by Unknown
Chapter Twelve
Caitlin has had her head buried in a book for the better part of the evening, but when Taryn dumps the entire contents of their shared underwear drawer on the bed, she earmarks the page with a sigh. “Right,” she declares, rolling onto her stomach with purpose. “What are you looking for?”
Taryn almost runs a hand through her hair in frustration before remembering said hair is nicely styled, and also has about a gallon of product in it. “I don’t even know,” she admits. “Nylons? Are nylons a thing?”
Caitlin knocks her bare feet against the bottom of the Justin Bieber poster, making it rattle. “I dunno,” she says, chewing on her bottom lip. She had a shower right before Taryn did, and she’s still wrapped up in Rosemary’s old chenille bathrobe. “Why don’t you just go in tights?”
Taryn thinks about that for a second. “I could,” she allows. At the moment she’s tricked out in a full face of makeup and a ratty towel, her convertible bra nowhere to be found. Nick is due to arrive in thirty minutes. “Hang on, do either of us even own tights?”
“Probably not without holes in them,” Caitlin concedes. She peers at the pile of underwear on Taryn’s bed, sucking the water from a damp strand of her strawberry-blonde hair. “Maybe wear pants.”
Taryn nods. “Right.” In the end she settles for a pair of tight black jeans and a long, silky tank top, this little jacket she got on super sale at H&M the first time she met Pete’s parents. She looks in the sticker-covered mirror on the back of the door and frowns.
“You look pretty,” Caitlin promises, getting up and pulling her pajamas out of the bureau. When her back’s turned to change, Taryn can see each individual vertebra, the very last of her baby fat melting away. Caitlin will be twelve at the end of next month. “You really like this new guy, huh?” she continues once she’s back on the bed—moons and stars on her flannel pajama top, and just like that she’s a kid again. “Like. You never got this nervous when you were going out with Pete.”
“I’m not nervous,” Taryn says. Then she sits. “I do like him though.” It feels absurd to say, like letting it slip that she believes in Santa Claus. “Like. A lot.”
“Yeah?” Caitlin raises her eyebrows, all mischief. “Is he hot?”
Taryn snorts, throwing her pillow across the room. Feels herself blush. “Pretty much.”
Five minutes before he’s supposed to turn up she slides a pair of heels on and zips herself into her parka, kissing both little boys goodbye on the tops of their gingery heads before she heads outside to wait. Jesse’s working tonight, but Rosemary’s been on her best behavior for close to six weeks now, and even though Taryn knows that could change at any moment, she feels okay enough about the odds of it not happening tonight to leave them alone for a while. “My cell’s on,” she calls over her shoulder, Rosemary waving her out with her eyes on the Food Network. “Call if you need me for anything.”
The hot water heater crapped out earlier in the week, which basically guarantees they’re not going to be able to pay the full mortgage amount by the time thirty days runs out, but Taryn’s going to figure that out tomorrow. Even if she misses the deadline, it’s not like she and the kids are going to be marched out of the house at the stroke of midnight.
At least, she doesn’t think so.
Nick’s right on time, pulling up to the curb as she’s getting down there. “Hey, Falvey,” he says just like always, and she smiles. “You clean up nice.”
“Yeah, well.” He does too, is a fact: black V-neck sweater and a bulky brushed-silver watch on one wrist, the faint smell of some woodsy cologne. She wants to skip dinner altogether, to go back to his place so she can investigate more thoroughly. “You look like shit, so.”
Nick snorts. “Smartass.”
He takes her to the pub downstairs at the inn in Stockbridge, overstuffed couches and a chessboard set up in the lobby, fire crackling cheerfully down the far end of the room. Nick holds her hand all the way in from the car.
They hang up their coats and sit down, near enough to the fire that Taryn can feel the heat against her legs. There’s a band setting up on the tiny stage, something with a fiddle, and Taryn crosses her fingers that they’ll start into a set right away. A loud set.
“Nice choice,” she tells Nick, aiming for a smile that doesn’t feel horribly fixed.
The way he raises his eyebrows suggests she doesn’t succeed. “Yeah, okay,” he says, knocking his knee against hers under the booth. “Let’s get some alcohol in you.” Taryn kicks back.
