Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
ASH
R usty's asleep so fast, my melatonin hasn't had a chance to kick in yet (thank you, Mary Poppins bag).
I listen to his breathing change, and the peaceful sound makes me smile.
I don't think I'm imagining that he's flirting with me. I thought it would be easy to switch on some ultra-sexy version of myself, but that was stupid, because there is no ultra-sexy version of myself. I don't have a come hither gaze. It wouldn't work through these glasses, even if I did. I don't have a sultry voice. My voice is like a little girl hopping on stones across a pond. Jane calls it sing-songy, and that's 100% accurate. I don't do sexy.
And somehow, that feels okay.
Besides, Rusty is sexy enough for the both of us.
How have I never noticed until this week how stupid hot he is? It's hard to remember why I found Philip appealing, because he's so repulsive to me now.
And maybe that's it. A knockoff Prada bag looks pretty darn good. But once you compare it to the real thing, the faux suede feels rough as sandpaper, the stitching looks sloppy, and you realize Prada is spelled with "duh" at the end.
I'm done with shady bags you buy out of the back of a random van. I'm done with knockoff versions of a man.
I want the real thing or nothing at all.
And I think —I know— that real thing is Rusty.
I hear a sharp intake of breath, and I sit up, hoping that means Rusty is awake and we can talk. Or cuddle.
"Rusty?" I whisper.
He doesn't respond. I grab my glasses from the nightstand and put them on. The storm is still shaking the house, with dark clouds blocking the moonlight, so I use my phone light to peek at him.
His face is contorted in that same way it was the other night at the office. I get out of bed and pad across the soft carpet to the couch. And like last time, I press my thumb on the angry "V" between his brows, feeling the deep creases there. I run my hand through his thick, silky hair.
Unlike last time, though, he tenses in his sleep, and then he starts thrashing.
Is he having a nightmare?
I hate nightmares. I've had a million in my day — thanks a lot, ADHD — and they're always disturbing. The intensity of emotion is so much worse than whatever it would be if it were happening in real life. The idea of Rusty having nightmares makes my eyes grow hot, because while my nightmares are of specters and faceless monsters, I'm positive Rusty's all share the exact same face and form:
Arlo.
I can't let Arlo rob another moment of peace from this man. “Rusty,” I say. I run my hand through his hair and over his face more firmly. I give his shoulders a small shake. "Rusty, wake up. "
His eyes fly open, and for a second, he wears a terrified gaze as he grabs for something in the air. Then he closes his eyes and tears pour out. Even if I weren't a sympathetic crier, this would make me weep.
"I'm here," I say, putting my forehead against his.
He grabs me and pulls me up onto the couch with him, hugging me tighter than he's ever hugged me before. In fact, it doesn't feel like he's hugging as much as clinging. He holds me like I'm the only thing keeping him afloat, like the dark tentacles of his nightmare are tugging on him and could pull him back down at any moment.
I won't let them.
"I'm here," I repeat. "And I'm not going anywhere."
I feel his rapidly pounding pulse against my chest and where my face is buried in his neck. His hands on my back ball tight around the shirt I'm wearing.
"Thank you," he says in a ragged whisper. "Thank you for being here."
And we stay like that, clinging to each other like our lives depend on it, until we both fall asleep.
When I awake, I'm on the couch and Rusty isn't. I roll over to see a live animal.
"Gah!" I throw myself back into the cushions and then exhale a relieved laugh. It's Pookie. Her ugly-cute face is mostly ugly first thing in the morning.
She wags her tail excitedly while I gather myself. I rub my eyes for a solid minute before putting on my glasses and checking the time. It's 7:20 a.m.
This is not early by any stretch of the imagination, but I'm not a morning person. Mornings are for professional athletes and VPs of retail operations, not for a woman who spent the night holding the best friend she's falling for.
A quick sniff tells me that breakfast is on the table, and after pulling my bonkers curls up into a messy bun, I do my best Toucan Sam impression and follow my nose downstairs. I love food, but breakfast food is my absolute favorite. The fact that Rusty knows this about me and so happily obliges makes me feel special. But is it the kind of special that I hope it is? Or is it more of the "love everyone" special, because he’s such a standup guy?
