by K. A. Tucker
There’s a long pause. “It’s usually by the things he does rather than the things he says. And if he does them without making a show of it, then he’s got it bad.”
You’re my forever girl.
Just words. There, Dr. Stayner has confirmed it. I shouldn’t be hung up on what Ashton said to me while drunk because they’re just words. It doesn’t mean there’s anything there aside from a case of raging hormones. I feel my heart sink a little with that realization. But at least it’s an answer and not the unknown.
I should stick with Connor. He’s what feels right.
“Thanks, Dr. Stayner.”
“Is this about that Irish fellow you met?”
“No . . .” I heave a sigh. “Ashton.”
“Ah, the Jell-O thief.”
“Yeah. He also happens to be Connor’s best friend and roommate.” And he may or may not have a girlfriend, but I leave that part out. It’s already complicated.
“Well, that’s quite the pickle you’re in, Livie.”
My only response is a grunt of agreement.
“How would you feel if this Ashton fellow was interested? More than physically, I mean.”
I open my mouth, but I realize I don’t have an answer aside from, “I don’t know.” And I don’t, truthfully. Because it doesn’t matter. Connor is perfect and easy. Ashton is far from perfect. I know now what Storm and Kacey mean when they call someone “sex on a stick.” That’s what Ashton is. He’s not a forever guy. Connor is a forever guy. Well, I think he’s a forever guy. It’s just too soon to tell.
“Have you at least admitted to yourself that you’re attracted to Ashton?”
Dammit! If I answer him truthfully, it makes it that much harder to deny. It makes it more real. “Yes,” I finally grumble reluctantly. Yes, I’m attracted to my kind-of boyfriend’s man-whore best friend. I’m even having dirty dreams about him.
“Good. Glad that’s out of the way. I feared it would take months before you stopped being so stubborn.”
I roll my eyes at the know-it-all doctor.
“You know what I would do in the meantime?”
My mouth twists, curious. “What?”
“I’d wear my hair in pigtails.”
At least five seconds pass before I can get around my shock to ask, “What?”
“Boys with crushes on girls can’t control themselves around pigtails.”
Great. Now I’m being mocked by a psychiatrist. My psychiatrist. I see the station up ahead and, checking my watch, I know that the train will arrive shortly. The one that takes me to Children’s Hospital so I can focus on things that matter. Shaking my head, I say, “Thanks for listening, Dr. Stayner.”
“Call me anytime, Livie. Seriously.”
I hang up, not sure if I feel better or worse.
“Now can you tell us apart?” Eric stands side by side next to a paler-looking Derek. He’s rubbing his smooth scalp. Both of them are grinning.
I purse my lips to keep from smiling as I pull my brows together tightly. My eyes shift from one to the other and back again, scratching my chin as if I’m truly confused. “Derek?” I point to Eric.
“Ha, ha!” Eric’s scrawny arms shoot out in a funny little dance. “Nope! I’m Eric. We win!”
Tilting my head back, I smack my forehead. “I’ll never get you two right!”
“We shaved my head this morning,” Eric explains as he skips over to me. “It’s really smooth. Touch it.”
I oblige, running my fingers over the faint hairline that I can still see. “Smooth,” I agree.
He scrunches his nose. “It feels weird. But it’ll grow back, like Derek’s always does.”
Like Derek’s always does. My stomach muscle spasms for just a second. How many rounds of treatment has that poor kid endured? “It definitely will, Eric,” I say, forcing a smile as I walk over to the table and take a seat. “So what do you want to do today?”
Derek silently takes a seat beside me. By his slower movements, I can tell he doesn’t have the energy of his brother, who just started his treatments this week, according to Connie. “Draw?” he suggests.
“Sounds like a good plan. What do you want to draw?”
His forehead creases as he thinks hard. “I want to be a policeman when I grow up. They’re strong and they can save people. Can I draw that?”