It’s not that she isn’t glad to be here—it’s lovely, casual as she dared to hope for, cozy atmosphere and the low tin ceilings painted a dark red—it’s just that she’s petrified they’ll run out of conversation topics after five minutes. They haven’t exactly done a lot of date-worthy chitchat so far, her and Nick.
The drafts are listed on a chalkboard on the wall, but Taryn orders the cheapest wine off the menu instead, figuring it’ll calm her nerves faster. Nick orders a Guinness and some herbed cheese and crackers to start, and then they are officially on a date. Taryn wipes her clammy hands off against the plush bench seat, swallowing.
“So, is this gonna become a regular thing?” she asks, figuring she might as well bite the bullet. Half of her wine is gone, plus most of the crackers, and so far all they’ve talked about is work.
Nick raises his eyebrows. “Dunno, Falvey. Do you want it to become a regular thing?” Taryn’s about to chew him out for constantly turning questions back on her, when he continues, “Because we’ve been doing this for a while, and it still feels like you’re holding me at arm’s length.”
“What?” Taryn frowns, on the defensive right away. “That’s not fair. Come on, I told you I wasn’t, like—”
Nick shakes his head. “I’m not trying to marry you, Falvey,” he interrupts in a tone that stings, as if the notion is completely absurd to him. God, not that she wants—or that she even thought—ugh, she knew this dinner was a bad idea in the first place. Nick spreads some cheese on a cracker, nudging the last one in her direction. “I’m talking about trying to get one shred of information out of you that isn’t food or sex-related.”
That makes her laugh. “Seriously?” she asks, taking another gulp of her wine. “You realize you’re probably, like, the only man in the universe who would complain about that, don’t you? That I talk too much about food and sex?”
Nick’s lips twist. “Shut up,” he says, shaking his head. “You know what I mean.”
Taryn raises her eyebrows. “You want me to shut up, or you want me to tell you stuff?” she teases. Then, off his deadpan, unamused expression, “You know stuff about me! What don’t you know?”
Nick cocks his head to the side. “What’s your family like?” he asks.
And there it is. He doesn’t hesitate at all before he says it, like he’s been sitting on that one for weeks and weeks, waiting for the exact right time to whip it out. She thinks of Pete showing up uninvited at her house with a bakery box, there are programs, and people who just won’t quit sticking their noses where they don’t belong. She knew this was going to happen, that eventually she was going to get to this point with Nick too, and she pursued it anyway. It’s her own fault.
“Freckly,” she replies.
“Okay.” Nick blows out a breath like he’s truly irritated all of a sudden, like he doesn’t know what to do about her at all. “Fine. If you’re gonna be that way about it, then—”
“Which way?” Taryn protests. “I’m kidding.” And again, trying for levity, “I’m kidding! You know about my family. Mikey’s in kindergarten, Connor’s in third grade, Caitlin’s really smart and girly, and Jesse’s a pain in the ass.” She shoves the last cracker into her mouth without bothering to put anything on it. “We don’t own any diners.”
It’s a pretty solid strategy, she thinks, bald denial plus information overload, but Nick isn’t satisfied. “And your mom?” he persists. “What’s she like?”
; “My mom?” Across the room the fiddle’s started up, the kind of folky Irish music her grandfather used to listen to on Sundays. Nick’s got one hand curled around his pint glass, long fingers leaving marks in the condensation. Taryn looks him in the eye and lies. “My mom’s great.”
Nick’s eyebrows arch, infinitesimal. She’s not sure if he believes her or not, but it’s not like he’s gonna call bullshit on whether or not she loves her fucking mother, so. “What’s she do?” is how he follows up.
Taryn shrugs. She can see the waitress approaching with their dinners, knows she only has to stall a tiny bit longer. “She’s got some health stuff,” she says vaguely. “So she only works part-time. Jesse and I help out. Thanks so much,” she tells the waitress as the moonfaced girl sets the plates on the table, her pot pie plus a burger for Nick. “That looks great.” The girl only smiles, retreating way faster than Taryn would like.
