Twenty
THE GATE IN A WHITE PICKET FENCE CREAKS AS I cautiously push it open, my body stiff, as if I’m expecting someone to chase me off the property any minute now.
‘Hello?’ I call out tentatively, casting my gaze around the quiet backyard. ‘Heath?’
‘He’s in the workshop.’
‘Jesus.’ The tote bag hanging off my shoulder swings in a half-arc and slams into my stomach, winding me as I whirl toward the little girl I hadn’t noticed perched amongst the flower beds, digging in the dirt with a couple of toy dinosaurs. ‘Lyla,’ I cough. ‘Hi. I didn’t see you.’
Big eyes, the same distinct color as her mom and uncle’s, blink at me silently.
Shifting awkwardly, I try my best attempt at a sunny smile. ‘Uh, Heath told me I could come on in.’
Pretty blonde curls bounce as Lyla tips her head to one side. ‘Are you going on a date?’
‘No.’ I pat my bag, laden with books. ‘We’re studying.’
‘Boring.’
No, it isn’t, I almost argue, only just managing to squash the urge to defend my love of studying to a freaking five-year-old. ‘You said he’s in the workshop?’
Lyla nods and points toward the slightly ramshackle shed tucked down the end of the yard, shrouded in ivy and surrounded by neat, flower-studded shrubs.
‘Thanks.’ With an awkward little wave, I start to walk away only to come up short at the command of an exaggerated cough.
‘I like your hair.’
‘Oh.’ I graze a hand down the French braid following the curve of my spine to the middle of my back. ‘Thank you. I like your dress.’
Rosy cheeks dimple as she mutters some thanks of her own, little fingers toying with the hem of a dress the exact shade of the aster sprouting in the flower bed she kneels in.
Mud stains the fabric, stains her legs and her arms too, and as I frown at the little holes dotted sporadically around her, I notice it’s caked beneath her fingernails too. ‘Whatcha doing?’
‘Looking for bones.’
My eyebrows shoot up. ‘Bones?’
Lyla nods emphatically, launching into a babbling tirade about the museum exhibit her Uncle Kiki took her to last weekend, eyes round saucers of wonder as she details the fossils he showed her, and while I feel the creeping need to pry further about what kind of relationship, exactly, Kai and her mother have, a different spark of intrigue holds dominance.
‘Y’know,’ I dare to sidle closer, my bag dropping to the ground with a thud as I slowly lower myself to my haunches, forearms stacked just above my knees, ‘I study bones.’
Somehow, those eyes widen even more. ‘Really?’
‘Kinda. Sometimes. Ever heard of forensic anthropology?’
Her young, blank face makes me want to smack myself in my own.
Yes, Daniela. Kindergartens offer courses in forensic anthropology now. Dumbass.
‘It’s the study of people. Everything about people. And I, uh, learn about their bones too. How to tell stuff about them.’
Lyla sits up a little straighter. ‘What kind of stuff?’
‘Like how old they were. Where they were from. How they,’ I wince as the next word leaves my mouth before I really think it through, ‘died.’
‘Woah.’
‘Yeah. Woah.’
‘That’s cool.’
‘It is cool. Really cool.’
I, on the other hand, am not cool at all.
I am the antithesis of cool. Because cool is most definitely not puffing up with pride as a tiny human who’s yet to hit double digits finding interest in my field of study.
Nor, I suppose, is sitting cross-legged in the dirt, sifting through sediment I’m almost one hundred per cent sure does not contain anything remotely fossil-like, but I don’t care so much about that . . .
‘There you are,’ a voice calls, after I don’t even know how long – long enough for dirt to creep beneath my nails and render my jeans sufficiently ruined.
Shifting my gaze from the plastic velociraptor Lyla so graciously allowed me to use as a makeshift shovel, I fight the urge to shield my eyes against the sunniest of smiles. ‘Get a better offer?’
My own smile doesn’t budge. I don’t think it would, even if I tried to make it. ‘Obviously.’
With an intrigued little hum, Heath reaches out a hand to me. ‘Sorry, Lala. My turn.’
‘We’re busy.’ The little girl groans, scowling.
‘Too bad.’ Ringed fingers wiggle insistently. ‘She’s mine.’
‘But—’
‘Maybe,’ I cut in, capable of sensing the imminent tantrum brewing, even with my limited experience with children, ‘we could go down to the beach sometime? Look for those ammonites I was telling you about?’
‘When?’
