by Lena Maye
So I shove him. Hard. He grabs the edge of the bed to keep from falling.
When he regains his balance, he gives me an I-know-who-you-are eyebrow raise as if he understands a shove away is how I pull him closer.
“I think I missed you.” His low voice rolls over me. I don’t want him to stop talking, but he kisses my forehead instead.
My head falls back against my pillow. “Missing someone is a condition easily solved. By calling. Or texting.”
“Or visiting?” He covers my hand with his. “I’m sorry, Lo.”
“You better be. Don’t do it again.” I set my hand on his chest and feel the rise and fall of his breath. “Were you in Boston?”
He nods. “Sloane called me.”
Oh, God. How much did she tell him? I sit up.
He snags my hand and sets it on his thigh. “Then she let me into your bedroom to look after you. While you slept. Do you believe that?” He smells like winter—pine trees and snow. And lots of weed. But not enough to mask the worry in his eyes.
“What did Sloane tell you?” I ask.
He studies me. “Not enough. She was busy telling me how I’m an asshole. So I need you to fill in the blanks.”
Cold darts across my chest. The blanks.
Combed-back hair reveals his high forehead. But it’s wrinkled with concern.
“Were you planning on breaking him?” His long fingers intertwine with mine, but his jaw clinches.
“I don’t know what I was thinking.”
His eyes narrow on me. “Sex?”
“Of course not.” I wouldn’t have done that, and it pisses me off he thinks I would. Sleeping with guys has never been a pull for me. Not until Kepler, at least.
I scoot a few inches away. “You left without a word, and now you think you can swoop into my bed and have a conversation?”
“That’s what I was hoping.” He squeezes my fingers, like he’s not willing to let it go even if I keep inching away. “I need to apologize for leaving without telling you.”
“If I told you to fuck off and go away, would you?”
“Probably not.” He rubs the back of his neck with his free hand. Am I making him nervous? “I took the first flight in because I wanted to see how you are. And because Sloane told me what happened. She’s right about pressing charges against this guy. Or me kicking his ass. That was somewhere in the suggestion bank. Although from what I hear, you did a fairly good job, and we both know I don’t excel at ass kicking.”
“I told Sloane to let it go.”
“She won’t.” He glances at the door. “And I can’t do that either.”
My heart shudders to a standstill. I can’t let this happen. I have to tell him. I have to find a way to say I beat the shit out of some guy because I couldn’t stop myself. How do you admit you are the worst kind of person? The kind of person they lock up? Who no one would want as a girlfriend.
“I didn’t just want to break him,” I whisper.
Kepler’s eyes dart over my face, then focus somewhere far off. “So it was about sex.”
“No.” I snap. “It wasn’t about—”
“There’s no excuse for what he did.” His jaw clenches so tight I’m surprised he can get the words out. “And I’m not blaming you—ever. But you’ve got to start taking care of yourself.”
“I know—”
“How many guys have I seen you disappear with? Devon, that blond guy in the hallway, so many others.” Kepler raises his gaze to the ceiling. There’s nothing up there except a white lightbulb. “Mackie,” he tags on in a low voice.
“That was a long time ago.”
“Mackie’s not the point.”
Although it must be part of the point. He can’t seem to tear his eyes off the ceiling.
He lets out a long breath. “The point is that this last one was a few hours ago. Why didn’t you call me?”
“Would you have answered?”
“Yes,” he says. And the conviction in his voice makes tears fill up behind my eyes. Maybe he notices that too because he squeezes my hand. “You could have called me too, Lo. You need to start letting me in.”
Problem Jean. Everyone talking about how to solve me. I’m beginning to think I can’t be solved. “I’m fine.”
“You are not fine.” His gaze flicks to me. “I didn’t understand before. I thought you liked messing with people. But it’s more than that.” He lets out a breath like he’s trying to calm himself.
Through the door, Cassie’s high voice shouts something unintelligible.
