His tone gets soft on the last few words. He works his jaw back and forth as he relives a memory I’m not privy to.
“What happened?” I ask.
“She killed herself.”
The sentence is harsh. Black-and-white. So final. The reality of the end of a little girl’s life, a child I didn’t know, spirals over my skin, chilling it to the core.
“Oh, Lance. I’m sorry,” I say.
“We all went to the funeral,” he continues, not moving his eyes from the tree line below. “I remember sitting there and wondering why no one helped her. How all of these people sort of let her down, you know? I think I knew that day I’d be a teacher or somehow working with kids. I’d be the guy who maybe sees those things and helps somebody out.”
“That’s why you’re so great with Ollie, huh?”
He shrugs. “It’s hard to explain.”
“You explained it just fine,” I promise, resting my palm on his calf.
“My mom was always beating us on the head to be decent people,” he says, dragging himself into a sitting position. He takes my hand when I start to pull it away and places it on his knee, his hand pressing on top of it. “She had four kids. All of us were healthy. All of us were bright, capable kids. Almost every night at dinner, piled around a round table in her kitchen, we’d say our prayers. When we’d open our eyes, she’d be sitting there, one hand holding Dad’s, just watching us almost in awe.”
The picture he’s describing comes to life in my imagination, a woman with dark hair like Lance’s and brighter eyes, smiling back at him. I can see them all sitting at a table, passing around bowls of homemade dishes, the room full of a love I’ve never known.
My heart aches at the vision. It squeezes, craving to have something fill it in a way Mrs. Gibson’s heart must’ve been full.
“She would tell us,” he continues, “that we couldn’t rest on our laurels. That we were given more blessings than other people for a reason and that was to help those who needed a hand or an extra set of eyes or ears.”
“She sounds amazing. I can’t imagine being raised by a woman like that.”
He chuckles. “She was tough as nails though. There were expectations and we had to meet them.”
“Like grades and stuff?” I ask as he squeezes the top of my hand.
“Kind of. I guess we had to work to our potential. But she better not catch you back talking or driving by a broken down car or not holding a door open at the grocery. That happened to Machlan once. Poor guy,” he says, smiling at the memory.
“She sounds lovely.”
“She was lovely.” He sighs, seemingly content with the conversation. So, I press my luck.
“What was your dad like?”
He wiggles on the blanket, taking a moment to get comfortable again. “Dad got up every morning at four forty-five. He was out the door by five-thirty and rolled in a few minutes before six every evening. We had supper at six sharp and then he’d take out the garbage while two of us kids did the dishes and Mom relaxed. Then he’d take one of us outside to do something. Throw a ball, work on a car, head to the bait shop. Whatever it was that needed done or we wanted to do.”
“I love that he made you do the dishes,” I giggle.
“Oh, trust me. These hands have met their fair share of dishwater,” he laughs. “If it needed done, he didn’t care if you were a boy or a girl. Blaire took out the trash, she took her turn mowing the lawn. Us boys would clean toilets and mop floors. You were never too good to get your hands dirty,” he smiles.
“I think I would’ve loved him.”
“I did,” he admits. “I always envied my dad in a way. He was a man’s man, you know, without the chauvinism. He was proud of his family. Proud of us. But if someone said something cross to him, he’d kick the fuck out of them.”
I burst out laughing, my hand slipping out from under his. “I didn’t see that curveball.”
“Let’s just say Machlan got it honest,” he laughs. “I guess Dad was a ruffian back in the day too. I hear stories now sometimes about him in the eighties in the pool hall downtown.”
“Days of the pool halls,” I sigh. “I had this little fantasy for a while growing up that I would walk into a pool hall and some bad boy would whisk me away.”
“Sounds like you watched too many Patrick Swayze movies.”
“There’s no such thing,” I giggle. “My first crush. I wanted to have all his babies.”
Lance’s smile falters. He scoots around again, a wrinkle dotting his forehead. “What about now?”
“What about now what?”
“Do you still want to have babies?”
I’m not sure if it’s because he doesn’t look at me when he says it or if it’s the tone he uses to pose his question, but it feels like it’s a set-up of some sort. I give him a second to turn to me, but he doesn’t. He keeps his gaze across the hills towards the setting sun.
“Yes. I want to have babies,” I say, my voice soft. “I’ve always wanted to be a mother. What you had growing up, I didn’t and I always wanted it. I wanted to create my own little family who had dinners together and took vacations together and built forts together with blankets in the living room on rainy days.”
He nods his head, working his jaw back and forth. “You’ll be a great mother.”
“Thanks,” I whisper. “I hope so.”
There’s really no reaction from him.
“What about you?” I ask. “Do you want to be a father?”
He starts to laugh, but the little lines around his eyes that come out when he’s amused aren’t there. There’s a crease instead, one that is foreign to me.
Sitting up, he licks his lips before turning to me. His eyes shine with something that causes my heart to ache.
“I always wanted three boys and a girl, just like my dad. I wanted the girl to spoil like he did Blaire and the boys to tell about my glory days.” He almost smiles, but not quite. “I think I grew up in such a comfortable, happy home that I just wanted to replicate it.”
