He looked at his plate, his cheeks reddening. It was kind of adorable.
I watched him eat. It wasn’t porn, alas. And it wasn’t with gusto. My mother would have checked him for a fever, he was so reserved. He even put down his fork between bites. Freaky.
“So why am I here, Will?” I asked when it became apparent that he again wasn’t going to make conversation.
He set down his fork and knife, looked at me across the table and folded his hands together. “Right.”
“Is this a date?”
“No.”
Sigh.
He took another sip of wine—another glug, really—then set the glass down. “Today is a significant day in my life.”
“Ah.” He didn’t elaborate. “Your birthday? I could’ve brought a cake.”
“No. Do I have to tell you?”
“Yes.”
It took him a minute to answer. “I lost some friends on this day. Two years ago.”
Well, shit. “I’m really sorry, Will.” Lost . . . probably not in the can’t find sense of the word, or even in the breakup sense, since guys didn’t really do that. “What happened?” I asked.
“I’d rather not go into it.”
So they’d died, then. His grip on the wineglass was tightening. That stem was thin, and I feared for its safety. On the other hand, if Will got a cut, I could tend to him.
That thought didn’t make a lot of sense.
“Okay,” I said. “Well, we can talk about something else.”
His grip relaxed. A car accident, maybe? Fire? Mudslide? Golf-course lightning strike? All sorts of horrible deaths flashed through my mind. I was my mother’s daughter, after all.
“How many friends?” I couldn’t help asking.
“Three.”
Three! Shit, that was a lot. If I lost Georgia, Louis and Dante, I’d probably walk off a cliff.
Suddenly, his solitary state made sense.
I lifted my glass and clinked it against his. “To your friends,” I said, and my eyes filled with tears.
“Thank you,” he said, and I wanted to hug him.
“Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?”
“Absolutely sure.” He didn’t meet my eyes.
Screw it. I got up, went around the table, sat on his lap and hugged him.
“Oh. Uh . . . okay,” he said, his back stiffening.
“You need a hug, that’s all,” I said. One of my tears plopped onto his hair. “Don’t read into it. Come on. Hug me back.”
He put his arms around me and then, after a second, squeezed a little. His face was against my boobage. It had been a long time since someone’s face was there, and I won’t lie. It felt nice. His hair was straight and soft and sticking up in odd places, and I leaned my cheek against it, breathing in the smell of his shampoo, kind of minty and clean and . . . well, nice.
“Thank you,” he said. “Can we be done?”
“You bet.” I stood, tugged my skirt down and started back to my side of the table.
Will caught my hand and stopped me. “Thank you,” he said again.
He stood up, still holding my hand.
He looked at me a long minute, and once again, I had the unsettling, buzzing feeling that he was . . . seeing me. “You’ve lost someone, too,” he said. It wasn’t a question, and a chill snaked up my spine.
“Well, sure. Most people have. Everyone has, right?”
“That’s why I asked you over.”
“Why?”
“I figured you might understand. There’s a sadness about you.”
I blinked. “No, there’s not. I’m the happiest person you ever met.” I smiled to prove it.
He just looked at me, squinting slightly. “No. You’re sad.”
“I’m extremely happy, Will. Trust me.”
“It’s okay, you know. To be sad. And . . . stuck.”
“Of course it’s okay. Not that I am. Sad or stuck. Well, sometimes I am. But that’s not the point.”
He said nothing, and I felt my earlier softness toward him turn to stone. The point was, I worked happiness like it was my job. Because it was! It was my job! Cooking for people, bringing delicious, nutritious food to their homes; what could be a nicer, more cheering, more wonderful thing in the entire world, huh? Not to mention I was the world’s best friend/sister/daughter! Even to people like Will Harding, I was so massively nice, so frickin’ happy all the time, it would make your teeth hurt. I was here, wasn’t I? On a Tuesday night when I could’ve been at Dante’s softball game, ogling firefighters, no less.
“Who was it?” he asked. “The person you lost?”
I dashed the tears out of my eyes—tears for his friends, because I was a kind, empathetic and happy person, mind you. “None of your business. It wasn’t like you were falling over yourself to tell me your sad story.”
“Okay. I’m sorry.”
“My sister. My twin sister. We were four.” So much for my wall of silence.
And then, horribly, my mouth was all weird and wriggling, and these awful sounds were coming out of me, and tears were spurting out of my eyes, and I had no idea what was happening.
Will put his arms around me. His hand cupped my head, and he pressed my scrunched-up face against his shoulder. My hands fisted in his shirt, feeling the slight stiffness from starch, and I cried, the sobs barking out of me.
Every time I told someone she had died, she felt a little more gone.
Will didn’t say anything, just held me gently, one hand on my back, the other in my hair. He’d asked me here to comfort him, and here he was, comforting me instead.
It only took a minute. Okay, more like three, possibly five, but eventually I stepped away, and Will disentangled his fingers from my hair. I grabbed a napkin and wiped my eyes, leaving smears of black.
“Sorry,” I said. The tears kept coming, though the sobs had stopped.