Kepler pulls me to his chest. “They’ve been arguing all night.”
Mackie’s voice overlays Cassie’s. Words fall like a hailstorm pelting a metal roof.
“It’s my fault.” I can’t wrap my brain around what I did to Cassie. My heart aches.
“No, Lo. It would have come out eventually.” Kepler’s fingers comb through my hair, and I sink into him. “You need to focus on something else right now. Sloane called in sick today. She’s got plans for you.”
“Sloane isn’t aware that sick days exist.” I fidget with the edge of my tank top. Wait—she’s got plans… “Does this mean you aren’t going?”
Kepler nods. “Just the two of you.”
My chest constricts, but for once, I don’t argue. “Thank you for flying out here.”
“I wanted to see you.”
“Did you leave your car in Boston?”
“How did you know I drove?”
“You can’t take weed on an airplane.”
This gets a tight little grimace from him. “No, you can’t. I guess that’s one way your obsession is better than mine.” He pats his t-shirt pocket and ever-present joint. “I fly back tonight to get my car.”
“You flew out for a few hours to see me?” I tried to break someone. I beat a guy down on a golf course. And he flew out here for me.
“It wasn’t hard to fly out here.” He tilts his head, studying me. “A fact I hope to show you next month.”
“What?”
“I thought we could go.”
“To Boston?” I try to close my mouth, but it keeps falling open.
He nods. Casual. Easy. Like all of this is no big deal. “I’ve got to find a place. I’d like your help. Seeing as you might have in interest.”
“An interest?”
“I hear that’s what girlfriends do. Take an interest. Maybe even acquire a drawer. For when they stay the night or the weekend. Or the year.”
“A drawer?”
“Are you actually going to use any of your own words at some point? Or are you just going to keep repeating what I say?”
“That depends on if you keep saying words like interest and drawer.”
Kepler digs his hands into his hair. “Look, I’ve got to get back to Denver in time for my flight.”
He rolls off the bed and grabs his shoes. I sit opposite from him. My toes brush against the rug. He yanks on his shoelaces as he ties his shoes.
I’ve pushed him away. I’ve argued with him. I’ve lied to him.
And he’s in my bedroom waiting for me to talk.
Kepler Quinn with his gray t-shirt and nerdy black glasses. His distanced words and hidden smile.
I don’t deserve him.
If I’m going to talk to him, I need to start now. I can’t wait until there’s plane tickets and drawers.
I take a breath, not sure how to start the conversation. “I’m trying to change,” I finally say. “I want to be…”
Different? Is that what I want?
He finishes lacing his shoes and then twists to face me. “I just don’t want you to hurt so much. And I need you to be honest with me—no more lying and hiding and not telling me what is going on. I want you to be my girlfriend. Not just in name, but in substance.”
“One hundred percent,” I say. It isn’t a question, but Kepler focuses on me as if it were.
“Hell, yes.”
“Were you one hundred percent when you went to Boston?”
“Of course. Why would you think I wasn’t?”
I pick at the lint on my shirt. “Mackie mentioned you stayed with Abby.”
“I stayed in a hotel.” He circles the bed and grabs my hands, pulling me up. “Yes, I saw her. And she’s dating some philosophy grad student. I spent the whole weekend debating the complexity theory. Not that it would have mattered—if she were single, I’d still be one hundred percent with you, Lo.”
“Then why the ignored calls?”
Kepler shakes his head. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
“In your parents’ car. At brunch. You ignored a bunch of calls. What was that?”
He kisses my forehead. His lips linger. I don’t know if that linger is meant to comfort or give him the space to construct a lie. “Travel arrangements.”
“Okay.” There’s more. Kepler never limits himself to two-word sentences. But no more words come.
Travel arrangements. Kepler and I are stuck between so many half-truths. This one seems tiny in comparison to the others.
