Perfectly Unmatched (A Youngblood Book)

by Reinhardt, Liz

There are other tenants in his apartment who would be home during the day. There are people on the street, just outside the open window. But my body is sure we’re alone in a universe we created solely for the two of us, and I scream, plastering to him and shaking hard and long against his laugh, his hold, his unconditional love.

  Unconditional unless he tugs it out of my clenched fists when this is all over.

  He peels me back from him, the sweat glistening on our bodies, but his smile falls when he sees my face. “Why do you like that?”

  “Like what?” I choke, my dread slowly filling my throat.

  He sits up, tugging me on his lap, smoothing my wild, tangled hair with his hands. “Why do I have this terrible feeling that you’re about to break things off with me?”

  I’m so shocked the question I’ve been dreading asking him just popped out of his mouth, and I’m doubly shocked that it sounds amused instead of distraught.

  “Do you think that’s funny?” I ask, not angry, even though my voice tricks my ears into believing I might be.

  “I think it’s funny if you think that’s a possibility. Because I’m not going anywhere.” His smile starts at his lips and works its way right up to his eyes, which are alight with laughter.

  “But you called…” I frown when his laughter descends from his eyes to his lips and he’s directing it at me. “What are you laughing at?”

  Now the hilarity dims slightly. “We used to laugh.” His eyebrows raise. “A lot. Do you remember that?”

  I nod. “Are you saying we don’t anymore?”

  “Do we?” He’s using his teacher voice. The one I hate. Because it’s always right. Damn it.

  “Sometimes things are stressful, Cormac. Not everything is always so damn hilarious all the time.” I kick a foot out and examine my toes.

  The first thought that runs through my mind is that if my mother sees them, she’ll send me out to get a pedicure because they’re chipped. And that’s not okay.

  That set of facts makes me laugh.

  Cormac sits up straighter. “Something funny?” he asks.

  “My toes,” I answer, and laugh again, but it’s a little wilder than straight funny.

  He tilts his head and looks at them. “Same stubby little toes as always,” he observes.

  Which makes me laugh harder and faux punch him in the arm. “They’re not stubby. They’re petite. Do you ever think about what anyone else thinks about your toes?” I ask.

  “Absolutely never,” he says, leaning back on his hands. “And you? Do you often think about what other people think about your toes?”

  “My toes and everything else.” I smile sadly at him. “I just summed it all up, didn’t I?”

  He puts his arms back on the bed and pulls me back, kissing my temple. “Yes.”

  “Are you ready to run away screaming?” My voice is tiny.

  “Never. I love stubby-toed girls.”

  I turn my face into his neck and breath deep, willing myself to catch a trace of ink and books. I don’t, but…I believe it will be there. Soon.

  I pull up and look down at him, drawing a finger over his lips, his eyes, his hair. “You can’t stop. You can never, ever stop.”

  “Stop what?” His lips tickle under my fingers.

  “Studying. Reading. Writing.” I gesture to his desk, his shelves, all the things that define him. “All this. You can never stop any of this.” I bite my lip and feel the clamp of a headache that no amount of aspirin can combat. “Ithaca is getting older. Maybe she’ll meet someone who can do this for my family—”

  “Benelli,” he interrupts. I look at him, his eyes fixed on my face. “I love studying this crazy stuff. But I don’t love it more than you. I don’t love anything more than you. And I’ll do what you need, whatever you need, anything, to make your family situation…our family situation work. These books, these papers, aren’t my life. You are. You are my life.”

  He gets down on his knees, the sheet wrapped around his waist, and I’m…naked. My hair is a rat’s nest. This is…

  “This isn’t how I wanted to do this.” He chuckles and shakes his head. “Which is ironic, because the reason I called you here was because your father was trying to plan this. And, listen, he’s a good guy, and I respect him. Sincerely, I like him. And he can tell me how to dress and how to work and all that. But he’s not going to tell me how to love you. Because, I swear to you, there will never be a man who will love you the way I love you.”

