11 #2
To break the tension, I move my lips to thank him, but we’re so close together I fear any movement will lead to our mouths pressing. And though my body begs for the touch, the warmth, for Anders in this moment—I fear if I start kissing him, I won’t stop.
And those are too-real desires for a fake-dating situation.
With effort, I sneak my hands between us, pressing against his chest. A gentle push doesn’t budge him.
His eyes flick between mine and my lips, like he’s measuring the distance too.
I know I’m attractive—I’m not naive enough to think Anders doesn’t find me so. Still, there are millions of attractive people in the world, and normal people can appreciate seeing one and keep it moving, they don’t do anything about it.
But when I see Anders, my brain doesn’t move on to the next thought, it only burns with the feeling of finding him so sexy it feels like the world might end if I can’t have him inside me.
And it’s the first time I’ve felt it in such an all-consuming wave. The attraction runs deep—visceral, bone deep, and between my legs.
Just my luck it’s for the most unreadable, unattainable man I’ve ever met.
I push harder. It’s not enough to move him, but he blinks, then pulls back, righting me to stand, before stepping away. My knees buckle, and he swoops in again, wrapping an arm around me.
“How much did you drink?” he asks, mistaking my shaky legs for drunkenness rather than lust. He leads me to the bench, sits me down, and leans in, fingers massaging through my hair, pulling out tiny strands. After the second pass, I notice wood chips under his nails before he flicks them away.
I chew my lip, gaze down. Each time he leans in, his scent orbits me, and the warmth from my cheeks spreads and spreads.
“Do you feel okay?” he asks.
“Why are you here on your own?” he asks.
“Are you upset with me?” he asks.
His fingers pause their exploration. “Are you on a silent strike?”
“No,” I say. “I’m just trying not to embarrass myself.”
His hands slide to my cheeks, thumbs pressing into the high points. “What are you talking about?”
“I know with how you met me, this silly little job, and my failure to actually do it right before—you may think I don’t have any pride. But there’s a sliver of it left. And there are only so many times I can be drunk in front of you before you start thinking I have a problem.”
His brows furrow. “Don’t speak for me,” he says. Firm, not argumentative, but close. “The only thing I have a problem with is you being out after midnight, drunk and alone, not answering your phone. You’re not from around here, you don’t know anyone—you should’ve called me.”
“You don’t have to worry about me.”
“I know that I don’t,” he says. “Is it a problem that I do?”
“I think we had this discussion when you took me out to dinner, and it feels like you’re disregarding that.”
“No. I believe I said, ‘I’ll keep that in mind.’ And I have. And I don’t think caring about your safety is as big a deal as you’re making it out to be. You should expect basic human decency and concern from other people.”
Something tightens in my chest.
It’s not that I don’t deserve it, but that I’ve gotten used to not expecting it.
It’s been a while since I’ve been in a real relationship, and the ones I was in before didn’t offer much care.
There was a turning point for me, a pivotal moment in my life’s path of failed relationships and excessive self-deprecation, where I learned to view care from others as a luxury, not a bare-minimum act from another human being.
Right. Good. It’s not a big deal to him. Just human decency. Which means it shouldn’t be for me. Good. Great.
The warmth that enveloped me quickly cools off. Every time I think I’m getting mixed signals, Anders is quick to remind me that this is just how he is.
It’s me and my eager little heart and imaginative mind that muddle things.
“Okay, then.” I wave him off, removing his hands from my face. “I am drunk. I got drunk with your sister, and I think she really likes me.”
“Of course she does,” he says, settling beside me on the bench. “She cursed me out for leaving you out here on your own—despite me not knowing you were here at all.”
I laugh. “Oh, she’s so far gone.”
“If”—he points a finger right at my nose—“you end up on some drunken excursion again, you call me. Okay?”
I press the tip of my finger to his. “Okay.”
He leans his head back and takes a deep breath. “It is a nice night.”
Nice enough that he pulls up the sleeves of his black top, and I know I should tear my gaze away a moment after I catch it snagging on the veins wrapped around his arms like knotted rope.