Downstairs, the food is covered on the table — did he actually make more of everything this morning? — and there's a note at the table.
He could have texted, but he left me a note.
Could he be cuter?
Pookie stands at attention waiting for scraps while I read.
Gorgeous,
Not sure when you'll see this, but I'm either at Duke's working out or taking a plunge outside.
Always,
Rusty
Always?
Um, is that a Harry Potter reference? Listen, I think Snape is a stone-cold jerk, but his love for Lily …
Okay, no, calm down. You're reading into things. It's a perfectly normal sign-off to a letter.
Sign-off? What's the word?
I pull up my phone and type "what is the opposite of a salutation?" into my search bar .
Valediction. Huh.
"Valediction," I say to Pookie, who's sitting and making a whining noise deep in her throat. "That's a cool word. I need to find a way to work that into a sentence, don't I, girl?"
Pookie whines, but I'm unaffected. I love her dearly, but Rusty said she has the stomach of a carsick toddler on a windy road.
No thanks.
With my phone up, I look at my other (one hundred and seventeen) tabs and see the one on gophers I pulled up after running into Chick Hanks?—
I nibble on a piece of bacon and scroll through the gopher advice when a text from Millie appears.
MILLIE
Your man was on fire this morning working out! I lost count of how many pull ups he did.
ASH
Pull ups are the things you need abs for, right? Was he shirtless?? Did you get a pic???
Even as I text this, I feel wrong about it. I feel like I'm cheapening how I feel for Rusty, like I'm reducing it to simple lust when that couldn't be further from the truth.
But also, I wouldn't be mad if she had a picture of him working out.
Yes, no, and NO. I'm married, babe.
Yeah, and we USED to be best friends, babe.
*GIF of a woman throwing her coffee at someone*
*GIF of woman cackling wickedly*
This wouldn't bug you if you didn't like him. HAHAHAHA
I confirm nothing.
Wait till I tell the Janes.
I can throw coffee at four of you just as easily as one. #Snitchesgetstitches
When did he leave?
Maybe twenty minutes ago. Have fun with your Hotcakes. *Winking smoochy face emoji*
I look at the note again. He's not at Duke's, so that must mean he's taking a "plunge."
Hot tub, here I come.
Five minutes later, I'm walking barefoot outside in the muggy morning air. The rain has stopped, but dark clouds still fill the sky. Huge overgrown trees dominate Rusty's backyard, and crickets and birds serenade me on my walk, emboldening me with every step.
When Greg first told Mom and me about how he and his boys always kept extra swimsuits in the car, I was so torn. I thought it was cool, but I also worried Frank would make me feel like a misfit for it. But I wanted at least one of my father figures to love me, so I risked it. I started carrying it with me in my bag, my backpack, my car, everywhere. And I'll tell you: it comes in handy.
Like right now.
I spot Rusty in a hot tub that almost looks like an oversized bathtub. He has his arms perched on the side of the tub and is looking up at the trees. It's already warm enough out, but I shiver in anticipation. I quietly take off the T-shirt of his I'm wearing over my retro pin-up style two piece swimsuit. Rusty's eyes are closed, and he looks so content, I wonder if he's fallen asleep.
I take the two steps up to the tub when Rusty's eyes fly open. "Ash? How did you get your swimsuit?"
"I told you last night that I always keep a swimsuit in my bag. Remember?"
"I didn’t realize you were serious, but I should have." He gives me a half-smile coupled with a careful look. "Do you know what you're doing?"
He asks this with such sincerity that I answer more openly than I had planned. "It's time for me to take the plunge.”
"Are you sure you want to do this?"
I bite my lip, my toes hovering over the water. "I’m sure."
Rusty sits up, and where his body has been immersed, his skin is a different color. Yikes. How hot is this water? I'm already sweating from the humidity. Maybe this isn't the right place for a symbolic gesture. But Rusty's looking at me quizzically now, not quite eager but definitely curious.
I put my foot in.
It burns so hot, it almost feels cold. I hiss and put the rest of my leg in, and the sensation overpowers me, making me convulse. My body folds in on itself and I rock forward. Rusty scrambles to get up and catch me, but I'm already going down …
And as more and more of me crashes into the water, I realize why the sensation feels like ice.
IT'S AN ICE BATH.
