The words are out of my mouth before I can hold them back. He tips his forehead to mine and for a second I think he’ll say yes. But then he groans. “I can’t. My parents would freak. And I think . . . I think you’d be hard to resist tonight.”
Desire twirls behind my navel. “Then don’t,” I whisper back. “Resist, I mean.”
One of his oh-so-slow half smiles creeps up and I almost groan with the heat of it.
“Are you trying to steal my virtue, Tully?”
“I’ll turn trying into doing if you let me,” I admit.
He touches my cheek and exhales. “Too soon,” he says quietly.
“Then you better stop kissing me like that,” I say dryly.
“Ditto.” He chuckles, then places the lightest brush of a kiss on my neck. “It’s okay to want to be close to someone, Tully,” he whispers. “I want to be close to you, too.”
I let my forehead drop to his shoulder and breathe in the crisp scent of his aftershave underlined with something that’s only him. I can feel his pulse thumping against my temple. It’s a relief to know I affect him as much as he affects me.
If only that was enough.
Chapter 21
What I didn’t anticipate when I said yes to being Chris’s girlfriend was that my responsibilities would include fighting with his Mom. But even without that little nugget, the next couple of weeks are the strangest of my life.
Chris is everywhere—at my shoulder between classes, holding my hand at lunch, sneaking kisses at my locker. And even though I see people watching us, hear the judgmental whispers, I can’t tell him no. I have surrendered to him. I know it can’t last, so I will soak up every second of his attention. Every grin. Every glance that tells me I’m in his heart.
I become the girl I have always loathed—the one who sits on the sideline of the basketball court at lunch, watching her guy get sweaty and talk trash (without swearing, which is hilarious). The girl who walks around like no else exists except him. The girl who changes where she sits when he’s there.
Yet I don’t care. I am grasping at happiness.
It’s a little harder to do when his mother’s around. She tries to hide her disapproval for his sake. And he tries to pretend she’s successful.
But they’re both lying. I can see it.
One night a few weeks after Chris asked me out, Chris’s Mom invites me over for dinner. I suspect she does this to minimize the chances Chris will disappear with me. He’s been heading home later and later when we meet to work on Nigel. She wants to keep me close so I can’t sully their precious son at the den of iniquity I call home.
I almost voice this suspicion. But Chris is shining with hope, and I feel as though I owe him this much. He’s perfected that little smile—the one that makes me want to give him anything he asks for. So, Friday night I walk into his family’s house with my head held high. I remind myself Chris is a gentleman. In the event of catastrophic failure, I can still ask him for a ride home.
It’s dark when we pull up, so I can’t see much of the grand house from the outside. Chris takes my hand, and leads me inside, down a broad, warmly lit hallway into a large, open-plan living area that smells like sage.
Mrs. Douglas walks out of the kitchen wiping her hands on an apron covered in cartoon cakes. Underneath she’s wearing a cashmere sweater and black pants. Her dark hair is parted on the side, and the light glints on her black-rimmed glasses.
She scans my pulled-back-hair, my only black sweater, and the jeans I know have a stain on the knee and a worn hem. I thought I was put together tonight. But next to her, I’m the bird that got blown in by the storm.
“Tully, it’s so nice to see you.” Her emphasis on nice is too strong to be believable. She pulls me in for a stiff hug that I return robotically, then turns to Chris and his dad, who has risen from a stool at the breakfast bar to greet us. “You two make sure Tully has something to drink while I finish up the food.”
By the time we sit down to eat I’m already exhausted. Apart from a few awkward answers to Mr. Douglas’s questions about school, I have remained silent, waiting for Mrs. Douglas’s attack. I know it’s coming because even while she’s been cooking she’s looked at my cleavage more than Chris has. Except she scowls each time she turns away.
We are threats to each other, she and I. She has genetics on her side. I have sex. But of course, I don’t have that. The joke’s on both of us.
When we’re called to the table, Chris winks at me, then pulls out my chair. I settle in and look back and forth between his parents on the other side.
The conversation stumbles through steaming garlic rolls and small, single-serving salads. Then Mrs. Douglas lays out perfectly cooked steaks with asparagus and mashed potatoes. Even as tense as I am, I’m smart enough to tuck in. The food is, of course, delicious.
“So, have you applied to any colleges yet, Tully?” Chris’s dad asks. He’s a tall, looming man with a certain awkwardness to him. But he smiles easily, and I can see where Chris gets his confidence.
“I can’t afford college,” I say bluntly.
His parents both blink.
Mrs. Douglas offers a grimace, her too-white teeth shining in a way that trickles down my spine. “Well, you know, there are plenty of grants and scholarships, and loans these days. You could probably—”
“Mom.” Chris gives her a warning glance, then goes back to his steak.
“I’m just saying—”
“My grades aren’t good enough, either,” I lie. I shouldn’t do it. But I can feel her trying to fix me in her head and it’s pissing me off.
Her mouth snaps shut and she looks at her husband. He reaches for her hand and they have one of those silent conversations married people have.
“So, what do you think you’ll do next year?” Mr. Douglas asks gently, cutting into the last of his T-bone.
