“They don’t do that.” Whitney grabbed the remote and selected their first show, part one of a series in which a woman with amnesia first gave birth to a demon and then, a few years later, to an angel. “I put all my kinky sex stuff right where they can find it. There is nothing like a vibrator in the crisper drawer to keep your parents from snooping in the really good cupboards.”
“You’re sick, you know that?” John spit out a popcorn kernel into a napkin and laughed. But as the movie came on, he sobered a little. “Are you going to introduce them to Dimples?”
“Shh,” Whitney hissed, watching the screaming blonde woman give birth from the back of a taxi. “You’re ruining the dramatic opening.”
“My humblest apologies,” he murmured. “I just wonder how it is you’re going to manage to hide a man like that in a town like this.”
Whitney ignored him. It wasn’t a question worth asking, let alone answering. Besides—there was no way Matt would fit inside the crisper drawer.
* * *
Her parents’ visit was slated to begin in T minus three days. As it had been a week since Whitney had last seen Matt at his school and even longer since she’d seen him without his clothes on, she sensed an urgent need to pay him a visit.
Not because she wanted sex. Because she wanted to make sure he was okay.
If her parents were going to be present for two weeks—two weeks in which she refused to introduce them to Matt in fear of getting their hopes up—she needed to do this now, to call and face her demons. Face his demons too.
Oncology wasn’t her field, but she’d done a rotation during her residency. All it took was one or two days on the floor to realize how much that disease tore apart families and people. Even if the patient was a cheating ex-wife with codependency issues.
Especially if the patient was a cheating ex-wife with codependency issues.
She swung by his apartment on a Saturday afternoon. Fearful that a phone call would put him on his guard or that he might turn her down flat if given any advance warning of her arrival, she was making this a sneak attack. She’d even slipped into a pair of jeans and a beige sweater before leaving the house. Beige was her safe color, asexual and bland.
“Holy crap,” Whitney said when he pulled open the door. Tired and morose, Matt had never looked so beaten down. A stubbly growth covered his jaw and chin, a worn black T-shirt stretched tight across his frame. “You, uh, look like you could use a nap.”
It wasn’t her most glib response, but it was all she could come up with on short notice. She held up a six pack. “Or beer. I brought beer.”
Matt gestured for her to come in, his expression neutral. “I’m sorry I haven’t called. I should have called.”
“No. You shouldn’t have.” Whitney swept into the kitchen and put the beer in the fridge. Unlike his normal leafy greens and carefully lined up Tupperware, his shelves held a mess of takeout cartons and a lone withered orange. Things were worse than she realized. Peeking over her shoulder, she added, “You don’t call unless you want to. Remember? No rules?”
His face screwed up for a moment before straightening back out, almost as though he was trying hard to remember their past conversations, as though she’d fallen so far off his radar he no longer remembered her last name. “Thanks for thinking of me—with the beer and all.”
“Of course.” She handed him one. “Have you eaten?”
“No, but I’m not really hungry. Unless you are...?”
She thought of his fridge’s contents. “Nah. Not right now.”
An awkward silence fell, oppressive in how strange it felt. This was the first time she didn’t feel easy and perfect being in Matt’s presence. Damn that Laura. Damn her for getting cancer and making it Matt’s problem.
Maybe that made her a terrible human being, but it was a role she’d gladly play if she could just get Matt to smile.
“Okay. You have ten minutes,” she announced, pointing her beer at him.
His brow knit. “I do?”
“Yes.” She threw herself onto one of the kitchen chairs. “I want you to talk to me about Laura for ten minutes—whatever you’re feeling and whatever is happening. And then she’s gone for the rest of the day.”
Matt blew out a long breath and studied Whitney, lounging at his table as though she’d dropped over for a chat about the latest Eagles game. He’d known, when she appeared unannounced at his door, that he wasn’t going to get off easy today. No more sitting and staring at the wall, wondering what he was supposed to do. No more waiting for the phone to ring, to see if Laura had any more information about her diagnosis.
“I’m sorry about before,” he said. “For yelling at you.”
“I said talk about Laura, not apologize.” Whitney’s gaze was unwavering—her presence solid and warm. How was it that this woman was able to carry so much energy and joy with her wherever she went? It fizzled and crackled around her and made him think, for a small space of time, that he could be happy again. “You have nothing to be sorry for. Now spill.”
“Thanks for the offer, but I’d rather not.”
“Not an option. I want to hear all the gory details. Have you talked to anyone else?”
He let out a soft snort. It wasn’t exactly the sort of topic one foisted on coworkers or a set of six-year-olds, and the last thing he wanted was Lincoln’s or Hilly’s advice on the subject.
“Oh, no, you don’t.” Whitney marched over to the microwave and set the timer for ten minutes before leaning on one elbow on the counter. She trained her eyes on him, unblinking and, to all outward appearances, interested and sympathetic. “Start talking.”
As always, he did as she commanded—not because he had to, but because he wanted to. It was an important difference, one he couldn’t always put into words but felt just the same. Making this woman happy was as ingrained into him as breathing.