“Can I ask you something?”
He shrugs.
“Why are you so anti-relationship now? It seems counter-productive if having a family is what you want.”
“Maybe …” He forces a swallow. “Maybe I’m not sure how much like my dad I really am after all.” He swipes up his glasses and puts them back on his face. “What about your dad? What was he like?”
It’s a definite, intentional change in topic. There’s so much more to his story, one I want to know. I can’t press it; it’s not my place. And as that little piece of reality splashes me in the face, I feel like I’ve been hit with a bucket of cold water.
“My dad was meh,” I say, trying to move my thoughts to the new conversation. “He calls sometimes, but I think he really just said ‘screw it’ and wrote us off.”
“I can see him writing off your mom, maybe even your sister. But not you.”
“Yeah, well, I’m inclined to think I should’ve been more unforgettable too,” I laugh.
“Have you heard from Chrissy?”
“Nope. Maybe I will, maybe I won’t. I’m not hedging my bets either way.”
“Do you want her to?” he asks, wrapping his hand around my ankle.
I shrug. “I don’t know. Can people like that change, Lance? Can she go from being a total, outrageous asshole and then become this sisterly person?”
Could you go from being a man whore to a monogamous man?
Biting down on my tongue is the only way to keep that thought from slipping out of my mouth.
He squeezes my leg and thinks. “I used to say no. Tigers, stripes, all that. But lately I’ve been considering maybe people can change. I don’t know.”
“Okay, let’s say they can. But do they always revert back to what they were?”
“Maybe people are less like tigers and more like … onions.”
“People do stink,” I giggle.
“True,” he says, shaking my leg. “
But maybe they’re also layered.”
“So what you’re saying is that as you go through life, you shed layers?”
“Maybe,” he shrugs. “Or, as you go through life, it sheds them for you. I think of Cross, right? He dated this girl named Kallie for years. Cross was a pure hell raiser and Kallie had enough and left. Maybe if she would’ve stayed, he would’ve still been high on her sofa,” he laughs. “It’s possible her leaving made him shed a layer. Now he’s an all right guy.”
“Maybe,” I sigh. “Maybe having Betsy made Chrissy shed a layer.”
“And maybe it didn’t,” he adds. “Whether we want to think people can change or not, we have to remember that history says things are not only cyclical but also fairly predictable. Remember that.”
That’s what I’m afraid of.
“What’s that look about?” he asks.
“What look?”
“That one.” He points at my face. “The one that looks like you were ready to cry.”
“I was just thinking about cycles and predictability and how I hope I don’t try blue eye shadow again.”
His laugh is free and loud. He leans back again, the stress melted away from his shoulders. “I bet you look just as pretty with blue eye shadow on as you do now.”
“That’s a bet you’d lose, Mr. Gibson.”
“I can’t imagine you wearing anything and looking bad.”
I bask in his words, feeling the wash of power settling over my skin. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” He bites his bottom lip as he takes me in. “Want to shed something for me?”
“What do you have in mind?” I ask, fluttering my lashes.
Resisting the urge to reach up and kiss him takes everything I have. I want to climb on top of him, inside him, surround myself with him in every way. My skin craves his hands on my body, my lips die for his mouth on mine. When he’s in control, all I can do is relax and feel a way I can feel with no one else.
Biting my lip, I wait impatiently so I don’t appear too needy.
He laughs. “Just come here, will ya?”
“I’ll think about it.”
He lunges towards me, knocking me on my back as I yelp into the evening air. My laughter fills the top of Bluebird Hill as Lance hovers over me.
Looking down intently, his chest matches the rise and fall of mine. He brushes a strand of hair out of my face as he studies me.
“Some people have to peel away their layers to get to the good stuff,” he says. “You’re already there.”
“Stop being so sweet,” I whisper. “It makes you irresistible.”
“I’m irresistible way before I kick in the sweet factor,” he teases.
I pretend to mull that over as he lowers his face to mine. Our mouths move together in an effortless, easy dance that distracts me until I can’t think of anything else.
Twenty-Four
Mariah
The lavender scented bath water laps against the sides of the tub caressing me. The candle I lit on the vanity flickers in a delicate sway. Shadows are cast against the white tile walls of my bathroom and I close my eyes and just breathe in the peacefulness.
Lance dropped me off a few hours ago. He walked me to the doorway and kissed me like it was the end of a date. Like there was a promise of more. Like tomorrow might have him pulling up beside the curb to see me again.
Even though I love his angular jawline and fiery eyes and funny sense of humor, what makes me feel the giddiest is the way he looks at me.
I run a hand from the base of my throat, between my breasts, and into the water. It skims over my rounded stomach. It’s a part of me I’ve always hated—the pooch, I call it. No number of crunches, sit-ups, or planks would rid me of the excess belly fat surrounding my belly button. Tonight, though, with my hand clasped over that area, the grimace I usually wear while touching that part of my body is gone.