  He grabs a box off his bedside table and holds it out to me. “This belonged to my grandmother, and I loved that woman. She was the one who got me my first book of Greek mythology when I was a little guy. She started it all. I know it’s not as big and fancy as you deserve. But I feel like she loved me for exactly who I was, and I never really thought I’d find another woman as brave and confident. Until I met you. So I want you to have this.”

  He opens the box and there’s a shining canary diamond in a simple white gold band.

  “Your parents will kill me, your father especially. And I promise, I will re-enact the whole damn thing in front of your family like they want with the dinner and flowers and party and toasts and even the little group of guys playing violins. I promise, and I know they want all that because they love you and want to share this. But right here, now, I just need this, just for the two of us alone. Benelli Youngblood, will you do me the great honor of agreeing to be my wife?”

  “This…this is why you called me?” I ask, reaching out for the ring and pulling my hand back.

  He grabs my fingertips and runs a thumb over them. “Yes. Well, I was going to get you to come back to the woods with me. There’s an amazing merlot chilling on our rock. And a picnic basket. And a second merlot. But you seduced me, you vixen! And the moment was too good to pass up, so…”

  “You weren’t going to break up with me,” I declare, and his horrified face is answer enough. “You weren’t going to ask me to argue with my dad. You weren’t going to tell me that you couldn’t change. That you couldn’t handle this.” I’m laughing now, relief and glee and happiness coursing through me in a warm, sweet gush.

  “Well, I was a little angry over your dad trying to tell me how to propose. But that was because I thought his suggestion was wildly unromantic…way too overdone and public. Yet here I am, proposing in a bedsheet in my crappy apartment. So, there’s that.” His goofy smile falters. “Also, there’s the fact that you didn’t answer. So. Are you going to answer?” His hand shakes a little.

  I throw my arms around this incredible man, this man I love with every shred of my being, this man I love right down to my chipped toenails, and I kiss him so fiercely, the sheet falls away, and we’re heading right back to the place we came from before his proposal.

  “Yes. Yes, I’ll marry you. Yes, I love you. Yes. You. I love you.” I’m whispering a thousand things in his ears, promising him that I’ll take care of everything, that I’ll make this all work, because I will. I will.

  He slides the ring on my finger and I feel bound to him, powerful and protective of this man, this gorgeous, honest, funny man who would give up everything for me.

  Except that he won’t.

  Because I won’t let him.

  I’m Odysseus, about to pick up the bow and draw it back, about to push away the fear that I may not be strong enough to do it, because I have no choice. I have no choice if I want to keep the man I love.

  And, in his arms, I feel my truest, bravest, strongest self unfurl. Finally.

  Cormac 7

  There should be a certain poetic justice in my getting to haul Lala’s drunk ass home from a bar, but the reality of holding her limp form over my shoulder is decidedly unsatisfying.

  I’m not sure where her house is, so I bring her back to the Youngblood compound, still decorated for the engagement party from the night before with masses of bright flowers and strands of twinkling lights, dozens of glasses with varying amounts of wine left on every conceivable surface, classical mu
sic still wafting from the home surround-sound system. I move back to the girls’ rooms, and knock on Ithaca’s door lightly. She opens it, her face pale and her eyes red-rimmed, light hair pulled back in a tight bun.

  “Cormac.” She doesn’t frown, which is an improvement over her usual reaction to seeing me. “Is that Lala?” She narrows her eyes at Lala’s very barely covered backside.

  “Yes.” I readjust Benelli’s best friend on my shoulder. “She’s a bit drunk, and I didn’t know where she lived. Is the guest room still open?”

  Ithaca looks me up and down slowly, then nods and gestures for me to follow her down the hall and into a small room decorated in the ivories and golds and pastels all the girls’ rooms are done in. I swing Lala down into my arms and Ithaca yanks the covers and sheets back, smoothing the bedding so I can lay Lala down.

  She has her arms linked around my neck, and I’m having a hard time getting them undone. Just when I manage to pull them away, she grabs my face, leans up, and gives me a cross-eyed look before she kisses me, fully, wetly, and vodka-tinged, right on the mouth, before moaning, “Mmm, I woulda gone to college if the professors were as sexy as you.”

