Chapter 5
Simon
“Thank you, Simon.” My kid sister beams as she holds up the bright purple sweatshirt I’ve just given her, and part of me breaks inside.
She’s so fucking happy over a goddamn sweatshirt. Happy about everything, when three-quarters of the people on this planet would weep at the thought of being in Junie’s shoes.
“You’re welcome,” I tell her. “I know how much you love purple.”
“I do. And I like the kangaroo pocket in the front.”
She pulls the sweatshirt on over her head, and my brain flashes back to Cassie wearing a hoodie like this one.
Everything’s making me think of her these days.
Piles of dirt, for chrissakes. I’m seeing her later today, and I’m trying to pretend those aren’t goosebumps of anticipation rippling up my arms.
“It looks great on you,” I tell Junie as I help her straighten out the shoulders. “You can wear it when we go on our trip in a few weeks.”
“We’re going to the beach.”
I nod, even though it wasn’t a question. I know she’s looking for reassurance. For affirmation that’s she’s remembered this detail correctly. “That’s right,” I tell her. “The Oregon Coast.”
“And we’re visiting the graveyard,” she says. “To see Mom and Dad.”
“Right again.”
Her expression is somber, and I want to punch every single person who ever suggested someone with Down syndrome isn’t capable of retaining information or processing emotion just like everyone else. Fuck those guys.
“It’s going to be a fun trip,” I tell her.
“Is Kaitlyn coming?”
The question hits me like a kick to the solar plexus. I shake my head, buying myself time to find my voice. “No. Kaitlyn and I don’t see each other anymore.”
Junie frowns. I can tell she’s trying to digest this.
We’ve had this conversation before, and she hasn’t seen Kaitlyn for two years.
Or Paula. Or Britney. Or any of the other girlfriends I introduced to her years ago.
Back when I thought happily-ever-after might be a real option for me, and that women I formed relationships with weren’t just after my money.
I was a dumbass.
“We’re going to have a lot of fun at the beach,” I tell Junie instead. “Just the two of us. No girlfriends.”
The idea seems to please her, and she smiles. “We can hunt for agates,” she says.
“And we’ll have clam chowder at Mo’s.”
“Yummy!” She grins. “I have the date written down on my calendar.”
She does, too. I saw it earlier, along with the dates she’s scheduled to work at Hot Swap’s Gresham location this coming week. I’m so fucking proud of my sister sometimes I feel like jumping up on the porch rail and crowing about it.
“Okay, then,” I tell her. “I have to go now. You have a good week. And thanks for the lunch date.”
“Thanks for the sweatshirt. I love you, Simon!”
“I love you, too.”
It’s the only time you’ll catch me saying those words, to anyone, ever. And when I hug my sister tightly, I feel the love with every fiber of my being.
I can still see her smiling and stroking the arms of the sweatshirt as I slide into my car parked at the curb outside the group home where she lives. Sarah comes out and sits beside Junie, and they both wave at me as I pull away with a big knot in my chest.
I wish things were different. I wish Junie didn’t have to struggle to do so many things other people take for granted.
I wish our parents hadn’t died ten years ago.
I wish I hadn’t learned the hard way that women only want to date the jet-setting millionaire and not the devoted brother who will always, always put his sister first.
I shake off my own funk as I pull out into traffic and glance at the clock.
It’s just after three, and I’m not due at Cassie’s place until four.
I could kill an hour getting some work done or stopping at the gym, but instead I pull into the parking lot of the flower shop on the corner of Burnside and buy the biggest bunch of daisies they have.
I know we’re not dating—not even close—but she deserves some damn flowers.
Besides, I haven’t seen her since that first night.
We’ve texted a lot, coordinating the details of our schedules and our plans for which item to tackle next.
But I haven’t laid a hand on her for days, and I’m dizzy knowing I get to touch her again.
I leave my car in the parking garage two blocks away, feeling a small pang of guilt. It’s true I’d prefer it if she didn’t know I’m a guy who can afford a Mercedes CL65 coupe. A whole fleet of them, for that matter. Arming the women I date with that information has never gone well for me.
You’re not dating, I remind myself. Just fucking.
I like Cassie too much to see this end before it even really begins. There’s plenty of time to explain things later.
I ring the bell at Cassie’s place right on the dot at four. She opens the door, and it takes me a second to recognize her.
“You’re not wearing sweatpants,” I say lamely.
She rolls her eyes at me and pushes the door open wider, gesturing for me to come in. “Very observant, Einstein.”