I suck in a breath. “I’ll go to Boston. But Kepler—”
Before I can take a blink, his arms are around me, wrapped so tightly that I struggle to breathe. I sink into him, hanging on just as hard.
“But before then, we need to talk about something,” I say into his shoulder. I have to make this work. I can learn to be honest. I can learn to stop myself from spiraling down and lashing out. Before there are drawers and trips to Boston.
Kepler grips me tighter. “Anything, Lo. But right now, you’re going to be late.”
“Late? For what?”
As if on cue, someone pounds on my door, yanking me out of the perfection that is a Kepler hug.
“Wake up,” my sister yells. “And get your ass out here.”
I pick my head up off of his shoulder, but he doesn’t let me go.
“Sloane can wait for ten seconds,” he says.
“You’ve forgotten some facts about my sister.” He’s so close—hair falls in his eyes, his jaw rough with stubble. Locked in his arms sounds way better than dealing with my prickly sister.
More cop-style pounding. I half-expect her to holler, Open up. Police. Instead she goes with, “We’re going to be late. Meet me outside.”
Kepler buries his rough chin in my shoulder. “You should go.” His breath is warm on my neck. “It’s important. Besides I’ve got a plane to catch. I’ll be back in four days. We’ll pick up this conversation then.”
Twenty-One
My sister’s outside waiting from me, sporting jeans, a sweater, and an annoyed glare, but it’s replaced by a patient smile as I slide into her SUV. Disconcerting.
I pat Kima on the head and am rewarded with a tongue-hanging doggie pant. Even Kima’s in on the plan, apparently.
Sloane pulls away and rolls down our windows, letting in a whoosh of almost-winter air.
“Where are we going? A beach vacation?” I try a smile. Sloane doesn’t return it.
I poke her in the shoulder. “Is this a kidnapping?”
A few turns later, she pulls up next to a red brick office building a block from campus. “It’s more like an appointment.”
“An appointment?” I didn’t expect that one.
She turns off the SUV. “I made you an appointment with my therapist.”
I blink. “The mighty Sloane sees a therapist?”
“I’m not mighty.” She glances at the building.
“Yes, eonni, you are.” I can’t believe my police-officer sister who always finishes her to-do list could think anything less of herself. She might be prickly, but she’s got a line of strength that can only be described as beautiful. Like one of those cacti with a gorgeous yellow flower stuck on top. “Why didn’t you tell me about therapy?”
She taps her thumbs on the steering wheel. “Because I didn’t want you to know.”
“Why tell me now?”
“Because you need to talk to someone. About last night. Claire said she could see you today. If you are willing.”
“Claire? You call your therapist by her first name?”
“What else would I call her?”
I shrug. What I know about therapy could fit on the end of a toothpick. Psych 101 had nothing to do with actual therapy.
“You think I need to go because of what happened last night.” I shift in my seat so that my whole body is facing Sloane. She’s practically dimpling the steering wheel with her thumb-beat rhythm. “Why did you start going?”
“You don’t need a specific reason to start therapy.”
“People might not need a specific reason, but you never do anything without a purpose.”
Sloane shakes her head. “You’re going to be late. You’re just—”
Kima whines and paces the backseat. Sloane’s fingers twist around the wheel. I’ve never seen her like this.
“You’re going to be late,” she repeats.
I don’t care about being late to some appointment with a woman I’ve never met who will probably annoy the hell out of me. I care about my big sister. “Fucking spill it, Sloane.” Spill: the word she always uses to get me talking.
Sloane stares at the building. “I needed to talk to someone about some of the stuff that happened when we were, you know, growing up.”
“What stuff?”
“Stuff with some of the guys Mom brought around.”
My heart sinks into my stomach. “What do you mean? Like how she was with them? Or how we tried to get her to leave some of them?”
“That too.”
Tears are behind my eyes before she finishes the two-word sentence. I grip onto the seat. “They didn’t—one of them didn’t—”
“Two of them did. A month apart from each other, actually.”
