26. Klein
Here’sthe thing about people like me. Wordsmiths, as Paisley creatively called me. We’re always creating stories in our heads. Or, taking a developing situation and finishing out the scenario.
Sometimes this storytelling parallels catastrophic thinking.
Maybe that’s what I’m doing now, lying here on this bed waiting for Paisley to finish changing.
Catastrophizing.
Was Paisley only pretending to enjoy that kiss? What if that’s all it was, and she did it so she didn’t hurt my feelings because I have to be here with her for the rest of the week, and maybe if I realized she hated our second kiss more than our first I would run (swim? somersault onto a boat?) off the island and leave her here to face the week on her own.
Catastrophic thinking, or storytelling? Depends on the reader, I guess.
For me, that kiss was earth-shattering. It was an answer to a long held question. Are Paisley and I physically incompatible? The answer, for me, is a resounding no. Paisley’s soft skin, the smell of orange blossoms, the little noises in the back of her throat, and help me God the feel of her lips. Soft and supple, perfect, melting against mine.
Paisley steps from the bathroom wearing denim cut-offs and a thin white tank top. Her eyes find mine, a peachy-pink flush stealing over her cheeks. From me? Our kiss?
She smiles shyly at me. Does this mean I won’t need to catapult myself onto the next vessel off this island?
“Paisley—”
She holds out a hand. “You look worried, Wordsmith. Don’t be.”
“It wasn’t our second worst kiss?”
She shakes her head slowly, her smile small but genuine, her eyes alight. “Not by a long shot.”
Is my smug feeling showing on my face? Probably. Years spent self-flagellating over that terrible performance, and now I’ve shown her I’m better than that.
Righted a wrong.
She comes to a stop beside the bed, pushing her hip against the side of the mattress and looking down at me. “You ready for some beach volleyball and a bonfire?”
“Only if I can pop my collar. This feels like an ultra-preppy event. Let me grab the keys to my sailboat. Will there be photographers present? Ralph Lauren has been incessant about putting me in their summer issue.”
Paisley beats back a laugh. “Don’t make me kiss you again just to stop your mouth from running a mile a minute, Madigan.”
Won’t you, please?
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Royce.” I swing my legs off the bed. “Besides, you can’t kiss me now. We’re supposed to be saving our lip locks for the audience.”
She gives my clothing a once-over. “Correct. Bring a sweatshirt with you. It can be chilly on the beach at night.”
She pulls a forest green zip-up hoodie from the closet where her dress hangs. I do the same, grabbing the only sweatshirt I brought from my dresser drawer.
Sweatshirts in hand, we head out of our room. We pause to say goodbye to Lausanne, who tells us Paisley’s mom and Ben have gone to the place they’re renting. Paisley invites Lausanne, but she declines, claiming she’d rather cook dinner.
“Don’t worry,” Lausanne reassures, “she took the soup with her.”
We leave for the private walkway, the roar of the ocean filling my ears with every step we take closer. For the twentieth time since I arrived, I marvel at the fact I’m here.
It’s late enough in the afternoon that most families are gone from the sand. Individuals, and some couples, walk at the water’s edge. It’s earlier today than it was yesterday when we came out here, the sky still a lemony yellow but darkening into dandelion at the edges.
We pause at the bottom stair on the other side of the dune. A handful of people—fifteen?—gather around. I recognize Paisley’s brother, Shane, and Sienna, but everyone else playing volleyball is a mystery to me.
The game is men versus women. The men wear chinos in muted pinks, blues, and greens, and matching white polos. The women wear dresses in linens and eyelets, and oversized sunglasses.
I glance at Paisley. “What in the Vineyard Vines is going on here?”
A laugh bursts from her. “Did I forget to tell you? Ralph Lauren canceled your shoot. Vineyard Vines replaced them.”
“Hardy har har.” We schlep over warm sand and deposit our things on one corner of the enormous light blue and white gingham beach blanket. On the opposite corner sits a cooler, propped open to reveal water bottles, cans of soda water, wine, and beer.
The game pauses. Shane makes introductions to his groomsmen, none of whom I have a snowball’s chance in hell of remembering except for Tag, because it may as well be Scooter.
Tag, with his curly sandy brown hair that flops in his eyes, informs me he is Shane’s brother, and also the best man. Recognition flares when he spots Paisley. His lean body slants back, arms open for a hug.
Paisley’s greeting is warm, genuine. They spend a few minutes catching up as Sienna introduces (more like re-introduces) me to her bridesmaids. I recognize them from the bachelorette night, and if the light in their eyes is any indication, they remember me, too. Sienna must have them on the same gag order, because none of them call me Klein the stripper.
We join the volleyball game at the next rotation. Paisley surprises me by being pretty damn good. It isn’t until later, when we’re sitting and watching the sun sink lower in the sky, that I learn she played varsity volleyball in high school.
Behind us, Spencer yells at the triplets who joined late. Paisley glances at them over her shoulder, watching. She is different around her family. Watchful. Careful. Almost like a mother hen. She is not the laid-back and funny Paisley I know, with the saucy mouth who likes to poke lighthearted fun. Family dynamics can be difficult and multi-layered, and the Royce family has succeeded in piquing my curiosity.