I look to Heath – for permission, I guess, which I get. An odd, soft look and an odd, slow nod, like he can’t quite believe what he’s agreeing to. ‘Next weekend? If that’s okay with your mom.’
Scowl nowhere to be seen, Lyla jumps to her feet. ‘I’ll ask her right now.’
She’s gone before I can take back the offer. Which I wouldn’t. I like Lyla. After a single conversation, I think I like her more than I do anyone my own age.
Well, my brain points out, as my gaze shifts to her uncle. Almost anyone.
Heath’s outstretched hand still hovers between us, and as I take it, he uses the other one to haul me up too. ‘Ammonites?’
Dusting the dirt off my ass, I shrug. ‘I took a paleontology class last year.’
Another one of those odd looks comes over him as he stoops to grab my bag with the hand not still holding mine tightly before leading me across the yard.
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’ His face flattens before brightening with one of those signature grins, pure cheek. ‘Just didn’t know having a smart girlfriend would be so hot.’
‘That’s what does it for you? Dinosaur excavation?’
‘I don’t know.’ He squeezes my hand, swinging it gently in the narrow corridor of space between us. ‘What are you wearing when you excavate?’
I snort, detaching from him so I can shove him away.
He shoves me right back – right through an open doorway and into the elusive workshop that I didn’t know existed until about twenty minutes ago.
A low, impressed whistle as my gaze bounces around the room, taking in the full racks lining every available wall. ‘Are there any surfboards left in the cove?’
Heath laughs. My roots pinch as he tugs on my braid. The floorboards beneath my feet creak as he drops my bag, reminding me of why I’m here in the first place.
‘This doesn’t look like studying, Heath.’
‘Very perceptive.’ He pinches my chin playfully, a hand on my lower back guiding me across the space, toward a workstation on the opposite side of the room. ‘I’m just finishing something.’
I blink at the surfboard propped on a wooden table. ‘You’re finishing this?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘You made this?’
Heath nods, and I swear his complexion flushes a little pink.
‘You made a surfboard?’
‘I’ve made a few.’ He gestures vaguely around the space, and I think I might actually gasp a little.
‘All of these?’
‘Well, not all of them,’ he corrects, but I know him well enough by now, and even if I didn’t, I know false modesty when I hear it.
Mouth agape, I move to the nearest wall, fingertips tracing one of what must be fifty different boards. How did I not know about this? God, I am the worst for not knowing about this. ‘Woah.’
‘Stop it. You’re making me blush,’ he drawls sarcastically, as if he isn’t actively turning pink before my very eyes.
Side-stepping the unfinished board, he walks over to a different table and picks up some kind of tool before patting an empty spot on the wooden surface.
‘Ten minutes. Twenty, tops. Maybe even quicker if you help me.’
‘Quicker?’ I scoff. ‘I feel like this should already be astoundingly clear, but I do not know the first thing about making a surfboard.’
‘But you know how to paint, right?’
‘Not really. A little.’
‘Good enough for me.’
He waves me over, and though reluctant, I go to him, as curious as I am nervous. ‘What am I doing?’
Stooping to reach beneath the workbench, he comes out with a mason jar of paintbrushes and an array of colorful pots. ‘Something pretty.’
‘Specifics would be nice.’
‘Whatever you want.’
I shift from one foot to the other. ‘What if I ruin it?’
‘You won’t.’ He nudges me gently. ‘C’mon. My hot tutor only gave me twenty minutes to finish.’
I start by painstakingly, methodically penciling out a design on the nose end of the board. I decide on sprawling vines studded with flowers, partly because it’s the easiest thing I can think of, and a little because I hope Heath will turn up his nose at the girly pattern.
I should’ve known better; I should never have doubted that firm grip he has on his masculinity – hardly defeatable by a couple of fucking daisies.
And as it turns out, the design isn’t all that easy. By the time I work up the courage to even wet a damn paintbrush, I’m already concentrating hard enough to work up a sweat.
More nervous than I should be, I grasp the thinnest brush, picking a navy shade that’ll stand out nicely against the light blue color of the rest of the board. And while Heath sands the other end, I try really, really hard to focus on clean, fluid strokes.
Except it is much, much harder to ignore the man at work.
Brows pinched in concentration, Heath works with practiced, methodical movements.
The workshop fills with the rasp of rough paper against .
. . well, whatever surfboards are made of, creating a melody, of sorts.
One that guides the timing of my breathing, skates across my skin like some corporeal thing, makes each fine hair stand on end.