I fall onto Rusty, and he manages to save me from smashing my face on the other side of the tub, but we both go down in the water. My legs, torso, and my face all immerse. Rusty pulls me up, but he has no warmth to offer me because HE'S A FLIPPING ICEBERG .
The near freezing water steals my breath, and I'm gasping so fast, I can barely get oxygen in. I'm up to my neck, and it feels like a thousand icicles stabbing me. I'm getting stabsicled.
I can't think. I can't breathe. The frigid water hurts .
And Pookie's next to us on the steps, frantically barking. When she can't take being left out for another moment, she jumps into the water and is filled with the same instant regret I have.
Rusty keeps holding me up with one hand while he grabs a whimpering Pookie with the other and nudges her back to the edge. She climbs out and starts running around the yard, yelping and rubbing her huge, goofy ears on the grass.
Pookie's free, but meanwhile, I'm freezing to death.
"Is it what you expected?" Rusty asks.
"I-it's s-s-so much w-w-worse," I manage to say.
He smiles and rubs my arms with the ice blocks he calls hands. "You get used to it."
My airway keeps convulsing as I try to speak. "Wh-wh-why?"
"You acclimate … oh, you mean why would I want to get used to it?"
I nod, and the shivering redoubles. I'm shaking hard enough that it's hard to fix my eyes on him, even without the water streaming down my lenses.
"Mental toughness. Self-control. I want to prove to myself that I'm stronger than my weaknesses, if that makes sense. I hated it at first, but Duke and Sonny are all about it, and they hooked me on the idea that doing something you hate that's good for you makes you stronger."
My shivering has reached the jaw-clenching stage. "I'd r-rather be w-w-weak."
"If that were true, you wouldn't have wanted to take the plunge in the first place."
I can't admit that I thought it was a hot tub and that I was speaking metaphorically. So I shake and look at him through my water-speckled glasses, and I let him think that I'm tough rather than that I was coming in to try to make my move on him.
Rusty's alarm rings outside of the tub, and he starts to get up. "Thank goodness," he says. Even trembling with fear, I laugh. Rusty hops out and looks at me inquiringly.
"GET ME OUT."
He laughs and scoops me out, and then goosebumps appear on top of goosebumps. I wanted him to admire my skin for its smoothness, but instead, I have chicken skin. Absolutely purple chicken skin with veins showing under my skin in a shade I can't imagine is healthy.
Follow me for more dating tips, folks.
But Rusty wraps his robe around my shoulders and then sneaks his arms beneath it to hug me. We may be walking ice mummies, and I may be too numb to actually feel most of his body against mine, but it's still nice. Probably. I lean into the hug, letting my cheek rest against his cold shoulder. "Never make me do that again."
"I didn't make you," he says, rubbing my arms.
"You did. You tucked that hot body down deep in the water and I had to see it for myself."
He tips us to one side and then the other, laughing. "Ashley Jane, what am I gonna do with you?"
"Keep your friends close and your enemies closer," I say. "You're my arch-enemy now, so looks like you'll have to keep me close."
"Maybe I'll keep you forever," he teases, and my stomach flips. I don't want him to tease. I want him to be serious.
Caring about Rusty — someone who sees me in all my messy, technicolor glory and appreciates me for it — is like jumping off a cliff and finding out I can fly. He’s given me a superpower of self-confidence that I’ve never felt before .
I want him to step out and fly with me.
"If you insist," I say.
Rusty's pulse speeds up. I've gotten so used to hugging him in just the right way that I've memorized the nuances to his pulse at this point. "In that case, I insist," he says in the deepest, sexiest voice imaginable.
"In that case," I echo, "I accept."
Rusty leans back and looks down at me. Once again, his eyes jump back and forth between mine like he's trying to read fine print in Times New Roman font.
Am I being too pushy? Am I forcing him to consider something rather than letting him go at his own pace? I want to respect him. But I also want to be us plus kissing.
So I crane my face upward and press my lips softly and quickly against his. Then I drop the robe, pick up his T-shirt, and walk toward the house.
I realize too late that I didn't get a look at his shirtless torso.
I don't dare turn around to look, though. If I turn around and he's not biting his knuckle staring after me, I don't know what I'll do.
So I walk away.
And hope he follows.