“I’m not sure. I was thinking about traveling. I want to see California, maybe head east. But it’s expensive, apparently. I’ll figure out something. I need to get out of this town.” The words slip out darker than I intended.
Mr. Douglas looks like he might understand. But Chris’s mom is staring at me, shocked.
“You would . . . just go away, alone?” She sounds scandalized.
“I can take care of myself,” I say quietly, realizing too late that it sounds like a threat.
Her fork clatters to her plate. “Is that right?” she asks. The tension in the room ratchets up a couple of notches. Here it comes.
“Mom,” Chris warns again. He reaches for me under the table, but I keep my hands up and visible to everyone.
Her head whips to Chris. “What, son? Are we going to ignore what’s going on here?”
“There’s nothing to ignore,” Chris says.
I glower. “What do you mean?” I give her the opening because we need to get this done and over with.
She looks at me again, white lines around her mouth. “I understand, Tully, okay? I don’t think any child should be in your position—”
“I’m not a child.” I cut a glance at Chris. What has he told them?
“—but as a mother it’s my job to protect my son and his best interests.”
“And I’m not that.” I agree with her but she hears it as a challenge.
“Honey, I don’t think this is the time,” Mr. Douglas says quietly, taking her hand.
She turns to look at him, her dark hair shining under the lights. But she doesn’t soften. “There will never be a good time for this conversation,” she says firmly. “But the sooner we have it, the better.” She looks at me, eyes glinting in the low light. “I don’t want my son dragged into . . . into . . .”
“Shit?” I supply for her. “There are other words for the way I live, but I figured you’d want the sanitized version.”
Her lips flatten. “You think you�
�re cute?”
“Sometimes.” I’m getting mad, but somehow feel very calm. My hands aren’t shaking. I don’t care what she thinks of me—except in how she might mold Chris’s view. But she’s probably right.
He needs to listen to her more.
“Now, Tully.” She points a finger at me, fear and judgment etched into her features.
“No,” Chris says, standing with a screech of his chair legs against the hardwood floor. Even I want to wince. He offers me a hand.
I consider taking it. But that won’t help. “I think you should let her talk,” I say. “I don’t think she’s going to calm down until she gets it off her chest.”
She makes a tiny noise of shock. She clearly didn’t think I had the balls to face her.
Oh, lady. You have no idea.
Chris and his dad exchange a glance. I almost grin at the resigned fear in their faces. Almost. Instead I open a hand, inviting her to continue.
“Daphne,” Mr. Douglas says quietly.
She shakes her head, messes with the napkin in her lap, ignores her husband. “Tully, I feel for your situation. I do.” I’m surprised to find I believe her. “I wish . . . I wish we’d been in town earlier in your life. Before . . . things got out of hand.”
I glance at Chris out the corner of my eye. What has he said? But he’s back in his seat, one hand braced on the table, glaring at his mother. The muscles in the back of his jaw are pulsing.
“But you have to see this from our point of view. Chris is our only son. He’s precious to us. He’s a good boy. He makes good choices. We have no desire to see him dragged into any kind of danger.”
Wow. So it isn’t just me that she doesn’t have a clue about. She still thinks Chris is twelve, too.
“And being with me is—to use your word—dangerous,” I say flatly.
Chris’s hand on the table clenches, white-knuckled. “Anything Tully has to deal with isn’t her fault,” he says, and every piece of him is taut, pointed at his mother like an accusing finger.
“That’s not entirely true,” I say.
Chris snaps his head around to glare at me. “Tully, stop taking the blame for—”
“I’m not,” I say without looking away from his mother. “I’m saying, your mom’s right on one level. I can be dangerous.”
She blinks again and the playful part of me wants to laugh. She didn’t expect me to argue for her. Not that I’m going to keep doing that. “But Chris is right, too. Most of the stuff in my life isn’t in my control. That’s the biggest reason I have for wanting to get away from here. I’m looking forward to seeing exactly how much of the crap will disappear along with the people in this town.”
Her lips tighten.
“But there’s one part of this that I think you’re missing,” I say with less caution than I should. “You’re right about Chris. He’s . . . like no one I’ve ever met before.” From the corner of my eye I see his head round on me. “You underestimate him. He isn’t wallowing in my dirt. He’s trying to pull me out of it. I’m grateful and I’ll let him keep helping me for as long as he wants to.”
His hand drops to my thigh. Chris’s parents both look at him, then at each other. But when she returns to me, she isn’t softer.
“I’m grateful that you see Chris’s strengths,” she says quietly. “But that doesn’t erase my fears that your influence over him may be . . . negative.”
At least she’s being honest.
She squares her shoulders like she’s bracing for a blow. “Are you sleeping with him?” she asks in a wavering, high voice.
I’m horrified and feel like laughing in the same breath.
“Mom! Okay, that’s it. We’re done.”
“Chris,” his father starts.
“No.” Chris looks like a man as he gets to his feet and faces his father, ignores his mother. “This was supposed to be your chance to get to know Tully and see that she isn’t what Mom thought. But if you’re just going to sit here and judge her, then we’re leaving.”
