Chapter 14
My mother. That is my mother out there, laughing at something Daryl has said, probably not as funny as she makes it sound—
And then, to my horror, the doorknob starts to turn.
It’s this, finally, that releases me from my statue-frozen state and shifts me firmly into flight mode.
And fly I do—over the edge of the bathtub, through the shower curtain, and straight into the shower where Dominic is already stashed.
It is not possible for me to overstate my relief upon seeing him fully clothed. I knew he was, of course; I watched him get in here. But when one enters a shower, one subconsciously expects the occupant to be naked.
With a muffled thump and a wince of pain, I make it all the way into the shower seconds before the bathroom door swings open behind me.
I teeter precariously, but Dominic’s firm hand finds my upper arm and steadies me.
Our wide eyes meet—and then, maybe because I’m already doing it, he mirrors me; his hand leaves my arm and jumps to his mouth, clamping over it tightly to prevent any sound from escaping.
From outside the shower, the click of fussy heels on tile reaches us, followed by the faint sound of off-key humming.
Humming.
I remember when my mother used to sing around the house, tuneless but cheerful, so many years ago now that the memories have mostly faded.
She was happy, once.
Is she really so happy now, too?
I startle at the sound of a drawer opening and closing; then I squeeze my stinging eyes closed a few times and banish the wilting feeling in my chest.
The tiniest rustle of motion stirs next to me, and when my gaze meets Dominic’s, I find myself marveling—how is it that six years later, and even with his hand pressed over his mouth, I can still see the frown he’s trying to hide?
How can I read the tiny furrow in his brow, the tension in his frame as though he’s actively stopping himself from moving closer to me?
I wish he would.
No, I tell myself immediately when the thought flits through my head. Bad Reese. Look away.
I turn my gaze back toward Alvina, even though all I can see is the shower curtain. She’s still humming, noise that’s drowned out when she turns the faucet on. Then comes the unmistakable sound of someone brushing their teeth.
My lips pull into an involuntary grimace as I try desperately not to think about why my mother might be brushing her teeth at her boyfriend’s house.
I also try not to consider what it means that her toothbrush is here in the first place.
When I look at Dom, his eyes are wrinkled into an expression identical to mine.
Alvina brushes her teeth for an excessively long time before spitting, and after that all I hear is shuffling and movement. It’s maybe a full minute later that she makes any noise herself, so unexpected my heart jolts.
She doesn’t speak, though. She growls.
My brows jump, my eyes popping wide once more when I hear the sound. I look automatically at Dominic; he looks at me.
Then it happens again: a feline growl, low and throaty, undoubtedly accompanied by a seductive expression and a cat-like clawing gesture.
My jaw drops as Dominic’s hand falls gently away from his mouth.
He gapes at me, possibly with sheer horror, and both of us lean closer to the shower curtain to hear better; we listen as Alvina’s heels click over the tile a bit more, and then she opens the bathroom door.
Her footsteps fade away down the hall, as do her hums—and Dom and I are left in silence once more, still shocked, still gaping at each other.
The faucet drips. The stillness hangs heavy. My mother’s noises ring in my ears.
And then, ever so slowly, Dominic lifts one hand—up, up—curls his fingers into claws—
“Don’t you dare,” I hiss, but he ignores me—
And he growls.
He growls like my mother did, except the sound is deep and vibrating coming from him, his curled fingers scratching at the air, his eyes dead set on mine.
And I can’t help it. I clap my hands over my mouth to suppress my snort of laughter, but the sound still escapes, and once it’s begun, it’s hard to stop—especially when Dom is still standing there, that growl on his lips, imaginary claws bared.
My hushed giggles and unflattering snorts won’t stay down; they rise in my chest with an almost manic energy, everything that’s been pent up finally bursting free in the form of laughter.
My eyes sting with tears that aren’t only from mirth, but I let everything go, watching as Dominic’s lips twitch into a smile he can’t hide either.
His arm drops, his body relaxing, and he laughs softly under his breath. When I lower myself to sit on the floor of the tub, still giggling like a lunatic, he does the same, leaning tiredly against the wall and grinning.
“I thought y—” His smile fades as he breaks off, and he clears his throat. “I thought we could use something to laugh about after that display,” he says quietly.