  I jerk back and turn to Ithaca, who’s crossed her arms and is frowning.

  “Stop.” She holds a hand up and out. “Don’t get all stupid panicked. She’s drunk, you’re obviously freaked out, and there’s no reason for us to mention this to Benelli. Okay?”

  I take a shaky breath and nod. “It’s just, Benelli is out with your mother, and I assume Lala texted her first, but the text she sent me was a little, um, not exactly appropriate, so I thought it may have been a mistake—”

  “Stop,” she repeats, this time with more adamence. “Please don’t ever commit a crime, Cormac, because you have no clue how to keep your mouth shut.”

  “Right. Sorry. I’m just…with the engagement and all…” I don’t finish because I have no clue what to say.

  “Whatever.” Ithaca spins on her heel and marches back to her bedroom. I follow her down the hall, and she glares at me when she gets to her door. “If that’s all you need…” She trails off as if she’s leaving an opening for further discussion, but her stony face tells me that’s the last thing she wants.

  “Um, Ithaca?” I had no siblings and didn’t even have many cousins growing up, so dealing with temperamental young women isn’t really something I know how navigate. “I realize we may not have gotten off on the best foot, though I’m not sure why. But I hope we can be—”

  Her sharp laugh cuts me off. “Please don’t say ‘friends.’ Don’t.”

  “I was going to say ‘civil.’” I try to keep the nervous jitter out of my words, since Ithaca seems the type who’d be very able to smell fear and rip anyone who exhibited it to shreds.

  “Look…” She taps one foot and grits her teeth before she turns her eyes, a lighter, clearer green than mine and full of swirling, drowning fury, on me. “You’ve got nothing to do with why I feel so angry at all of them, and I know that. But living here, with my family, it’s like living in the middle of the biggest, ugliest lie in the world. Day in and day out. There’s no escape for me for another year. So, if I act ugly, I’m sorry. But don’t worry. After next year, you won’t have to deal with me again. No one will. I’ll leave this family once and for all, and I’ll never come back. Never.”

  “I, um…” I’m searching for words, any kind of words to let her know that I hear her, that I understand her, but I’m coming up empty. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what you’ve been through, but I haven’t really been included in many family discussions, and I’m afraid I don’t know why you need to leave. But, please know, I respect the need to leave anything that hampers growth or impedes freedom. Even your own family. I respect and support it, however unpopular that may make me in this family.”

  Ithaca’s eyes, still red and raw, soften and she squints her eyes at me, like she’s weighing what she’s about to do. Then she beckons me into her room. It doesn’t sit well, because I’m too old and unfamiliar and male for this intimate, feminine space. She pulls out a small photo book that she shows me with the peculiar eagerness and refreshing lack of embarrassment that’s the sole propriety of the newly unaware adult.

  I flip through snapshots of Ithaca, smiling, her face completely, gorgeously distorted in happiness. Her cheek is close to and her arm wrapped possessively around a young man with a smile that reveals just how smitten he is.

  “This is Andre.” She trails a fingertip over his image. “He joined the army.”

  I nod, though I have no reason to. I don’t understand this at all. “I’m sure you miss him,” I attempt.

  “I do.” Her voice, absent of its usual fury, is shockingly, simply sweet. “He’s in the army because my family found out we were dating. They attempted to pay him off if he agreed not to see me again, and when he turned their money down, they told him he’d never be good enough to take care of me. So he gave up an art scholarship…he’s an amazing artist.” Her eyes well up with tears, but she doesn’t seem to notice. From the raw state they’re in, I’d assume she’s cried over this many times before and recently. “He gave it up to join the military, because a military man can support a wife and an artist can’t.”

  “So you’re engaged then?” I ask, and her reaction embarrasses me, because I forget for a moment how young she is and how out of reach something as simple as engagement can be, emotionally, culturally, monetarily.

  Her blush is fierce. “No. I mean, he promised. He did. But…the army can change you, you know? I didn’t know if he’d make it. Secretly?” She looks at me to check that I can keep a secret, and I hope my look communicates that, in fact, I am excellent at keeping secrets. “Secretly,” she continues, “I kept hoping he’d get kicked out. He was never really all that good with authority. But I guess he…changed. He changed. He had to, I guess. I guess that’s how you survive combat.” She pinches her lips together.

