for one or two more research sessions, perhaps for the rest of my life.

  A knot twisted in my stomach. When my eyes caught their reflection in the mirror, I winced at who stared back. If I’d seen some other girl looking as shattered as me, I would’ve sworn she was severely depressed.

  I slid off the counter and onto the rug. My teeth were brushed and flossed with more time and care than necessary before I switched off the bathroom light and quietly creaked open the door.

  Usually lit by an overhead light, the hallway was pitch-black. With my first step out into the dark abyss, I crashed into a large object right outside the door and lost my footing, momentum spilling me forward. Someone caught me right before I was about to face plant on the carpet, and together we rolled to the floor.

  “Are you okay?” Knightly whispered. His arms were all the way around me, holding me in a tight grip as we lay in the middle of the hallway.

  “What are you doing?” I hissed, sitting up and scooting away, untying our tangled limbs.

  “Waiting for you. I’ve been out here for an hour.” His voice was still low, and I wondered if everyone was asleep.

  “You could’ve knocked if you needed in,” I said, copying his quiet tone.

  “I don’t need in. I need to talk to you.”

  As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I noticed that he was bare footed. He wasn’t wearing his sweater anymore, either, just the light blue collared shirt that was underneath it. It was untucked now, unbuttoned a quarter of the way down, and rolled up to his elbows.

  I bit my lip, annoyed with myself for taking the time to notice what he was wearing and how many buttons were undone.

  “It was wrong of me,” he said, “what I said to you earlier.”

  “Which part?” My vision was becoming more accustomed to the dark, and I could see his eyebrows were knit together.

  “All of it,” he said after a moment. “Probably.”

  I nodded, not knowing how to respond, or if I had to respond at all.

  “This is my home,” he continued, “and you are my guest, and…”


  And?

  “And I shouldn’t have said what I said.”

  I wasn’t sure if he was attempting to apologize, or merely pointing out that he had perhaps made a slight error in judgment by first insulting my beliefs, and then by calling me a moron, pigheaded, and a dirty hippie.

  “Any reply?” he whispered.

  I had nothing to say.

  “Are you angry?” he asked.

  I lifted my chin, looking directly at his shadowy face. Apparently my expression answered his question.

  “Right.” He nodded a few times. “You should be angry with me.” His mouth twisted into an uncomfortable smile. “We all have our hot issues, and it just so happens that you and I have one in common…in opposing common.”

  He put a hand on my arm. I flinched and banged my elbow against the wall behind me.

  “Why is this so difficult?” I grumbled, rubbing my sore funny bone. “Why do you enjoy tormenting me and making my life miserable? Why is that?”

  When he chuckled, I pushed his hand off my arm.

  “Oh. I thought you were being…” He examined me more closely, his head cocked to the side. “I don’t enjoy tormenting you, and I’m certainly not trying to make you miserable. That’s the last thing I want.”

  A dull pain of loathing for both him and myself made my brain achy and exhausted.

  “But clearly,” he added, “you think I am, so I must be guilty on both counts.”

  “Why do you always talk like a bottom-dwelling lawyer?” I growled softly.

  “Practice makes perfect?” He was trying to joke, but I was having none of it.

  “Fils de salope. Tu es tellement arrogant,” I muttered, as I stared at the dark wall over his shoulder. I didn’t mind my French being extra vulgar, since I knew he didn’t understand. “Quelle connerie.”

  “Je suis impressionné.”

  My eyes shot to him. “Excuses-moi?” I replied automatically. “Tu m’as compris?”

  “Oui.” His expression was poker-faced while he lifted a small, apologetic shrug. “Je parlais très bien français depuis de nombreuses années, parce que j’aime voyager et…comme tu sais, le français est la langue d’amour.”