Oh God, I’m so stupid, stupid, stupid. “Does Mom know?”
“I don’t know. She’s never said anything. And I never told her.” Her voice catches. My strong, beautiful sister bats away tears.
I swallow all of this, and it goes down like a bag of nails. “How did I not know?”
“I didn’t want you to know.” She wipes at her face, but whatever’s inside of her can’t be contained anymore, and it keeps spilling out. “You were thirteen, and I didn’t know how to tell my baby sister. Did you think that with all those guys coming through our house that something like this didn’t happen?”
My voice is a whisper. “It never happened to me.” So I always believed it never happened to Sloane. I was so stupid.
“That’s because I use to crawl into bed with you to make sure they didn’t come in.”
Her Team Captain America! flashlight on the ceiling—making those stars glow.
Kima whines, and Sloane pats her head. “And that’s why I made you walk home from school instead of giving you rides. I always got there before you. I always tried to be there. I hate that place.”
I open my mouth, but I can’t think of anything to say. I’m a burning flame in a wash of cold, and I don’t know how to sort any of it out. Sloane turns from Kima and swallows hard.
I place a hand on her shoulder, but it’s a pathetic attempt at consoling. There’s no consolation for this. Especially from a little sister who didn’t notice what was happening.
I need to say something. “I’m sorry,” I mumble.
Sloane’s glare turns to me. “Don’t you ever fucking apologize for some asshole.” There’s so much strength in her red-rimmed eyes—like tears make her stronger.
“I don’t know what else to say.”
“You don’t have to know what to say. Or you can say the first thing that comes to mind.” She attempts a smile, but it falls. “As long as it’s not I’m sorry.”
The first thing that came to mind. I can do that. “I love you, eonni.”
She closes her eyes and takes in a long breath. I’m about to drop my hand from her shoulder when she clamps it with her own. “I love you too, baby sis.”
We sit in the almost silence. Sloane
sniffling. My heart beating through my chest. Tires on pavement as a car passes us. I sit with my hand under Sloane’s and wait for her to talk.
“We need to put this back together.” Her dark eyes open. “You, me, Mom”—her breath is chunky like she has to chew through it—“and Dad. We need to put ourselves together.”
“I don’t know if that’s possible.” I hate myself for the thought, but sometimes things are too far gone. The way my mom stares into her coffee. The last time I spoke to my father was two years ago. It didn’t go well.
“We have to try. Even if it doesn’t work—I need to try.” She shrugs away from my hand. “Claire and I are working on this. Getting over my anger at Mom and Dad.”
“Okay.” I’m still not sure it’s possible, but if that’s what Sloane needs, then I’m ready to grab the snips and defuse some bombs.
She gives me a smile that, thankfully, reaches her eyes. Barely. “I thought we could have a family dinner over at my apartment? We could grill chicken, and I could drink a whole box of wine.”
“You, me, and Mom? What are we going to talk about for as long as it takes meat to grill?”
She sighs a little laugh. “We could play games. Battleship or Scattergories.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“We could make up our own categories like we used to.” She nods sharply like she’s trying to hang on to the new conversation.
I’ll go with her wherever she needs to go, even if that place is just a subject change. I tap my chin and smile. “We’d need to make up some categories Mom could win. Like Things Douchey Guys Say.”
“Or Ways To Get Fired On Your First Day.”
Oh hell, I hate that I’m laughing right now. But Sloane’s giggling too, so I’ll forgive myself.
“Okay, no Scattergories.” She lets out a long breath and relaxes her shoulders. “I’m ready to talk to her. But I can’t do it by myself. I need you there.” She sighs. “And I’m sure Mom will bring the new asshole, which will give us plenty to talk around. You can bring your own asshole.”
“Could you not call my boyfriend an asshole?”
Sloane’s laugh fills the car. “So it’s boyfriend now? How cute.”
I slap her shoulder. “Take that back.”
“You’re right. There’s nothing cute about it.”