He refilled my wineglass, then led me into the living room again, that place of sterility and cold comfort.
But he put his arm around me. I kicked off my shoes, took my wine and sat there, blackish mascara tears leaking into his shirt.
I hadn’t cried in a long time. Not for Frankie, because this was what happened. It took an age to patch the crack in the dam when the whole ocean pressed against the walls.
Will’s hand kept going into my hair, poor naive hand that it was. But it felt nice, even if my curls wrapped around his fingers like a malevolent thornbush. I guess my clip had come out at some point, because my hair was loose now. Will turned on the TV to a show about naked survivalists in Africa that Georgia loved. We watched in silence as they argued and napped and ate lizards, their naughty bits blurred out.
“That’s someone’s job,” Will said. “Pixelating out nudity.”
“Dumb,” I said. “It’s just boobs and crotches.”
He may have chuckled. His chest moved, but he was silent.
“I could survive everything except the bug bites,” I said eventually.
“How about dysentery?”
“I’m not saying I’d love dysentery, but I’d tough it out. The itching, though . . . that would make me insane.”
“Are you done crying now?”
“I seem to be.” He smelled nice, like laundry detergent and starch. He may have ironed his shirt.
“Do you want to talk about your sister?” he asked.
“No. Want to make out instead?”
The question shocked me. But not really. Part of me wasn’t surprised at all. After all, he was the man who’d let my ice bag leak all over his leg. The man who made a little paradise where once there was nothing, who’d asked me here on what had to be a horrible day for him, because he believed I’d understand.
Will was the person who saw I was sad, even when I hated admitting i
t to myself.
He pulled back a little and looked at me.
“Sorry about the mascara,” I said. “I hope you like raccoons.”
“A lot of people think they’re just big rats.”
“Are you one of them?”
“No. I think they’re cute.”
There was a little smile playing around his mouth and those downward-slanting true-blue eyes, and I found myself smiling back, just a little bit.
He kissed me then, a soft, gentle kiss. Then he stopped, looked at me again, and threaded his brave fingers into my hair and kissed me for real, leaning me back against the couch so I was almost lying down, and his mouth moved slowly, thoroughly.
Holy St. Francis, I would not have guessed that Will Harding could kiss like this. So that a thin gold wire seemed to wrap around my insides and tug in the most wonderful, electric pulse. My hands went into that soft, straight hair, and I traced a finger around his ear. I felt his tongue against mine, tasted wine and ginger, and melted a little deeper into the couch.
There was something exceedingly horny about making out on a couch, the TV on in the background, as if we were teenagers trying to fool the grown-ups. Will’s arms were solid, his lips warm and firm and so good at what they were doing, moving down my jaw, onto my neck, and we fit together in a way that was unexpectedly perfect.
When I wrapped one leg around his and his hand was under my shirt, he stopped, resting his forehead against mine. “Want to go upstairs?” he asked.
“Do you?” I said.
His lashes were straight, and longer than I’d noticed before. “Yes.”
“Then upstairs it is,” I said, and he slid off me, stood up and held out his hand.
* * *
• • •
A very respectable amount of time later, I lay naked in Will’s bed, flushed and a little sweaty and more than pleased with myself and him both.
Guess he didn’t have a thing against fat girls after all.
Then again, shagging had never been the issue. Dating . . . dating was harder. But he’d had me over for dinner (which I’d brought, granted), had wine (ditto), and, well . . . yes, I guess I’d initiated all this.
Shit. I hoped I hadn’t pressured him into anything with the tears and all. The Sad Tale of the Lost Twin. Then again, he was lazily sliding one finger up and down my forearm in a way that left little tingles and bubbles of delight. He didn’t seem in a hurry to have me leave.
The hall light was on; otherwise, it was dark in his room. His comforter was beige, tragically. I slid an arm under my head, feeling my snarled hair. I’d have dreads before the night was over. It would take half an hour to untangle this mess, and it would be totally worth it.
“You ever think about decorating your house?” I asked.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“It’s fine the way it is,” he said, a hint of irritation in his voice.
“It’s very sad and boring the way it is.”
“It’s a little early for you to start redecorating my place, don’t you think?”
I squashed a smile. A little early . . . but not out of the question. That felt very relationshippy to me.
I rolled on my side to look at him and put my hand on his neck, feeling the pulse, strong and steady under my palm. “Will you tell me about your friends?”
His hair was spiky from sexy time, his cheeks ruddy. He took a deep, slow breath, nodded once. “It was a mass shooting. They were all . . . they worked together. Two other people were shot, but they lived.”
My hand, which was still on his throat, squeezed involuntarily, choking him, and I yanked it back. “I’m so sorry. Oh, Will. I’m so, so sorry.”
I’d seen the video—run, hide, fight. Even that, viewed on YouTube in the comfort of my living room, had scared the wits out of me.
Also, Sandy Hook Elementary was less than an hour from Cambry-on-Hudson. I couldn’t drive down I-84 without crying every time I passed the exit.
“Were you really close?” I asked.