“No one’s judging,” Mr. Douglas says, his hands up to soothe.
Chris barks a single laugh. “You promised,” he says to his mother. Then he offers me a hand. “Let’s get out of here.”
Before I take his hand, I look at his mother and try not to smile. “I would have slept with him,” I say. “But he turned me down.”
Her eyes widen.
“You don’t have to answer any of her questions,” Chris grumbles, the color rising in his cheeks. I take his hand and get to my feet.
“Thank you for dinner,” I say in a tone meant to give her a perfectly polite fuck you.
Chris’s dad runs a hand over his face. “Thank you for coming, Tully. We’ll do this again. And it will be more fun next time.”
“Don’t bet the house on it.” Chris pulls me from the room.
We walk through the echoing house, toward the door, grabbing my bag on the way. I doubt I’ll be back here again, but at least I got a steak out of it.
As we approach the door, I can’t help but notice the way Chris’s shoulders have gone rigid, so his tight shirt is outlining the muscles on his back.
“Whatever you’re thinking right now, please stop,” Chris says hoarsely. “I’d like to be able to get out of this house without embarrassing myself.”
A giggle escapes before I can bite it back. He glances at me sheepishly.
“She was right about one thing,” he says.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“You’re definitely dangerous.”
I smile. He doesn’t know the half of it.
Chapter 22
“I’m sorry I wasn’t more . . . polite,” I say as Chris backs down the driveway.
“Don’t apologize for her,” he mutters back. When the Jeep bounces into the street, he clenches his hands on the wheel and pulls away too fast.
We drive silently for a couple of miles, until the large houses and wide streets give way to rolling hills, farmland, and trees. When the darkness outside the Jeep is complete, when there are no more streetlights, or buildings, he exhales and the tension leaves him.
“I should have seen that coming,” he says quietly.
I shrug. “It had to happen. At least she’s honest. I can’t stand women who are nice to my face, then gossip about me behind my back.”
“You get that a lot?”
More than I care to admit. “I don’t want to be the reason you’re fighting with her.”
He makes a noise in his throat. “I’m not angry at her because of you. I’m angry at her because she’s being a hypocrite. She’s told me my whole life not to judge people, then she doesn’t even give you a chance . . .” He trails off.
I hate how much it’s bothering him. How will he react when other people judge, too? Because it will happen. It already has.
A few minutes later, the road begins to climb. I shift closer to Chris and wrap my hand around his arm. “Where are we going?”
“I’m taking you to my spot.”
“Where’s that?”
He smiles. “You’ll see.”
The road is barely wider than the Jeep. It switches back on itself every minute or two as we climb higher and higher until suddenly the trees open up and the road cuts off into a grassy clearing.
Chris drives us to the opposite edge of the clearing, swings the Jeep around so it’s facing away from the dropping hillside, then sets the brake and turns off the engine. He climbs out of the car and pops the canvas top off the back of the Jeep, rolling it forward on the roof, toward the hood. This opens up the wayback to reveal a plush bench seat, like a couch without arms, now positioned to overlook the town.
I walk to the back of the Jeep.
“Wow.” The grassy meadow slides into a drop about a hundred feet away. In the distance, all the lights of our town
twinkle, silent but glistening. The mountains stretch up toward a perfect, indigo sky, punctured by tiny needle holes of stars and planets too far away to mean anything.
“Pretty amazing, right?” he says, grinning like a little kid as he helps me onto the bench seat and throws a quilt over me.
“It’s gorgeous.” My voice is hushed. I clear my throat. “How did you find it?”
He settles in next to me. “Sometimes I just like to drive. When we got here during summer and I didn’t have any friends, I explored.”
As he sits back, I yank myself away from the incredible view and back to him. The moonlight glimmers in his hair, lighting up his silhouette like a halo. How appropriate.
He catches my gaze and I bite my lip, lean closer so the blanket falls to my lap. Let my eyes tell him about the heat that’s building in my stomach. His shoulders rise and fall, and I think he’s coming closer. But then he clears his throat and turns back to the twinkling lights. “Tully, I didn’t bring you here to . . . I just wanted to be with you and be comfortable after that debacle of a dinner . . .”
I nod, but disappointment is lead in my stomach. Chris scans the nightscape, frowning slightly. He puts an arm over my shoulders and tucks me into his side, and we’re quiet again, but there’s weight to it now.
The dinner was a debacle because his mother doesn’t want him with me. We’ve reached that uneasy place where lives entwine and things get messy. Not that it’s ever been easy with us. But it’s new and interesting. And that makes up for a lot. But now . . . now we have to figure out what it’ll be like to be together. The kinds of obstacles we’ll face.
He sighs and I tense.
“I don’t get it. My mom’s never been like that before, even with the girls she didn’t like,” he says, the edge returning to his voice. But I’m too busy thinking about the fact that he said girls. Plural. I’m surprised by the pang in my belly at that word.
“I bet you’ve never brought someone like me home,” I say without looking at him.
“So?”
I hate how calculated I am, that in this moment with this gorgeous, naïve, nice guy next to me, I measure what I should say. I think about what each approach will do to him, and whether it will stop me getting what I want.
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