The pie tastes great too. Taryn burns her tongue on the bubbling gravy in her haste to shove a forkful in her mouth. She’s hungry, but more than that she wants to put this conversation behind them, use the food like a giant punctuation mark or the STOP in a telegram. Wants the same chance she offers to Mikey and Connor after one of their time-outs: Okay, monsters, now how about a do-over?
It doesn’t look like she’s going to get it. Nick hasn’t so much as picked up his burger. When Taryn works up the courage to glance at his face, his eyes are dark and serious. Then he shakes his head. “Look.” He sighs, twisting his pint glass. “You don’t want to tell me, that’s fine, that’s on you, but at least own up to not telling me. I’m not an idiot, Falvey. You wait on the curb like the world is going to end if I so much as set foot on your property.” He puts down the beer and picks up his water, taking a drink. Taryn’s fork is frozen halfway to her mouth. “Something happened with Pete,” he continues, staring at her hard over the rim. “And it sure as shit wasn’t just a botched family dinner.”
Fuck do-overs. Just like that, Taryn is furious enough to spit. “So what, you think you put it all together, like you’re one of the freaking Hardy Boys?” His tone, Jesus Christ, like he’s a goddamn priest taking her confession. Taryn sets her fork down across her single-serving casserole dish with a clatter. “It’s none of your fucking business, Nick.” Part of it is fear, if she’s being honest with herself. No one has ever called her so blatantly on her bullshit before.
Nick’s eyes narrow. “Oh yeah? Then how come you know everything about me, my sisters and Maddie and—”
It’s childish, but Taryn’s entire stomach twists at the mention of his wife. I’m not trying to marry you, Falvey. “So?” she hisses, as nasty as possible. “Who cares? No one asked you to tell me about that stuff.” As soon as it’s out of her mouth, she knows it’s a mistake, no take-backs.
And then, just for a second, everything stops.
Well. That’s what Nick gets for pushing, he guesses. It burns anyway. “You asked, actually,” he tells her after a long minute. “About Maddie. You asked.”
Taryn bites her lip. She’s wearing lipstick tonight, bright mouth like a hothouse flower. “Yeah, that’s—I’m sorry. I know I did.”
“It’s fine.” Nick shakes his head. This is going a fat lot of no place, and he knew it, and he let himself get involved anyway. “Don’t worry about it.”
“No, I am worried about it. Hey.” Taryn nudges his foot underneath the table, like she’s trying to make sure they’re still buddies. Nick has never in his life wanted to be friends with someone less. “That was bitchy. I don’t want to fight with you.”
Nick picks up his knife to cut the burger in half, feeling profoundly unhungry. “We’re not fighting,” he says.
“No?” She’s upset, he can tell she is, how that pale, pretty forehead’s wrinkled clear down to the bridge of her nose. She dressed up for dinner, wavy hair and dangly earrings. “What are we doing then?”
Nick shrugs. It’s like all the backbone’s gone out of him, a dull, tepid resignation he remembers real clearly but hasn’t felt in a while. He wonders what it is about him that keeps him from walking away from shit he knows is hopeless. “S’a good question, Falvey.”
Taryn’s fussing with her wineglass, rolling the stem back and forth between her fingers. “Hey,” she says again, more quietly this time. “Come on.”
You come on, he wants to tell her. “It’s fine,” he repeats and picks up a steak fry. They eat their dinners mostly in silence, eyes on the band across the room as the singer segues from “Loch Lomond” to “Sweet Thing” to a James Taylor song that’s always been one of Alexandra’s favorites. Neither of them order dessert. Nick picks up the check over Taryn’s protests. “I invited you,” he tells her, and he must sound just as pissed as he feels because she shuts up about it right away, shrugging her parka on and following him out into the chilly parking lot, her skinny heels crunching on the gravel.
Nick fishes his keys out of his pocket. He’ll take her home is the smart move here probably, call it off once and for all. If the options are feel like shit now or feel like shit later, he guesses he’d rather feel like shit now. Work will be awkward as all hell for a while, but they’ll get over it. They did it after the fire last year. They can do it again.
When they get into the truck though, she throws him a curveball. “Look,” Falvey says, turning to look at him. Her lipstick’s mostly worn off, the color faint on her mouth in the dome light. It clicks off a moment later, and then they’re sitting in the dark. “Can I, like—can I come over for a bit?”