I don’t realize I’m biting my bottom lip until the metallic taste of blood fills my mouth.
I don’t realize I’m squirming until the skin of my inner thighs starts to burn from the continuous friction and I make a conscious effort to be still.
And I don’t really realize I’m staring until it occurs to me, with a sudden face-slapping brand of clarity, that I’m not staring so much as I’m gawking.
Leering. I would say admiring, if I was being romantic about it. But, God knows, I’m not a romantic.
God knows there’s nothing admirable about the thoughts swarming my brain like pesky, persistent gnats.
Maybe my ex is right. Maybe I am a freak.
No, actually, there’s no maybe about it – I must be because only a freak would, with complete sincerity, be struck with the urge to bite a man.
Repeatedly. Thoroughly. To sink my teeth into the forearms revealed by rolled-up sleeves.
The generous stretch of thigh revealed by shorts with a truly perverted inseam.
The prominent V of muscle that he flashes when he stretches his arms above his head, relieving his spine from its hunched-over position.
When knowing eyes lock on me, I only realize I’m busted a beat too late.
I drop my head so quickly, my neck cracks. Praying that the few loose strands of hair framing my face are enough to hide my raging blush, I pray even harder that he won’t let fly the smarmy comment I can practically hear already.
The longest minute of my life passes before that gentle rasp picks up again. Just as I breathe a sigh of relief, his own catches, and he inhales like he’s about to say something.
Before he can, I blurt, ‘We’re having dinner with my stepmom tomorrow.’
Momentarily, the workshop goes silent once again. ‘We are?’
‘She demanded it.’
‘Ah.’
‘I can get you out of it, though.’ In exchange for a small sliver of my sanity.
‘Thanks so much.’
At the thick sarcasm coating his words, I frown. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘You really don’t want me to meet her, huh?’
‘No, Heath, I don’t. Why is that so bad?’
‘Because—’ He huffs, incredulous. ‘I don’t get why.’
‘Because,’ I parrot, mimicking his huff. ‘It’s complicated, okay? Our relationship is complicated and I just don’t feel like suffering through those complications with an audience.’
‘I’m not an audience, Dani. I’m your—’ He runs his tongue over his teeth. ‘Friend. I’m your friend. And, believe it or not, I know a little something about complicated relationships. I won’t judge you.’
‘That’s not—’ I huff again, frustrated as I cut off my lie, because that’s exactly what it is.
That’s exactly what I’m worried about. He’ll see that my own stepmother can barely stand me, and he’ll start to question why he even tries to.
‘She just . . . stresses me out. It’s not a big deal. I’ll be fine. By myself.’
Heath looks skeptical. He looks hurt, face all scrunched as he half-heartedly goes back to his sanding, and while I try to re-focus on painting, I, once again, don’t do a very good job.
‘Are you mad at me?’
Heath sighs. ‘No.’
I don’t believe him. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Fuck.’ Shaking his head, he drops the sandpaper, idle hands curling around the workbench’s edge. ‘When you do that, it makes me wanna punch Ben in the face more than I already usually do.’
‘What am I doing?’
‘You’re so fucking interesting, you know that? The angriest people pleaser in the world. You hate people, but you hate disappointing them more. You’re mad at everyone, but you hate when people you care about are mad at you.’
My knuckles turn white with how hard I fist the paintbrush in my grip. ‘And you think that’s Ben’s fault?’
‘I think he did a lot more damage than you’re willing to admit. Made you think his issues were actually yours. Got mad at you for fucking nothing and now we can’t have a conversation without you thinking I’m gonna do the same.’
My next breath is a defeated shudder. God, I hate that he’s right.
I hate that he’s wrong, in a way, because, really, the damage started long before Ben, with a different man entirely, and my ex only aggravated an existing wound.
I hate that, of all people, Heath is the one to pick up on that – that he’s the only one.
‘Look,’ Heath starts, sighing wearily again. ‘I don’t care – well, no. Actually, I do care that you don’t want me and her to meet. But I care more about being there for you. Supporting you. Maybe making it a little less stressful.’
My gaze drops to my unfinished art project. For fuck’s sake. How the hell am I supposed to argue with that?
‘Okay,’ I quietly relent. ‘You can come.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Nope.’
His smile is tangible, even before he presses it to my temple. ‘It’ll be fine. I promise.’
My gut twists.
Somehow, I know that’ll be the first promise he’s ever broken.