“You’re also not naked,” I point out, studying her from head to toe as I step into her apartment and hand her the flowers.
“Thank you.”
She takes the flowers and strides into her tiny kitchen in a pair of strappy black heels that don’t make her wobble at all.
She’s wearing a black skirt that’s tight, but not too tight.
Green top made out of some sort of slippery material.
Not silk, but I’ll bet it’s soft like that.
My mouth starts to water, and I realize I’m gaping at her.
“What?” she says, whirling on her heel. I see a flicker of something in her expression—defensiveness? Self-consciousness?—and it occurs to me she’s a lot more nervous than she wants me to know.
I’m not sure why, but it makes me like her more.
“You look amazing,” I say.
“I do sometimes dress up, you know.” She runs her palm down the skirt, still clutching the flowers in one hand. “When I’m not doing fieldwork, sometimes I have to present my findings at university lectures. I know how to look girly when the occasion calls for it.”
I’m not sure where this bristliness is coming from, but I give her my best reassuring smile and lean against the kitchen counter. “I definitely don’t think you look girly.”
“What?”
“You’re no little girl. You’re all woman, Cassie. And incredibly hot.”
Her cheeks pinken at that, and she looks down at the flowers she’s stuffing into a tall blue vase. “Well,” she says, smiling a little. “Thank you.”
“No, thank you. For inviting me over. For being really fucking sexy. For wearing my favorite color.”
Her smile gets a little bigger, and she looks down at her blouse. “Your favorite color is green?”
“It is now.”
She rolls her eyes, but she’s still smiling. “That’s such a line.”
“Maybe, but it’s true. You look amazing. Of course, you turned me on when you were wearing sweatpants, so it must be you and not what you’re wearing.”
She finishes fiddling with the flowers and shrugs. “I just wanted you to know I’m not always in Carhartt coveralls and work boots. Or hoodies and yoga pants. I do clean up pretty well.”
I give her my best sexy grin. “And you know how to get dirty when the occasion calls for it.”
It’s a ballsy move, going right for the reason we’re here instead of playing coy, but the gamble pays off. Her smile breaks into the real deal, sunny and open and warm. She laughs, and the tension between us is smashed into a million bits.
I’ve wanted her from the second I walked through the door, but I want her more now.
“Thank you for the flowers,” she says. “They’re beautiful.”
“You’re welcome.”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I’m aware there’s no legal obligation to purchase flowers for a woman I’m sleeping with,” I say, making her blush again. “I did it because I wanted to.”
“Thanks.” She gives me a shaky smile. “Sorry, I’m just a little nervous.”
“Not a problem.”
“Want a glass of wine?” she asks.
“Sure. That sounds nice.”
“I hope pinot noir is okay. I opened a bottle last night, so it’s had time to breathe.”
“That’s perfect.”
We’re still acting a little stiff, which is not the sort of stiff I had in mind when I came here. Still, I understand the need for a little verbal foreplay. We’re not just going to jump each other the second I walk through the door.
Cassie hands me my wine, and we sit together on the couch.
This couch, I think, remembering the last time I was here.
“So how was work?” I take a sip from the wineglass.
“It was good. You know, you don’t have to pretend we’re dating. We can just get right down to it.”
I choke on my wine a little, but recover quickly. “It might help with the nervousness if we have a little conversation first.”
“Right. You’re right, of course. Sorry. This is still kinda new to me.”
I smile to let her know I’m not upset, and I take another sip of wine. “So how long have you lived in Portland?”
“All my life. Well, except for college. I went to Oregon State all the way through school—undergrad, grad school, my doctorate. How about you?”
“Stanford,” I say, then regret it.
She cocks her head and looks at me oddly. “And you work in a computer repair shop?”
“Yeah.” Crap. The last thing I need is for her to figure out I don’t actually work there, but I own the whole damn chain.
“I lived in LA for a little while, but I’ve been in Portland for eight years,” I tell her, diverting her from the subject of my career path. “I like it here. The weather’s nice and mild, and the skiing’s good in the wintertime.”
“You ski?”
“Yes. Do you?”
She shakes her head. “No. I’ve wanted to try it, but I’ve never gotten around to it.”
“I can teach you sometime.”
That was a dumb thing to say. We’ve agreed this a temporary thing. Just a chance to satisfy some sexual urges for us both. The odds of us even knowing each other by the time the next ski season rolls around are the same as my odds of becoming an opera singer. Did I mention I’m tone deaf?