Chapter Twenty Two #3
"You're supposed to be
together now. That much is clear," he says, then turns left as the
light changes again like he didn't just give me the validation I'd
been pitifully desperate for.
He pulls into the circular
drive and hands the keys to his dirty pickup to the valet, and we
walk together to the elevator in silence. It stops on his floor
first, and before I can think of the right thing to say, he murmurs
"Don't fuck it up," and exits the car.
I repeat the same words to
myself. Don't fuck it up.
****
The flight home is far better than my
last flight home from Miami. Instead of running my fingers over the
note that ripped my heart out, I run them over the exposed skin of
Rory’s shoulder, which my arm is wrapped tightly around. I pretend
to watch the movie on the screen in front of me while she reads
some novel on her tablet, but mostly I just watch her.
She seems different.
Unburdened. And it makes me feel the same. I watched her say
goodbye to Chip yesterday, watched her hug him and smile at him,
and I couldn't have felt more proud. I know how she handled his
presence the last time she saw him and I wonder if she realizes
just how far she's come. My little badass. I also saw the hope in
her eyes. This friendship means a lot to her, and so it means a lot
to me.
I like knowing he'll be in
New York in a few short months. That she'll have another guy here
looking out for her. One who cares about her for the right
reasons.
Rory peeks over at me out
of the corner of her eye, catching me staring at her, but I don't
bother looking away. She should just get used to it.
"Good movie?" she
teases.
"Best thing I've ever
seen," I tell her.
Rory's mom picks us up
from the airport and asks us about our weekend. Rory's words are
vague, but her blush isn't. I say nothing, just sit here and fight
the smirk trying to give away my thoughts. We spent most of the
weekend in our suite making up for lost time. Though Rory did drag
me down to the beach once or twice. That's the part she tells her
mom about.
I'm dropped off at home
where I catch up with my mom and Bits. They accompany me to the
Athletics Awards Dinner the following night, where I'm presented
with several awards, and where I have to give a speech about Coach
Tead and present him with a plaque.
I head straight to Rory's
afterwards. We never even made plans; I just drove here
automatically as if I couldn't stay away.
I end up sleeping over,
though we're respectful enough not to have sex with her mother in
the next room, and though Rory insists there's no reason for me to
sneak out before dawn, we do get up early to have breakfast—well,
coffee—with her. Amy doesn't bat an eyelash. I guess there's no
point in pretending. After all, she knows we just spent the weekend
in Miami and she must know we're sleeping together.
The truth is I think she
knows I help Rory's nightmares. I'm pretty sure Rory told
her.
I love how excited Amy
gets when Rory asks her to take her shopping for a prom dress. So
excited, in fact, that she doesn't even blink when we get to the
part about spending the weekend in the Hamptons with our friends.
She does, however, give us a short, but sufficiently awkward speech
about safety and respect, and I find I can't quite meet her eyes
again for the remainder of the morning. But despite the
awkwardness, I find the whole thing pretty heartening.
It's incredibly gratifying
to me. Humbling. The trust Rory's mother is placing in me,
especially after everything she's been through. It means the
fucking world to me.
The next few nights are
much the same and by the time prom rolls around, Rory has gone more
than a week without a nightmare and she's looking rested and
radiant.
The actual event is
exactly as I predicted. Tedious and pretentious. But the sight of
her in her skin-tone colored dress, the way the color brings out
her light Miami-tan—it does something to me. Her hair has been
pulled away from her face, but still spills over her shoulders and
back in loose waves, and Carl has obviously done her makeup, though
it's not as heavy as the last time she did it. She is a vision, and
one that makes each of the seemingly thousand photos we pose for in
the eighty-five degree weather worth every second.
It's while we're standing
around taking these photos, just after Rory wipes the sheen of
sweat from my lip with a tissue, that I have the most trite thought
I never imagined I would have. I stand there thinking that one day
we'll show these pictures to our grandchildren. And though the
thought startles me, it doesn't scare me. On the contrary, I find
the idea rather thrilling.
Suddenly the missing
pieces of the vision of my future are utterly clear. Not just the
professional part. The part where I come home to the beautiful,
badass lawyer. To however many of my kids she's willing to have. It
doesn't matter where—an apartment in the city, a house in the
suburbs. It only matters that she's there. And as I watch her twist
her lips into another forced photo-smile, then break out into
giggles when Carl whispers something in her ear, I finally believe
she will be.
She does great during the
dance, bouncing around with her friends for a few songs before we
wind up sitting around and talking just like I said we would, no
triggers in sight. Almost everyone sips from a flask, but I
refrain. When a Journey ballad comes on and Rory starts humming
absentmindedly, I take her hand and drag her back to the dance
floor. She smiles sweetly up at me as she slides her hands up
around my neck and starts playing with the hair at my nape while we
sway slowly to the music.
I pull her tighter against
my body as I fight to keep my hands above the curve of her tight,
round ass. God she makes me crazy. I bring my lips down to hers and kiss her
right there on the dance floor. It doesn't matter. There's no one
else here. I only see Rory.
Around midnight we all
pile into the party bus, most of our friends pretty tipsy by now,
but I'm drunk on Rory's mood. She's relaxed, living in the moment.
Not loud or giggly like some of the other girls, just enjoying the
night. Every now and then she peeks up at me with this look—like
I'm her whole fucking world, and it makes my chest feel so full it
could explode.
We get to East Hampton in
a little over an hour. We've all changed into comfortable clothes,
Rory in leggings and my varsity shirt, and the satisfaction I feel
seeing my last name written across her back is unreal.
The after-party is tamer
than one might expect. There's more drinking, a few joints, and I'm
pretty sure Marshall and Luke have been sneaking lines in the
bathroom with their dates, but mostly we sit around and do more
talking while Dave curates the playlist on the house's sound
system.
There are eight couples
and only six bedrooms, but not everyone is exactly planning to
sleep. Either way, I secured the master, which is in its own wing
of the house.
Rory excuses herself to go
to sleep around three a.m., insisting that I stay up and hang out
with my friends. I last another five minutes before I make my way
upstairs to join her. In those five minutes Rory has passed out on
the bedspread. I climb behind her, tug her back against my chest,
and close my eyes.
A few months ago this
isn't how I would have imagined my prom night. Now it's how I
imagine every night.