54 Kimmy
Seve—Milo drove me to the airport.
It felt like an out-of-body experience, sitting shotgun in my Honda Accord with him behind the wheel in public. No mask, no disguise, nothing but his semi-confused face open to the world.
He steered the car with one hand and looked very cool doing it. Sunlight poured in through the windshield, so bright it looked fake. But I didn't care because I could really see him.
I studied his profile as we merged onto the freeway. The morning traffic was crap, but he handled it like he handled everything else—unblinking, almost supernaturally calm.
His hair seemed a little longer than I remembered when I first saw him, curling up a little at the nape of his neck and falling across his forehead in the most charming waves.
His jaw looked even sharper in the daylight, but he'd shaved. The scar at the corner of his mouth stood out only a little. It made him look a little less perfect, but to me, he was perfect in any way.
There wasn't much speaking.
He just drove, switching hands from time to time. I remembered him doing the same when he was in my apartment, stapling his wound. For a while I just watched his long bare fingers on the wheel, the way they flexed around the leather.
It made me wonder if I was normal. Because normal women probably didn't admire their men's fingers that much. Or maybe they did if those fingers knew the right way to bring you to the brink of orgasm over and over.
I cleared my throat. "I didn't know you were ambidextrous."
"When I was a child, I broke my right arm and it took a while for it to heal. I had to learn how to use my left hand to be able to take care of my daily needs."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"It's fine. It was a long time ago and I got a useful skill out of it."
"You didn't have to come with. I could always drive by myself."
He shot me a look, quick and dismissive. "It's alright."
"You sure?" I pressed. "Because you look like you're about to bite the steering wheel in half."
"Am not."
"You're definitely clenching. Look." I reached over and squeezed his forearm. The muscles were like steel cables. "Relax."
He exhaled, and I watched his shoulders drop half an inch.
"Aren't people usually stressed when they're about to meet their partner's parent?" he asked all of a sudden.
"Most of the time. Yes," I agreed. "But I think you're going too fast about this."
"About what?"
"Getting out there. Mixing with people."
"I'm on vacation, remember?" he replied. The corner of his lips curled up a little. It wasn't a full smile, but it was a good try for someone who had just come out into the world after years of hiding.
We didn't talk for a while after that. There was nothing to say. The city fell away behind us, and then it was just the glitter of the vehicles and streaks of palm trees behind the freeway wall.
There was no need for a conversation. Both of us seemed satisfied just being together. Words weren't necessary to know how we felt about each other. We'd said it already. What was the point of repeating it?
My phone buzzed with a text from Margaret.
Landing on time. See you at baggage claim!
Milo threw a brief glance in my direction and immediately returned his attention to the road.
"Mom," I explained. "About to land."
"Okay."
"She's going to want to talk your ear off," I warned him for the millionth time.
"I can handle it."
"You say that now, but you haven't met her. She can get information out of a brick wall."
He shrugged. "Good thing I'm not a wall."
"Is that a joke?"
"You don't like it?"
I looked at him sidelong. For all his darkness, he was, in fact, beautiful.
I made a mental note to never tell him that again. He didn't need to develop an ego like the rest of the men I knew.
A beat of silence, then I asked, "Are you sure you're not nervous?"
"No."
"Not sure or not nervous?"
"I'm okay."
"Liar."
He didn't respond, but the right corner of his mouth ticked up again for half a second before going neutral.
My phone buzzed. This was Katrina.
Are you at the airport yet?
Almost.
She'd insisted on coming with, but I didn't want to put Milo through double the hell with both Margaret and my sister shooting questions at him. Instead, I'd lied and told Katrina we had to run a bunch of errands first, and then we'd head to pick up Mom.
I was getting good at covering things up, I realized. I wondered if this was Milo's—or rather Seven's—influence. Or maybe I'd always had it in me.
After a few more exits, he said, "You don't have to do this if you don't want to."
I blinked. "Which part?"
"This—" He flicked his gaze at the space between us, then back to the road. "Worry about me."
"I will always worry about you."
"Isn't it my job?"
"You're on vacation," I argued.
"I can't win with you, can I?"
"This isn't a fight." I reached out and rested my hand on his thigh. "That's just what couples do."
"I see."
At the terminal, we parked in short-term. Milo shut off the engine. Then he sat there, staring at the steering wheel with both hands on it.
I waited.
When he finally looked at me, I realized his eyes were a color I'd never bothered to categorize before—gray, but with a weird, blue-white edge, like the sky when a storm was about to start.
They didn't seem human, but I guess that was the point.
He'd spent half his life convincing himself he wasn't.
"I'll wait in the car," he said.
"You can come in if you want."
He shook his head. "It's easier if you do the meet-and-greet first. I'll be here."