“We could,” I agree, breathless, as my earlier burst of emotion settles into calmness once more. I’m not sure if I’m sad or happy to see those feelings go.
It was good to see Dom smile, though, and even better to hear his puff of laughter.
“You got the shampoo done?” I say, and he nods, gesturing over his shoulder to an innocuous-looking bottle.
“In there.” Then he picks up the plastic container and foil, wiggling them at me.
I accept them. “We need to get out of here. I don’t know why they didn’t stay at the restaurant, but I don’t want to stick around to find out.”
My words are flippant, but the churning worries in my stomach are more serious. And judging by the look on Dom’s face, he feels the same way.
“Yeah,” he says heavily. He glances at me. “Where did you park? Do you think they saw your car?”
“Mine is a few houses down,” I say, shaking my head. “And it’s pretty generic.” Then, thinking for a second, I frown. “Where’s your truck? I didn’t see it.”
“It’s down the street and around the corner. I don’t think they’ll have seen it either.”
We climb to our feet in silence, moving awkwardly in the cramped space. It doesn’t escape my notice that he hugs one end of the tub as much as possible while I hug the other, ensuring we don’t bump into each other at all.
“How are we doing this?” I whisper, looking up at him.
Now that we’re standing, this space feels smaller; Dominic takes up more than his share of the shower, closer than he should be. But he just grimaces and reaches past me for the shower curtain.
“Out my bedroom window, unfortunately,” he says in a low voice. His slow pull of the curtain brings us into the light once more, and I inhale deeply of air that doesn’t carry Dominic’s inexplicable presence.
“Do you hear them?”
He shakes his head and steps out of the tub, crossing the bathroom in two long strides. “Come on, let’s go.”
“Listen at the door,” I tell him, but it’s unnecessary, as he’s already pressed his ear to the door.
His muscular frame looks odd, curled and hunched like that, but after a second he straightens up and beckons without looking at me. He eases the door open, peeks ever so slowly out, and then gestures for me again.
I follow in his wake, my heart pounding in my chest as we creep down the hallway on light feet. Some of my anxiety eases when I hear my mother laugh from downstair—but only some.
Because why did they come home? Why are they not at a restaurant eating pasta or appetizers or fancy salads?
Why are they not in a well-lit, PUBLIC place?
This must be what it feels like for parents when their children start dating. If Daryl’s mother knew he was out with a woman like Alvina, she’d put her foot down for sure.
There’s a question itching the back of my mind, one I can’t bear to ask no matter how many times it pops up. But the question grows more and more insistent the longer I consider.
When we’ve slipped into Dominic’s bedroom—another win for my teenage self—I close the door gently, and then I turn to him, finally blurting out what I can’t stop thinking.
“Do you think they—” I break off. There’s not a delicate way to phrase it, and putting words to the idea makes me want to scream, but I push forward the best I can. “How fast do you think their relationship is moving?” I say.
Judging by Dominic’s expression, he knows exactly what I mean.
“I refuse to think about it,” he says briskly as the frown lines on his forehead grow more pronounced. “My dad thinks things should be done a certain way, and that includes getting married before being intimate. But…”
“But he’s dating Alvina,” I say miserably.
Dominic gives a nod as he rounds his bed and slides the curtains further apart. He leans back and then shakes the navy fabric, wrinkling his nose at the dust that poofs into the air.
“He’s dating your mother,” he says. “Who, I’m sorry to say, is a pit of quicksand.”
I blink at this wording. “Did the Ednas tell you that?”
“Mm-hmm,” he says, a distracted sound. “I ran into them last week.”
“They said the same thing to me!” I slump, frowning. “I think they should personalize their gossip a bit. Are we all getting the same news verbatim?”
Dominic doesn’t speak or look at me, but the faintest of smiles twitches at his lips as he reaches up to the top of the window and removes the curtain rod completely. I step aside as he lowers it and sets it on his bed, which is neatly made and decked in a comforter of blue and green plaid.
I look around the rest of the room. Besides the bed, there’s a small bookcase and a chest of drawers. I settle on one corner of the bed, taking up as little space as possible.
“Do you know what you’re doing?” I ask Dom, who snorts.