“She invited us on a double date,” I say, since business is the only reason I’m here. “It’s progress. And I think she likes me, but she’s a little bit suspicious of me too. She doesn’t know exactly why, but she knows I don’t exactly fit with you.”
“Says who?” Anders frowns.
I decide, right now, that every time Anders gives me a round of butterflies, I have to deflect and move on quickly. He sends them fluttering in the pit of my stomach too easily for me to maintain focus. Better to just breeze past every moment.
“We’re going to some billiards place tomorrow. I didn’t get much of a feel for John when he came to get Valerie—it was too quick—but I’d like to speak to him more when we meet.” I lean in. “Would you make your girlfriend share her location with you?”
“Is she going on a trip?”
“No, just in general. To keep an eye on her.”
“Well.” He scratches his neck. “I’m not sure. I wouldn’t think to ask for that unless I was worried she was going places she shouldn’t be. And if I didn’t trust her, I’d probably just want to separate before doing that.”
Humming, I turn from him and face the moonlight. “I get that.”
It takes a couple of extra seconds to pull up the sober parts of the day. “Do you know Nick?”
His eyes widen a fraction before returning to normal. “She told you about him?”
“Not really, no,” I say, an idea playing in the back of my head—but I’m not able to pull it into a coherent thought yet. “She just brought him up, which I thought was a little strange, seeing as we were searching for her wedding venue.”
I refrain from mentioning that it was her and Nick’s first date or the initial moment she believed in the authenticity of love. I owe Anders a lot, but I also owe Valerie some respect—it’s girl code.
It doesn’t feel right sharing more intimate secrets she may want kept closer to her chest. I’m already planning to ruin her marriage; I don’t need things getting out that could maximize the hurt she’ll feel when it all falls through.
“This is what I meant,” he says softly. “Valerie is all over the place. And wherever she decides to land—even if she knows it’ll hurt—she latches herself to it anyway.
After Nick . . .” He cuts himself off, then restarts.
“That was a dark time for her. Maybe the worst. I’ve never known anyone more careless with their own heart. ”
“Do you think Valerie does love these men? John, and Nick, and anyone else? Or do you think she doesn’t understand it?”
He opens his mouth, then shuts it. “I’m not exactly sure.”
Then, after a few moments, he adds, “Did you love them? Your ex-husbands?”
I hold a hand to my chest like he landed a direct hit. “Thanks for the reminder of my two failed marriages.”
“Sorry—”
“I’m kidding.” I nudge him. “And sometimes I think, of course not, and other times I think, I must have.” I shake my head. That doesn’t make any sense. “You know what I think?”
“What do you think, Lucinda?” he asks, and the way he says my name disregards any vow I just made to keep from longing over him.
I peel my gaze from him. “I think people make love out to be this scary and weighted word—and sure, it can be—but love comes in many forms. It can be this lighthearted feeling, this sense of true contentment, like sitting out and basking in the sun for hours and listening to the sky breathe. It can be as small as the act of letting a bug out the slider door rather than killing it. It can be weighted and filled with baggage, but still feel warm—like loving people who hurt you as much as they make you laugh. And it can be this all-consuming desire to care for another person.”
“So.” I slap my hands on my knees. “Maybe Valerie does love John, and I loved my men, and love isn’t so hard to feel as people make it out to be.
But some people don’t deserve that love, and sometimes it isn’t enough to keep two people together—when so many people get away with hurting others because they know that love can save them.
How horrible is it to keep hurting someone and let love be your shield from accountability for it? ”
When he doesn’t speak, the tips of my ears warm.
“I’m rambling now. Sorry. I don’t mean to project. I’m not making much sense.”
He reaches for my hand, bringing it over to hold it in his lap. “You make perfect sense.”
Anders keeps his hand wrapped around mine, his thumb tracing small, hot circles into my skin, until my initial nerves settle and my heartbeat slows.
My eyes flutter, and my head becomes too heavy for my neck, so it rests on Anders’s shoulder.
Neither of us complains, or moves, or speaks—as if any disruption to the peace will ruin this delicate, confusing comfort between us.
We stay like that for hours.