Why is Paisley guarded, tense, and far too agreeable with her family, but perfectly willing to tell me when she doesn’t like something?
Our shoulders are nearly touching, so when she draws her gaze away from Spencer, it stops on me. The corners of her eyes soften, crinkling, and I believe that warm look in her eyes is gratitude.
I wrap an arm around her, my fingertips trailing over the part of her arm left bare by her top. She blinks at me, and I wonder if she is remembering earlier in the bathroom. I’ve thought of it at least a dozen times, to the point of distraction. I missed my contribution to bump set spike! in the game earlier, because my mind had been elsewhere. We had a bad first kiss to make up for, but was that it? Did Paisley need to make those little noises of enjoyment? Rub herself against my stomach? Hold on for dear life and give one hundred and ten percent of herself to that kiss?
My fingers on her arm drift higher, rounding over her shoulder, traveling into her hair and running up behind her ear. She leans into my touch, nuzzling my hand. Her eyes flutter closed, eyelashes thick against her cheek. Like she is lost in the moment, in my touch, in whatever it is she’s feeling.
“We have an audience,” she murmurs.
Her words swipe the air from my lungs. What a fool. Here I was thinking she was simply enjoying me. She is not. This is a performance. And that kiss in the bathroom earlier? That was nothing more than a kindness shown to our past selves.
“Right.” I stare out at the waves. “Let me know when nobody’s looking. I’ll stop touching you.” There’s an edge to my voice. It’s not rude exactly, but it’s not warm and fuzzy either. Firm, I suppose. It’s all I can muster right now.
“Will do,” she whispers, eyes still closed.
Shane calls me over after that. He’s standing in a semicircle with his groomsmen, holding a bottle of top-shelf tequila. He extends it like an offering, and I’m preparing to decline, but he says, “Why don’t you be our bartender, Klein? Isn’t that what you do now?”
I’m no stranger to uppity frat boys acting like fools. That’s just another Friday night at Obstinate Daughter. The trick is to stare at them like they are basic and boring, then apply a thin film of disdain to the glare.
“Among other things,” I answer.
“Like my ex,” he says, winking and smiling like we share a secret. The other men (term used loosely) snicker and guffaw, as though Shane has issued a veiled burn.
Shane doesn’t know me. Therefore, he is without the knowledge that I will never, ever stand for someone commenting on a woman in such a way, suggesting she is something we do.
I’m standing close enough to Shane that I can put my hand on his shoulder, turning him away from his group until his back faces them.
“Shane.” I tighten my hold on his shoulder, pressing my thumb into his flesh until he grimaces. “If you ever talk about Paisley like that again, I’m going to make you a eunuch. I doubt Sienna will have much interest in you after that.” I could soften my threat with a sunny smile, but I don’t want to.
“Bro,” Shane says, adopting a cordial tone. But I don’t miss the tremor. “I don’t know what that word means, but I get your point.”
“Have fun looking it up later on tonight when you’re alone.” I slap his upper back twice, hard. “Pour your own tequila.”
Paisley stands next to the bonfire, holding tight to a clear plastic cup half-filled with wine. The flames illuminate the front side of her body, warming up her features, highlighting her curvy profile. She watches me approach, and I don’t slow down. I step right into her, gather her in my arms, and tip her head back. Then I kiss her, and yes, it’s for show, but underneath the surface of this performance, I’m kissing her because I can’t imagine not putting my lips on hers. The need to have her mouth, to stake my claim, is something raw and animalistic.
Yes, we’re fake dating. No, Paisley isn’t mine.
But she damn sure isn’t anybody else’s.
The world falls away in an instant. Ocean waves become white noise. Chatter ceases. Paisley’s mouth responds to mine immediately. She kisses me back, matching my pressure, my intensity. I don’t go so far as to taste her with my tongue, but I let my mouth linger on hers, and against her lips, I whisper, “That was our second best kiss.”
Her lips curve into a smile I feel. “What was that for?”
“Your ex needed to be reminded you’re someone else’s girlfriend now. Mine.”
I let her go, but keep an arm wrapped around her side.
We stick together for the rest of the night. My arm stays around her. When she talks to me, she touches my chest, my arms, some part of me.
I understand we are in front of people, and this is part of the charade.
But is it totally? Completely? Should it be this effortless?
Despite re-inflating the air mattress,it deflates by the middle of the night. I’m hoping last night’s invitation extended by Paisley still holds true, because I don’t feel like having back pain tomorrow.
Paisley rouses when I slip between the covers, making cute little sleepy noises. “Klein,” she softly groans my name, backing up into my body. I freeze in place, waiting for her to fully wake up and elbow me in the stomach. She snuggles deeper, adjusting her head on the pillow. “I think while we’re here for the week, we should give in and have fun together. Really enjoy this place.” She yawns. “We should have sex. A lot of sex.”
She falls fast asleep after that.
Not me. I stare at the ceiling, wide awake for the next hour.