He made it sound like a military op. I wanted to correct him, but it wouldn't do any good.
"Alright, be right back." I pushed the door open. Then I changed my mind, leaned across the console, and kissed him on the cheek.
"What's that for?" he asked, timidly looking around like he'd been caught doing something illegal.
"That's what couples do." I grinned at him. "Besides, we've done this and more before."
He suddenly blushed and whispered, "But not in public."
It was adorable.
"Gotta go," I supplied and climbed out of the vehicle.
I made my way across the ramp, through the glass doors, and into the madness of LAX arrivals.
Inside, it was a different universe.
A sea of luggage and people flowed through the space. Kids sat on suitcases. Couples argued in various languages. There was a man in a Lakers jersey holding a cardboard sign that said NANA, and another wearing a surgical mask and nothing else on his face but tattoos.
I moved through the crowd and checked the baggage claim monitors to see what carousel number I needed to get to. It was all the way at the end.
I walked some more, picked the pillar nearest to my destination, and leaned against it, watching the carousel as bags tumbled down and people jostled for space. I'd helped her pack myself, so I knew it would be a dark blue hardshell bag with flower stickers.
And then I saw Margaret in full mom mode. She wore a navy windbreaker, teal scarf, olive pants, and practical sneakers. There was a short-brimmed straw hat with a teal ribbon on her head. Her face was a little more tanned than when she'd left.
She looked happy, and I was glad.
She came barreling over with the energy of a ten-year-old, crushed me in a hug before I could say a word, and nearly squeezing the breath out of me.
"My girl," she said. "Look at you. I missed you so much."
"Missed you, too, Mom. But you better not tell Katrina you didn't miss her."
She drew back and held me at arm's length. "Oh dear. You know I missed all my girls equally." She inspected me, head to toe, like a customs officer. "You look tired. Are you eating enough?"
I nodded. "I've been busy at work." She didn't need to know the asshole on the news had beaten the shit out of me. Whatever meager evidence I still had on my face and neck was buried under a coat of concealer.
Her luggage dropped onto the carousel. I rushed over to grab it.
As we walked to the parking lot, she peppered me with rapid-fire questions. "Have you talked to June or Rachel? Are my plants still alive? What is your lawyer friend saying? Should I bake her a pie? Is Katrina's house okay? We should go visit her over the weekend to help out. Don't you think so?"
I answered each one with minimal words. I had to lie again about my non-existent friend.
Said she left for New York. In reality, Milo had taken care of the insurance company, and the guy apparently hired to create an accident.
I didn't know all the details. I just knew he'd handled it as part of the job, and Margaret had nothing to worry about.
All we had to do was to look for a new insurance company.
He'd even given me a few recommendations.
The ones that hadn't been involved in any shady business or had no connections with people who thought they were special because they sprinkled money out of their asses.
Finally, we got to the parking lot.
Milo stood beside the car, leaning against the driver's side door, arms crossed on his chest. His hair caught the light streaming inside through the gap in the wall, and his face was softer, more open, than I'd ever seen it.
"Is that him?" Margaret nudged me. "The young man you're seeing?"
I'd told her ahead of time I'd be coming with someone. I didn't elaborate further. "Yes, that's him."
She didn't say another word. She walked straight to the car and stopped three feet away, assessing. She might have been a retired guidance counselor, but she still had the eyes of a hawk.
Milo straightened up as we approached, and for a moment I worried he'd bolt…or salute her. But he didn't. He stepped forward, nodded at my mother, then offered his hand for a shake.
She grabbed it with both her hands instead. "Nice to meet you, young man."
"Likewise, ma'am." He darted forward, seeing me rolling the suitcase. "Let me help."
I noticed how awkward he looked all of a sudden, how he wasn't sure where to stand or how to move now that he was out of the shadows. It was almost comical, watching him try to play at being a normal boyfriend.
Once the luggage was in the trunk, he opened the back door for my mother.
I slid into the passenger seat and waited for him to get behind the wheel.
"So," Margaret said as we left the lot and merged with the airport traffic, "what do you do, young man?"
He glanced at her in the rearview mirror, then back to the road. "Security."
She leaned forward, hands on the headrest. "Military?"
He shook his head. "Private sector."
"He's on leave now, Mom," I added.
Margaret seemed satisfied. "Well, thank you for driving us. I've lived in this city all my life, but I hate driving here. Every year it's worse and worse on the road."
"It's all good, ma'am. I got it," he replied.
"Oh goodness," she exclaimed. "I forgot to ask your name."
There was a brief moment of silence. I looked at him, and he looked at me, and the world seemed to shrink to just the inside of my car.
He cleared his throat. "Milo," he said with finality in his voice. "You can call me Milo."