  “I would say that’s a fair assumption,” I offer quietly. She nods. “Have you heard from Andre lately?”

  She shakes her head and tears plop onto the plastic covering over their picture.

  I’m monumentally crappy at this type of thing, but I put a cautious hand out and pat her on the shoulder. “Ithaca?” She looks up, her eyes faraway and sad. “I can’t pretend to know what Andre is going through, but soldiers sometimes have to keep their minds controlled in war. They sometimes have to lock out what they love the most in order to survive. That doesn’t mean they stop feeling or thinking or…loving. You’re obviously a very caring person, and I wouldn’t encourage you to be upset by the fact that he hasn’t been able to give that back right now.”

  She puts one hand, fingers splayed, on her chest. “You think he still loves me?” Her eyes shine and her voice rises with hope.

  “I…um…” I’ve walked into a trap of my own making. I search for a possible exit, and decide on cowardice. “I think…any man would be a fool to fall out of love with you. I think he owes you his side of the story, and you should listen with an open mind when he’s ready to tell you.”

  She nods, the movement of her head so cautious, I’m shocked by the fact that she’s crushed in my arms with an unbelievable quickness, hugging me so tight, I’m banking on rib fractures. She rips herself away as quickly as she grabbed on and offers me a crooked smile.

  “I’m so sorry. That was…that was weird of me. No one,” she begins and stops. She tries again. “Not one person in my family, not one of my friends has said anything that made me feel better about Andre. Don’t look all worried. I know he might not really love me. I know he might not come back for me. But I feel…I don’t know. I feel so calm. I feel so good about this. Thank you. For that.” She pats my arm awkwardly. “Benelli’s lucky. She should keep you around.”

  I smile at my brash soon-to-be sister-in-law. “That’s the plan. And Andre’s lucky himself. I hope he realizes just how lucky.”

  We smile, a shaky, strange peace exchang
e, and I hightail it out of the hall before I destroy the tremulous friendship we’ve woven.

  When Benelli comes home a few hours later, I meet her at the car and drag in the boxes and bags full of mysterious wedding needs while I try to find a way to tell her that Lala is drunk and passed out in the spare room.

  Luckily and unluckily, I don’t have to report, because Mrs. Youngblood bursts into the space where Lala was enjoying her drunken slumber and screams. Lala screams, too, and Benelli and I rush to the scene of the upset.

  “Lala!” Mrs. Youngblood swats her on the behind like she’s a young child. “I could have had a heart-attack. What are you doing in bed at this hour? How did you get here?”

  “Mama,” Benelli interrupts, pulling her mother by the shoulders. “I don’t think Lala feels well. Let me get things settled.”

  “I’ll help you if there are more bags,” I offer, but Mrs. Youngblood insists she’s fine, then pinches my hip and declares I need a hot plate of something.

  It would be stupid of me to argue with a gorgeous woman who’s offering to feed me. So I don’t and promise to come out and eat soon.

  “Drunk again,” Benelli snaps when her mother’s out of earshot.

  Lala stretches lazily and throws Benelli a triumphant smile. “So drunk I barely remember making out with your fiancé,” she coos.

  I feel all the blood drain from my face when Ithaca’s door opens across the hall. “What are you all yelling about?” she demands.

  Benelli is looking at Lala, her face gray. “Get out. Get out of my house. Now!”

  “You’ve known him, what? A month and a half? You’ve known me since we were kids, Beni. And you don’t even doubt him?” It’s meant to be some kind of aggressive strike, but she loses it, completely loses it over the last few syllables.

  I back out of the room, nodding at Ithaca to let her know that I’d appreciate if she could talk to Benelli about what happened. She nods back, and I…don’t know what to do, where to go. Mrs. Youngblood catches me wandering through the kitchen and sits me down, puts a steaming plate of food in front of me and settles down to sip her mug of coffee across the table.