“I don’t want to talk about it anymore, Marley. Please.”
“Okay,” I whispered, my throat tight. “I’m so sorry, though.”
He nodded, still lying on his back and looking at the ceiling.
I could cut him some slack for being . . . himself. Losing three friends in such a senseless, violent way had to be gutting. I took his hand and squeezed it, but even so, I could feel the wall coming down between us. While he might have just slept with me, he wasn’t about to engage in any real intimacy.
In another second, he’d get out of bed, thank me for coming, and this would be a onetime thing.
Please don’t be like everyone else, Will. The fervor that came with the thought was a little surprising.
“If you want, you can tell me about your sister,” he said, reaching out and taking a strand of hair between his fingers, and I felt limp with relief and gratitude.
“I don’t talk about her too much,” I said.
“You don’t have to.”
“We were fraternal twins. Are fraternal twins.” I swallowed. “I was big and strong, she was little and fragile. She had some breathing issues, I guess. My family is thin on the details.”
“What was her name?”
“Frankie. Short for Francesca.” I cleared my throat. “I don’t really remember her.”
“Four is pretty young.”
“Yeah. But we—my parents, that is—they have a shrine to her in the living room. Same house we’ve always lived in, although my parents, they just decided to move. So they’re selling the house, and it’s . . . I don’t know. It’s hitting me hard.”
He nodded. Didn’t ask anything else.
It was kind of nice.
“Do you want me to go home?” I asked. “Be honest.”
“No.”
“No, you won’t be honest, or no, you don’t want me to go home?”
“The latter.”
“I’m always a little unclear on which one that is.”
His mouth moved in a slow smile. “I don’t want you to go home. But you can if you want to.”
I thought of my cheerful blue bedroom, all the throw pillows and family photos, the cluster of mirrors on one wall, the fresh flowers from my garden on the night table, the fridge that practically bulged with good food, the Ben & Jerry’s I’d been saving.
Will’s bedroom was as sterile as the rest of his house.
But he was here.
“I’ll stay,” I said, and with that, I wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed him.
And thought maybe, just maybe, I had a boyfriend.
Emerson would’ve been proud.
CHAPTER 27
Georgia
Shop at a store for regular people. Again.
(Note to self: Never do this with Big Kitty. Ever.)
Admiral stared at Zeus and licked his chops.
“Don’t you dare,” I said. “Don’t even think about it. I don’t care about your past. You’ve turned over a new leaf.”
Having a rabbit in a house where a former racing greyhound lived was probably not a good idea. But Zeus—who was adorable and tiny, a miniature black bunny about the size of a kitten—had been here since Monday when Mason brought him over. His cage sat on the wide sill of my bay window. At the moment, he was huddled in the farthest corner, whiskers twitching, not daring to look away from Admiral, as if he knew what the dog was thinking.
“Stay away, Admiral,” I said. He looked at me with a wounded expression, as if saying he’d never even think of murdering the poor bunny (at least, not while I was in the room).
Why did I have a rabbit in my house, you ask? A good question, and the answer filled me with horror.
Mason was performing in the school talent show tonight. Doing magic.
> I know.
When he told me it fulfilled the public speaking requirement for both school and his list, I’d been stricken with sympathetic terror, which I tried to mask with great enthusiasm. “Magic! Wow! Yes! Who doesn’t love magic! I love magic!”
That stupid, stupid list. Why had I thought it was a good idea?
I mean, bad enough to have to stand up in front of a thousand of your schoolmates and their parents in a fricking huge auditorium and do anything at all. But magic? Magic?
“Can I keep little Zeus here?” he’d asked. “My dad . . . he doesn’t like animals. I’ll come visit him every day, and then after . . . well, I’m hoping Dad will let me keep him. Maybe. If I build a hutch or something.”
“Sure!” I said. “Absolutely.” And of course, when my brother said no, I’d keep the bunny in my own backyard.
He kissed the rabbit on the head. “Isn’t he the cutest thing you ever saw?”
“Yes,” I said. At least now I wasn’t lying. He looked like a handful of black fluff with ears.
But a magic trick? Mason told me how it was that the little bunny would be under the false bottom of the hat (like there was a person on earth who didn’t know this trick), and how he’d reveal the bunny just like that. Ta-da! “Totally old school, but everyone loves it.”
Did they, though? “How does your father feel about this?” I asked.
“Oh,” Mason said. “Uh, I told him I was doing stand-up. You know, magic can be really funny, right?”
“Sure. Yes. Everyone loves magic and, um, laughing.”
“My teacher said I was the only one doing a magic act.”
Obviously. “What are the other kids doing?”
“Most people are singing. A couple dancers. One kid? He beatboxes.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s really cool. He makes these beats with his mouth, like hip-hop rhythm and stuff. He’ll probably win. Everybody likes him. Plus he’s a senior.”
“Well, this is really brave of you.”
He nodded. “You’ll come, right, G?” He bit his tortured nail.
“Of course, honey. Nothing would keep me away.”
The second he left, I’d texted Marley.
Good Luck with That Page 28