“She had an appointment on Tuesday, and she wanted me to go.”
“Tell me you didn’t say yes. Doesn’t she have any family or friends in town?”
“Is you asking questions part of my ten minutes?” he asked. “Because that doesn’t seem fair.”
She made the motion of a zipper over her lips and gestured for him to continue.
“Her family does live here, but you have to understand that they’re pretty conservative people. When our marriage ended the way it did...”
“You mean when she cheated on you...”
He shot her a warning look. It was hard to explain this town to people who didn’t grow up here. Pleasant Park was anything but pleasant if the locals chose not to accept you. Judgment and contempt came with the territory.
Then again, maybe she knew more about that than most...
“When she cheated on me,” he said, gaining momentum even as the words tripped over his tongue, “there was a pretty big public outcry. Most of the people here have had kids in my class, and since my sister and brother are their own kind of fixtures, we’re pretty well liked. It was really hard for her—for her whole family—for a few months. They’d go into the diner and wait for an hour for their food. Teenagers egged their house. Small stuff, but the kind of stuff that weighs on you after a while—especially since it wasn’t any of the town’s goddamn business.”
Whitney nodded. “That’s for sure.”
“Anyway, the point is that most of her friends started dropping off not too long after we separated. I don’t doubt her sister would have gone with her to the doctor, but not without making a big deal out of it. So yes, I went, and sat in the waiting room. And don’t you dare look at me like that. You just have to accept that no matter how much she hurt me, Laura was—and is—very much a part of my life. I’m not going to let a woman I once pledged my life to visit a cancer specialist alone. No one deserves that. Not even my worst enemy.”
He paused, waiting for her to insert a snide remark or comment on his nobility. But she just nodded, real warmth in her eyes.
“So that’s pretty much it. She still doesn’t have any conclusive results, but I think they did one of those biopsy things.”
Whitney opened her mouth and then promptly shut it again. It was probably killing her not to insert an opinion after every word.
“I don’t know what else to say,” he continued. “There’s lots of medical terminology I’m sure you already know. Laura is scared and freaked out and I’m not sure what my role is supposed to be yet. I told her it’s probably best to go into the city—they have specialists there and she can stay with an aunt—but she didn’t really talk much. She mostly cried.” His voice cracked. “Which seems fair, given the situation. She’s only twenty-six.”
Silence blanketed them both—not awkward or comforting, just present, like oxygen. There was a lot more he could say, but the depressing realization that it would come out more as a jumbled mixture of sounds rather than actual words was too strong to ignore. He liked Whitney—more, he knew, than she liked him—and he refused to break down in front of her over this.
A few more minutes were left on the timer, but he didn’t make a move to fill the silence, and she, bound by her word, did the same. It was odd. They weren’t touching at all, but he felt closer to her in that moment than during any of their sexual entanglements.
Of course, the second it went off again, Whitney bounced into action. “So, I brought a few movies, but it’s a nice day out, so that seems like a really depressing way to spend the afternoon. Which is why I also brought a kite.”
The randomness of that statement forced a laugh out of Matt. “Is it even windy enough outside for a kite?”
“I don’t know. Do I look like the type of woman who kites?”
“Then why did you buy it?”
“It’s pretty.” She said it with certainty, as though that were the answer to everything. Kite purchases. Relationships. World peace. “Can’t you just make it work by running fast?”
Matt had a suspicion Whitney was secretly some kind of master kite flyer and was testing him. They’d get outside only to find that she had one of those thousand dollar contraptions with dual handles, and she’d soundly whip his ass, laughing at him all the while.
It sounded wonderful.
“We can head to Blue Lake,” he suggested. “I think the winds are pretty decent on the shoreline, and there’s a cabin up there that used to belong to my grandparents.”
“Oooh,” Whitney squealed. “Waterfront real estate. Why, Matt Fuller, you never told me you’re a man of property.”
“Don’t get your hopes up. It’s not that kind of waterfront. Oh, and Whitney?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you. For letting me talk. For being here.”
“Of course.” Whitney turned sharply away. “Let’s get going. Daylight’s burning.”
* * *
Whitney had a small arsenal of outdoor equipment in the trunk of her car, which was strange, given how incredibly non-outdoorsy she claimed to be. In addition to a kite, there were coats and blankets and a picnic basket that she vehemently ordered Matt not to open, for fear of releasing the scents and spores of a long-gone day at the park. There was even a cricket bat, though she was hard-pressed to explain its presence among so much random gear.
“If you think this is bad, you should see my closets” was all she’d say as they piled inside and she revved the engine, taking off at a good twenty miles per hour over the speed limit.
Matt was slowly getting used to her way of driving, though he might have preferred to put the top up, considering it was a crisp spring day with a thermometer firmly topped out at fifty-five degrees. As he watched Whitney out of the corner of his eye, her hair whipping playfully in the wind, he decided maybe he would bear the cold. He wanted to cement the sight of her, youthful and flushed, in his memory to store for the hard days ahead.
Life with Whitney was ass-hugging jeans and laughter. It was stolen kisses and rushed orgasms. It was yelling and arguing and a constant battle of wills.