“Of course I do. I’m a handyman, Berkeley.” He pauses. “But I also used to sneak out this window in high school.”
I blink at him in surprise. “You did? I never knew that.”
“Why would you have?” he says distractedly, eyeing the window. “We didn’t know each other in high school.”
I will take it to my grave that I doodled his name in my teenage diary, so all I say is “I guess so.” Then I add, “What did you do? When you snuck out?”
“Stupid teenager stuff.” Dominic rolls up his sleeves, revealing tanned forearms. “I don’t know if you remember James Carver?”
I think for a second. “From the maple farm?”
Dom nods.
“Yeah, I know who you’re talking about.” I pause, my brow furrowing. “I think I heard he’s back in town, actually.”
“I think so.” Dom unlocks the window and then opens it, and I watch his forearms the entire time like a psycho. “Anyway, we would hang out sometimes. Kick the can, whatever. I took up smoking for a while—”
“Dominic!” His name bursts out of me, and he glances over his shoulder, a little smile tugging at his lips when he sees my dropped jaw and wide eyes.
“You smoked? Your father works in a doctor’s office!” I go on, keeping my voice soft.
“I know,” he says ruefully. Then he turns back to the window and begins unlatching the screen.
“Exactly how long did you destroy your lungs?”
“You’re looking at several months of tar buildup.”
I’m actually still looking at his forearms, but he doesn’t need to know that.
“Does your dad know?”
Dominic snorts but doesn’t look at me. The last tension tab on the screen releases, and he maneuvers the whole thing carefully inside. He settles it on the floor, propped against the wall, and then turns to me.
“Of course he doesn’t,” he says, dusting his hands off. “I don’t think he’d be able to take the shock. A college dropout and a former smoker?” His voice is light, but his body is tense. “He’d keel right over.”
And time slows viscously as the past stirs between us, a restless beast, so close I can see its teeth that would rip my throat out if I let them.
Or maybe I’m being dramatic. Maybe that beast of the past wouldn’t rip out my throat.
Maybe I would simply wait for it to open its mouth, and I would crawl into its belly on my own.
“He’s proud of you,” I say softly, even though I know it won’t do any good.
Dominic doesn’t look me in the eye, but he gives a short nod. “He is,” he says. “Because he lowered his expectations.”
I sigh. This conversation rarely goes anywhere productive. So instead of continuing, I gesture to the gaping window. “Are you going first, or am I? How are you going to get the screen back in?”
“I’ll make up an excuse to come back later.” Dominic opens his mouth to go on, but a loud trill of laughter from downstairs finds its way to us, and I wince.
“Are you sure I can’t live in your shed?” I say, a little desperately. “Seriously. You’re completely sure?”
He snorts. “Yeah, Berkeley,” he says, maneuvering his leg through the open window. “I’m positive.”
When I go to bed that night, I don’t sleep. I stare at the ceiling.
And I wait.
I wait and wait and wait, growing more antsy by the second. I wait until I can’t keep my eyes open, and I drift off before I ever hear Alvina come home.
When I wake the next morning, however, she’s returned. She’s fussing around our small bedroom, closing drawers loudly, destroying the ozone layer with her horrible perfume, and being generally aggressive in a way I’m unfamiliar with at seven in the morning.
I sit up slowly, rubbing my eyes as Alvina hovers at the open closet, her hair twisted into a towel, a silky robe floating about her small frame. “What are you doing?” I say.
She whirls around. “Oh, are you awake?” she says, as though she wasn’t trying her best to wake me herself.
“Yes,” I say flatly.
“Good. We have a busy day,” she says, and it’s then that I notice how chaotic she seems—gone are the usual elegance and poise, replaced by jerky movements and darting eyes as she begins digging through clothes.
“I have to go to the pumpkin patch until this evening,” I point out, but she shakes her head.
“No,” she says absently, tugging a dress off its hanger. “That won’t work, sweetheart. I need you to come with me today.”
I open my mouth to argue, but she turns to me again, reaching for her towel turban. Her expression is tight and frantic as she gives a tug, and almost in slow motion, the towel falls to the floor—
Revealing a cascade of horrible, brassy, orange-blonde hair.