With a deep inhale, I smile. “I think that’s a great idea.”
As the boys get to work, I scan the playroom. There are several other kids here today, including a little girl in an entirely pink ensemble—pink pajamas, pink fuzzy slippers, pink handkerchief covering what I assume is a hairless head. She clutches a pink teddy bear under one arm. Someone—likely another volunteer—trails behind her as she floats from toy to toy, casting furtive glances over in our direction.
“Hi, Lola!” Eric calls out and then, leaning in to me, whispers, “She’s almost four. She’s okay. For a girl.”
“Well, then, we should invite her to sit down with us,” I say, raising an eyebrow and waiting.
Eric’s eyes widen when he clues in that I’m suggesting he do the asking. A shy smile curves his mouth as he watches her out of the corner of his eye.
It’s his brother, though, who turns around and says in that soft, raspy voice, “Do you want to sit with us, Lola?”
Eric scrambles to take the seat next to me, edging in a little closer, watching Lola like a hawk as she gingerly picks her way to the empty seat between him and Derek. “Feel my head, Lola,” he says, leaning forward to point his smooth scalp in her face.
Giggling, she shakes her head and folds her hands under her arms, recoiling slightly.
Derek doesn’t find it amusing, though, and glowers at his brother. “Stop telling people to touch your head.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s weird.” Derek’s eyes flicker over to Lola and the glower vanishes instantly. “Right, Lola?”
She just shrugs, her eyes flickering back and forth behind the two brothers, not saying anything.
Giving up on his attempt to impress Lola with his smooth scalp, Eric occupies himself with his picture, drawing a tank. His brother, though, slides a sheet forward and, holding out his box of crayons, offers, “Here, do you want to draw a picture with me?”
And that’s when it hits me. Derek has a crush on little Lola. I share a look with the middle-aged volunteer who trailed her here. She winks, confirming it.
The boys and Lola color for an hour straight, using up a stack of paper as they draw themselves as everything from a policeman to a werewolf to a scuba-diver to a rock star and the entire time, I can’t take my eyes off Derek as he dotes on Lola, helping her hold her crayon properly, drawing parts of her picture that are harder for a four-year-old than an almost-six-year-old.
I watch while my heart melts and aches at the same time.
At the end of the hour, when Lola’s volunteer reminds her that she needs her rest, Eric, who’s busy coloring the wheels on his dump truck, hollers, “’Bye, Lola!” Derek, though, takes the picture he drew of himself as the policeman and quietly gives it to Lola for her room.
And I have to turn away before they see the tears welling.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Homesick
“Can you believe this?” Kacey’s chin settles on my shoulder from behind as we stare out onto the ocean together, our matching plum-colored silk bridesmaid dresses fluttering in the light breeze. “I still remember them going on their first date. Storm was petrified. And now here they are, getting married and having a baby.”
We turn in unison to look at the stunningly beautiful couple as the photographer captures them with the sun setting in the background. Storm may be six months pregnant, but other than the cute, round bump on her abdomen and her gigantic breasts—a product of raging hormones mixed with silicone implants�
��she looks exactly like she always has. A Barbie doll.
A Barbie doll who, along with her adorable little daughter, stumbled into our lives when we needed it most. It’s funny how some relationships can be so accidently forged and yet so perfectly matched. When Kacey and I took off to Miami, we ended up in a run-down apartment building, living next door to a bartender/entertainer and struggling single mom to a five-year-old girl. Storm and Mia. They welcomed us both into their lives without reservation, without apprehension. Because of that, I’ve never thought of them as neighbors or friends.
In some strange way, they’ve always been family.