In its place is a small smile as I think of Lance placing kiss after kiss on my navel as if it were the sexiest stomach he’d ever seen. I remember how he touches me in every possible place and does so almost reverently. How when he looks at me, it seems like he’s only seeing a beautiful woman and not all the flaws I see when I look in the mirror or put on a pair of jeans.
Now that I know Lance, he’s not what I expected. He’s somehow more than all his parts combined. He’s more than the sexy, intellectual from school and more than the alpha, quick-tongued womanizer from the dating app.
I don’t think I was quick to judge Lance Gibson. I just think, maybe even hope, I might’ve pegged him wrong.
Lance
The water is hot as it flows over my body with the shower head on its strongest setting. The spray pelts my skin on a selection that works well in the morning to wake me up but right now is just another uncomfortable annoyance for me to have to deal with.
The look in her eyes tonight was my own doing. She wouldn’t look at me like that if I would just leave her alone. I know the way it is when we’re together, there’s this intoxicating chemistry that I’ve never experienced with someone else. A connection I’m not sure I’ve ever even seen another two people have—it’s that good.
This isn’t lust. I could write a book on that. It’s not an obsession, either, or one of those situations where you want someone you know you can’t have. Been there, done that—on both the giving and receiving end. What exists between Mariah and me is altogether different.
Am I in love with her? I hate to think so. Am I that hedonistic? Do I have that little self-control?
The fact that it even crosses my mind is enough to make me shudder despite the temperature of the water dousing me from above. I thought I had the love and commitment issue covered. Thought I had a shield up to prevent me from having serious feelings towards anyone ever again. But even with Britt, I didn’t feel this gone. I just know that when I think about the future, I associate with Mariah and it’s cast in gold.
It makes me sound like a pussy I know. But it’s the truth. And whether I’m a pussy or not doesn’t make it any less true.
In a perfect world, she would be the one for me. Hell, even in this imperfect world, she’s the one for me. But the one we live in is colored by an accident from years ago that made me less of a man than so many of my contemporaries. And while the thought of her with someone else makes me want to rip them apart limb by limb, I also want to smack myself when I consider what it will do to her if I keep up this charade.
She’ll have to decide at some point whether she wants me or wants the future she’s always imagined. Sure, I could let her decide as Blaire and Peck suggested. But that’s the biggest dickhead move—to force her to choose. To make her be the bad guy. Fuck that.
There’s no way I can put her in a position where she can’t win.
I’m not stupid. I know the shaded signals, what the meaning is behind her touch, the look in her eyes, the smile that she only gives me. She’s falling in love as fast as I am. And, if I truly love her, and I’m inclined to think I do, I can’t ask her to make that choice.
Twenty-Five
Lance
My bag hits the chair with a thud.
“Brandon, you sit over there,” I say, pointing to a little table in the corner of the Family and Consumer Sciences Room. “I don’t want to hear a peep out of you unless it starts with, ‘Excuse me, Mr. Gibson’ and is followed by a question pertinent to the subject matter you should be studying as defined by the State of Illinois. Got it?”
“This is gonna blow,” he groans.
“It’s detention. It’s supposed to blow. That’s the point.”
He tosses his books on the desk and collapses in the seat like he’s been sentenced to the electric chair. I toy with the idea of pointing out he’s being a baby and cause and effect and all that jazz, but choose to pick my battles with this kid instead. This isn’t the one to fight.
I left the door to the room open on purpose. With each squeak or tap of soles down the hall, my eyes flicker to the
opening to see if it’s Mariah.
It’s funny how routines become your norm. Then when change comes to your habits, even simple little differences, you feel thrown off in every aspect of your life. Tugging at my tie, I keep my gaze on the empty the hall and hope she walks by. She does not.
I haven’t had a drink since the night with the tequila and Peck, yet I feel drunk. Or hungover. Just a cloudy-headed haze that I can’t clear out. Decision making skills are one of my finer assets. I pick a direction and go. But I’m so unsure about what I should do with Mariah right now that I question my sanity.
As my tires hit the asphalt parking lot this morning, I was adamant I was backing off. Not being a dick, just giving this thing between us some time to cool down. Then as my ears picked up the lunch bell this afternoon, I found myself standing outside of the library warring about whether I should go in or not.
I did, but by the time I made that decision, half of the lunch period was over. It was just enough time to wet my whistle. I left her office needing to see her again but knowing more than ever I really, really shouldn’t.
“Ollie,” I say, spinning around. “You ready?”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t sound so excited.” Patting his shoulder as I walk by, I enter one of the little kitchenettes lining the back wall. Each kitchen station is separated by a counter top. “Did Ms. Holden give you a recipe or something to go off of?”
“It’s right here.” He points at an index card on the counter.
“You mean the instructions to bake a cake fit on that thing? She did give you instructions, right?”
Ollie grins. “That’s all I’m allowed to use. No online resources, no video tutorials.”
“She’s hardcore,” I say. I slip my phone, that I’d pulled out to look up a cake baking how-to, back in my pocket.
“My ma cooks,” Brandon calls out from the corner. “You have to get out all your ingredients first.”
“That did not start with ‘Mr. Gibson,’ Brandon.”
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