Chapter Twelve
Gray
I study the shelf of old volumes in front of me. Some of them America already has. I see their spines in her bookshelves in the dorm at U of C clearly in my mind. She never opened her rare books. She learns language by ear in a way that feels like a magic trick, but those books were her most treasured possessions. I’m betting they still are.
There has to be at least one that she doesn’t have yet, surely.
“Is there something in particular you’re looking for?” The storekeeper is a sweet, older lady with her spectacles hanging on a gold chain around her neck and hair whiter than snow. “Perhaps I can help.”
“I’m hoping to find something for my friend.” I turn away from the shelf as someone comes into the shop. The man glances around as if looking for someone then disappears behind the same bookshelf we’re studying. For a second I’d expected it to be America.
The book idea is a way of apologizing for my screwing up again.
Or perhaps I just want an excuse to see her again.
“Sorry, what?” I ask the woman when she appears to be waiting for a response. These thoughts about America need to get out of my brain. We’re friends. I want to be there for her. I want to protect her from people like that professor. And Mann.
I’ve done my due diligence. Everett Mann is the kind of player All-Star wants to sign. All the talk around him and every article about him tells me he’s a good athlete with no drug or alcohol dependencies. He’s also a player off the soccer field.
As an agent that doesn’t bother me. As America’s friend it does.
Because I want her.
No, I want the way she makes me feel. The way she pushes Indy out of my head. It’s not the same thing at all. Any pussy could do that. It absolutely shouldn’t be America’s.
It’s the weekend. Perhaps I can talk Mann into going out with me. Schmooze him a little more while I find someone to fuck who isn’t America. I don’t have to like the guy to work with him. Or to keep him away from her. And if he happens to prove that he’s the player I think he is, I can handle it without him hurting her.
“Is there a particular language they’re interested in?”
“Latin.” She loves to hate it. Complains about how important it is historically, and how bad she is at it.
“You could try this one.” The woman carefully starts to pull a book from the shelf.
“She has that one. Actually, she has most of these.”
We spend another ten minutes trying to find a book that I don’t think she owns. Until the man who entered earlier suggests a book that he was going to buy for a girl he was seeing who also has a love-hate relationship with archaic Latin.
He leaves while the storekeeper wraps the special edition carefully in tissue paper.
While I tap my card, she puts the gift in a bag for me. “I hope she likes it.”
“Me too.” I have to get her to talk to me first, and since she doesn’t answer my calls or messages, and she isn’t at work—I stopped in and grabbed a coffee before I came here—that seems improbable anytime soon. But I’m hopeful.
A little too hopeful.
I’ll give her the rest of the weekend to cool down and then I’ll show up at the coffee shop every day until I catch her during a shift. Like a stalker. Great. But what else can I do?
I can’t ask EJ where she lives without having to revisit that awful conversation we had that morning in Positano.
I’m no longer on speaking terms with anyone else in the Jones family. It’s too difficult talking to them since Indy ended us. It doesn’t matter that EJ’s mom and dad were more like parents to me, when my actual parents didn’t even notice whether I came home after school. They were too busy fighting and fucking each other over.
And as much as I would love to rub the fact that I’m not pining over her in Indy’s face—even though thinking about her still hurts like a bitch—I can’t throw America under the bus like that. Especially when it would be a lie. When the real reason the idea of calling Indy crossed my mind is because I want to hear that she regrets what she did. That she misses me as much as I miss her.
Does she ever wake up next to him and think about waking up with me? The way I still wake up thinking about all the mornings we made love before the alarm clock went off. Is she joined by my ghost every morning over coffee and toast? Does she smell my body wash when she climbs out of the shower?
It’s pathetic. The hold she still has on me when she let us go so easily. I need to move on. Not with America. With someone else.
I’ll take her the book. Get us back on solid footing. As friends. Back to the way we were. The way we should be.
Carrying the little bag with the heavy book, I make my way outside. It’s overcast, but the sun breaks through in places. Much better than yesterday.
A group of women in activewear exit a building to my right. They carry gym bags on their shoulders and phones in their hands. They talk boisterously to one another as they part ways.
Braids all tucked up in a scarf. Bright little beads poking out. A Chicago Bears jacket that she’s pulling the zipper up on. “America?”
“America.” Another masculine voice drowns mine out as the other women disperse.
She glances in the direction the other voice came from. Her fingers freeze mid-pull on her zipper.
The man from the bookshop walks across the road toward her. “I need to talk to you.”
She shakes her head. “I don’t want to talk to you, Alfie.”
“I miss you. You’re not coming to my lectures anymore.” He doesn’t notice or doesn’t care that she is backing away from him. “I know I should have told you about her.”
“She’s your wife.” Rica wraps a hand around her throat and continues to back up.
“I’ll leave her.” He reaches for her. “Divorce her. I want you. I can’t stop thinking about you.”
Her muscles lock up and she gets that deer in the headlights look. The hand at her side contorts, her fingers tap out a pattern without her realizing. She always does that in high-stress situations.
“Rica, sweetheart.” I call out, letting her know that I’m here.
I let my gaze run over her appreciatively—especially noting the relief that fills her expression and smooths her shoulders down from her ears—and then turn my cold gaze on him.