Which—that is not what he is expecting.
Nick exhales. “Taryn—”
“Nick,” she says. She sounds like she’s either about to scream at him or burst into tears. “Please.”
It’s a bad idea. He has to end it, and it’s only going to hurt more if he lays her out across his bed—Maddie’s bed—first. But the sound of the fiddle from dinner is caught in his skull, high and wailing, and he can’t think. “Okay,” he says, turning the key. The dashboard lights flicker on to illuminate Taryn’s sharp face. Just for a second, Nick imagines she looks stricken.
The drive is even quieter than the meal, no music or clanging dinnerware to drown out the awful, all-consuming hush. Atlas provides a brief distraction when they arrive, bounding up in a flurry of yips and skittery claws as soon as Nick unlocks the front door. His tail wags so fast it looks like it’s going in a circle. But it’s far enough past the dog’s bedtime that he settles down again after a few cursory pats from Taryn, slinking off through the dark house to find his bed. Nick scrubs a hand over his face, wishing he could do the same. “Taryn.”
She just shakes her head, unzipping her parka and shrugging off the jacket she’s wearing underneath. Her milky arms are almost glowing in the darkness. Normally she’s all golds and reds, but right now it looks like someone dipped her in the palette from van Gogh’s Starry Night, deep blue shadows in the hollows of both collarbones. “Please,” she says again. Her eyes are wide and solemn.
So. Nick leads her upstairs, not bothering to turn on any lights. Taryn follows him straight through to the master bathroom like a stubborn ghost, finally stepping out of her heels in the doorway. When Nick looks up from splashing water on his face, he sees she’s decided to step out of her pants too. Her thong is black and lacy, little ribbon ties holding it together at either hip. She took it seriously, it looks like, dressing up for dinner.
Nick hates himself, but even through the anger he still feels a wave of desire strong enough to knock him over. The dip of her spine to her ass is one of the few places on her body where the freckles disappear altogether, he knows, smooth and white as a china doll’s and the dark blue curl of her tattoo. Right now, all he wants is to turn her around and investigate the phenomenon again. “Falvey,” he says instead, gripping the counter. “What are you after here?”
Taryn shrugs, eyes everywhere but his face.
Then she nods at the claw-foot tub.
“It’s cold,” is al
l she’ll say.
Christ. Nick sits on the closed toilet lid and drags his sweater over his head while she runs the water, shedding her own clothes like so many husks of corn. Her bra matches the thong, sheer and delicate, but she unhooks it before he has time to appreciate the full picture. Nick can’t tell if she’s trying to make up or say goodbye.
Once she’s naked she crosses the tile to stand between his knees, hands out so he’ll lace his fingers with hers. “Don’t be mad at me,” she says, getting closer. God, but she’s a beautiful girl.
“I’m not mad at you,” he tells her. It’s only half a lie—even as he’s trying to hold on to the feeling the worst of it’s seeping away, her quiet voice and how young she looks in the amber glow of the night-light plugged in above the sink. She’s offering him something here, no question. In spite of himself, Nick turns his head and presses his mouth to the side of one pale breast. “I’m not.”
“Yeah you are.” Taryn lets go of one hand, reaching up and threading her fingers through the hair at the back of his neck. It’s warming up in here, the faucet running and vanishing wisps of steam curling off the surface of the water in the bath. “Get in the tub with me, okay?” she murmurs into his scalp.
Nick sighs. “Taryn,” he says again, using her name for the third time in a row like a prayer, and just as useless. He lets her tug his undershirt up, unbuttons his own jeans. She twists her hair into a knot without the benefit of an elastic, glancing behind her to make sure he’s following before she climbs in and shuts off the faucet. The water’s hot enough to sting. As soon as he’s settled, Taryn leans back against his chest, the movement sending a small wave sloshing over the side of the bathtub.
“Easy,” Nick murmurs into her ear. He’s still not sure if she’s trying to break it off with him or not. She tucks herself into the line of his body, tilts her sharp chin up to kiss him tentative and slow.
“You know me,” she promises, against his mouth and urgent. Underneath the water, her pretty skin is mermaid-slick. “Maybe you think you don’t, but you do.”