Life with Whitney was exhilarating.
“Take this exit and turn right.” Matt pointed toward a rustic one-lane road that disappeared into a dead overgrowth. One nice thing about having a frozen face and wind tearing up his eyes was that it wasn’t necessary to attempt conversation. He felt more at peace than he had in days. “I really hope your car can make it. The road is awfully rough.”
Whitney turned to him and winked. “Oh, Matt. My car and I were made for hard riding.”
Matt groaned. “I set myself up for that one, didn’t I?”
Whitney just laughed before hitting the gas pedal with a vengeance. A normal person would have slowed down to take the backwoods hairpin turns with a little more caution. Or at least to reduce the kickup of dust. But she was oblivious to death or danger or dirt, and Matt settled in to the inevitability of misery.
Compared to how he’d felt earlier in the week, dropping Laura off at their empty house, refusing her entreaty to come inside and keep her company, this freezing, dirty misery was a wonderful feeling.
Whitney stepped on the gas again. Although she was trying to be discreet about it, she was keeping a close watch over Matt’s face, which alternated between irritation and sadness. Sadness meant she needed to speed up, because he was starting to think again. Irritation meant she was doing her job well.
She might not have a ton of experience being the supportive girlfriend type, but she wasn’t Matt’s self-appointed rebound girl for nothing. When faced with a distasteful situation that had no easy answer, the only thing to do was think about something else. Anything else. And since even she knew whipping off her shirt and putting on a personalized burlesque show might be a touch gauche right now, she’d settled for a kite and a drive. It was the best she’d been able to come up with on short notice.
As she turned the last corner into what looked like a solid wall of trees, Matt indicated that they’d finally arrived at their destination. She parked under a huge evergreen tree and waited for Matt to come around and open her door. He always let out a little huff if she tried to do it herself—and, truth be told, she was getting kind of spoiled. Those little gallant gestures of his—opening the door for her, hanging on her every word when she spoke, the way he always made sure she came first before taking his own pleasure—they added up to something substantial.
“Welcome to Chez Fuller,” he said, taking her hand and helping her out of the car. “The family legacy, hunting lodge, fishing shack—call it what you want. My grandfather built it with his own two hands.”
Whitney took in the sight of the so-called legacy with a laugh. Matt’s grandfather had obviously not been one of those men who could craft an entire city from a pile of leaves and a matchstick. The log cabin looked solid enough—it had walls and a ceiling—but the front door creaked on ominous hinges and there wasn’t a single wooden beam overhead that wasn’t sagging and crowded with wispy cobwebs.
“It’s just the one front room and an upstairs attic. Hilly, Lincoln and I used to all fit up there if we didn’t breathe too much, but the last time I was here a family of eagles had taken up residence in the rafters.”
“Your family must be big on outdoor adventure, huh?”
“What can I say?” Matt spread his arms. “We’re a classy people. Now grab that kite. I want to take it for a spin.”
Whitney obliged, even though there was no way that thing was going to get any air. She’d bought it at a Chinese grocery store the next town over, which had incredible to-go lunches but otherwise contained products that were a mystery to her. She didn’t eat any fruits or vegetables she couldn’t recognize, so assuming she could do anything with a fuzzy melon other than mock it relentlessly was ridiculous. But they’d had a
shipment of decorative kites out one day, and she’d picked up a long-tailed dragon painted a vibrant red and sporting fangs bigger than its feet. She thought it would look nice against the bright blue sky of summer.
The dull, overcast spring weather would work too. She had a man to cheer up, after all.
Matt pulled the kite out of its brown paper wrapping with a grimace and shook his head at what he called the poorly designed aerodynamics of it. She should have figured he’d be far too practical a man to simply enjoy the shiny-pretty.
“Just give it one try,” Whitney wheedled. “I saw a fireplace inside the cabin and the kitchen cupboard—singular, by the way—had a giant jar of Ovaltine in it. I’ll make hot chocolate for us when we’re done.”
“That stuff is older than I am. We’ll die.”
“Then we go out with a flourish. Spoilsport.”
The distance from the house to the lake was short. The temperature plunged with each step closer to the shoreline, and when they finally broke through, the wind whipped up off the water a good ten degrees cooler than the forest air.
Whitney’s face stung cold and chapped, her lips dry. But still she smiled and broke into a laugh when she reached the edge of the lake. The sandy shore was littered with debris and branches, the water a murky brown of slime and grabby tendrils of lakeweed. Definitely a little rustic for her taste, but watching Matt struggle to untangle the kite, freezing his ass off in a thin jacket, filled her with a sense of comfortable happiness she refused to define.
“So, how did you say this was supposed to work? I run fast?”
“Can you run fast?” she asked, tilting her head sideways. Matt had the lean build of a runner, firm in all the right places, his ass a muscular and delicious handhold. But she’d always taken him for a long-distance sort of guy—endurance over fancy acrobatics—rather than a sprinter. Long-distance guys always made the best lovers.
“I’m fast enough,” he said gruffly. “Faster than you.”
The Rebound Girl (Getting Physical) Page 17