Guys get the wrong idea about Rica. They think because of the way she looks she wants this kind of attention. They think because she’s sensitive and doesn’t want to upset anyone that she hasn’t spent her entire life cultivating—or at least trying to—the ability to fit in without upsetting anyone. They don’t realize the alarm they often cause her.
I’ve been around long enough to know her better than that. I didn’t at first, but then when she got her ASD diagnosis EJ and I did the research to better understand.
He wanted to make sure that his pseudo little sister felt as cared for as his real sister and it seemed like a good idea, so I did it too.
America is neurodivergent. And she’s beautiful. People, especially men, assume because she’s beautiful that she understands the social games between the sexes. As intelligent as she is, she has an innocence when it comes to men.
She makes friends and they think she’s flirting. She likes someone even a little and they either think she’s super clingy, or they only see the interests and personality aspects that they share enthusiasm for, and then they become obsessed. When they ghost her after they get to know her, she doesn’t really get why.
I’m not going to ghost her. But I do need to make amends for the way I’ve treated her. I need to make sure we don’t end up in the same predicament again. I don’t want to be one of those assholes. Not to her.
“Babe.” She smiles and slips into my arms when I open them for her. She grabs my face with both hands and presses up on tiptoe to suck on my bottom lip, playing up this pretense that we’re in a relationship. “I thought I was going to have to call you and remind you to pick me up for a minute.”
Her lips are soft and sweet. Slightly glossed with coconut lip balm. When she starts to pull away, I seek out another taste before I can remind myself it’s a pretense. Tightening my arms around her waist, I focus on the man who helped me pick out a book he was obviously thinking about buying for her.
He has a full head of dark hair and a mouthful of bright, white teeth. He probably gets a lot of attention from coeds who think he’s intelligent and distinguished.
“Does your wife know how you like to spend your Friday mornings? Stalking a student you’ve apparently become obsessed with?” I would love to give him a few gaps in those perfect pearls. “It wasn’t enough to make Rica give up on her doctorate?”
His eyes widen and fill with animosity. “I don’t know what she’s told you, but—”
“She’s barely told me anything about you,” I say. “You’re not a topic of conversation we’ve had more than once. But I knew Rica ten years before we got together so I know enough to fill in the gaps about you.”
“Your girlfriend is a frigid bitch.”
She sucks in a pained breath, her body turning stone-like. I feel the way those words hurt her. It’s like he reached deep into her psyche and pulled up a memory from the hardest year of her life.
Did she tell him about those asshole boys who wouldn’t leave her alone? Did she trust him with that? Because only an absolute prick would knowingly throw that in her face.
I lunge, my fist impacting his mouth hard enough to split his lip and leave his teeth printed on my knuckles. It’s no sucker punch. He saw it coming.
“Gray.” America gasps and grabs at my jacket.
I shake out my fist. It fucking hurts. I don’t get into altercations often enough to have built up any kind of tolerance.
“When your wife asks why you have a split lip, you can explain to her how you like to fuck coeds in exchange for good grades. I’m sure she’ll be thrilled.”
“Come on, Gray.” Rica tugs on me. “Let’s get out of here.”
“I’ve got you.” I wrap my arm around her shoulder and we leave him holding his face. “No matter how angry you are at me, or how awkward things are between us, I’ve got you. If that prick bothers you again, you tell me… I’ll come get you.”
She hugs me when I open the door of my rental car for her. “How does one thank a fake boyfriend?”
The way she’s staring up at me… It’s easy to imagine those eyes locked on me as I drop to my knees in front of her. Her fingers curling in my hair as I pull her panties to the side so I can kiss and lick and suck.
My mouth waters. I did not spend enough time with my mouth on her pussy that night in Positano. I want to spit on it. Use my fingers to rub it in. See how many digits she can take while I bite her clit. Stroke her G-spot and make her moan while I eat her up.
“Gray?” She drags her bottom lip between her teeth and lets it pop free. Her voice is husky, so maybe she can tell where my mind has gone.
“I don’t need you to thank me, Rica.” I assist her into the car and adjust myself tactfully before climbing in on the other side. Dropping the bag on the backseat, I start the engine. “What really happened with that guy?”
She twists her hands together in her lap. “I already told you.”
He was acting like a creep. Ignoring any hint of a boundary. “Tell me again.”
“It’s my own fault really.” She stares me in the eye in that glassy way she does when she’s putting up her defenses. “I make bad choices sometimes. He was definitely one of them.”
I reach for her hand. “Rica. It wasn’t—”
“It’s so yesterday.” She smiles. “I can’t believe you punched him.”
As much as I’d like to push her, I know that won’t get me anywhere. She’ll just clam up and close down. Or she’ll tell me what she thinks I need to hear to let it go. As far as coping mechanisms go it’s not my favorite. I’d rather she get loud and angry. But she’s spent her entire life trying to fit in. That comes at a cost.
I take a breath and let my frustration go. There is no point in pushing her. “If it’s okay with you, I would like it if we could declare a truce. And maybe I can take you to lunch?”
“I need a shower first.” She tugs at her sports bra. “An hour in the silks and I am a sweaty, stinky mess.”
“Hardly.” But I’m not going to pass up an opportunity to find out where she lives. “What’s your address?”