All of them are, I admit, looking at the small crowd gathered after the sunset beach wedding outside our house. It’s the biggest mixed bag of people you could imagine—our old landlord, Tanner, as awkward as ever holding his date’s arm while he scratches his belly absently; Cain, the owner of the strip club where Storm and Kacey used to work, sipping on a glass of liquor as he watches Storm and Dan, a strange, proud smile touching his lips; Ben, the former bouncer at Penny’s who’s become a close friend to all of us, arm-in-arm with a cute blond lawyer from his firm. I have to admit, that’s a welcome sight, as he’s been dropping not-so-discreet hints about wanting to date me since the day I turned eighteen.
“I wish you were staying longer,” Kacey moans. “We’ve been so busy, we haven’t had a chance to talk. I feel like I don’t know what’s going on in your life anymore.”
That’s because you don’t, Kacey. I’ve told her nothing. It’s status quo as far as she’s concerned—school’s great, I’m great. Everything’s great. I’m not telling her the truth: that I’m just plain confused. I spent the plane ride down convincing myself that this will all blow over. I need to adjust, that’s all. And while I’m adjusting, I’m not taking any attention away from Storm and Dan’s day.
“Kacey!” Trent’s hands are cupped around his mouth as he calls my sister.
“Oh, gotta go!” She squeezes my elbow, a devilish grin curling her lips. “Make sure you’re back at the house in fifteen, for their first dance.” I watch her as she takes off, skipping barefoot through the sand toward a stunning Trent in his fitted tux. The first few times I met him, I couldn’t be in the same room as him without sweating profusely. But, at some point, he turned into nothing more than my sister’s goofy soul mate. And right now, they’re up to something. I’m not sure exactly what, but by the whispers I’ve caught, it involves a bottle of champagne, the silver stage hoop from Penny’s that Storm used to use in her “act,” and an embarrassing video montage of the happy couple.
Trent and Kacey are perfect together.
I hope I have that one day, too.
I turn back toward the setting sun. And I breathe. In and out, slowly. I breathe and I relish this beautiful moment, this wonderful day, pushing all my worries and fears away. I find that it’s not hard to do. The sound of waves and Mia’s laughter as Ben chases her around serve as an anchor to keep me grounded.
“How is college, Livie?”
The voice surprises me and sends prickles down my spine. Turning, I find those coffee-colored eyes staring out at the ocean next to me. “Hi, Cain. It’s good.” Family or not, I’m still not a hundred percent comfortable around my sister’s old boss. He’s never done anything to warrant my unease; in fact, he’s one of the most respectable men I’ve ever met in my life. But he’s an enigma of sorts. He has that timeless look to him, both youthful and wise beyond his years. When Kacey first met him, she thought he had to be in his early thirties, but a slip of his tongue one night told us he’d just hit twenty-nine. That means he opened his first adult club in his early twenties. No one knows where he got the money. No one knows anything about his family, his background. All we know is that he makes a lucrative living off the sex trade. But according to Kacey and Storm, all he seems to want is to help his employees get on their feet. He has never crossed the line.
Although most of the dancers wouldn’t mind if he did. I’m not surprised. Cain is not only good-looking; he exudes masculine confidence—his well-cut suits, perfectly styled dark hair, and intimidating, reserved demeanor only add to his appeal. And underneath all that? Well, let’s just say that the few times he’s come over to enjoy the beach with us, I’ve noticed Dan and Trent stand a little closer to their women. Kacey says that Cain has a fighter’s body. All I know is that, between the striking face, the hard muscles, and a multitude of interesting tattoos, I’ve been caught staring more than once.
“I’m glad. You know your sister is so proud of everything you’ve accomplished.”
My gut tightens. Thanks for the reminder . . . I sense his eyes on my face now and I blush. Without looking, I know he’s studying me. That’s Cain. You feel as though he can look right through you.
“We all are, Livie. You’ve grown into one remarkable woman.” He takes a sip of his drink—likely cognac, seeing as that’s his alcohol of choice—and adds, “If you need any help, you know that you can call me, right? I gave you my number.”
Now I do turn to look at him, to see his genuine smile. “I know, Cain. Thank you,” I say politely. He said the same thing a month ago, at my farewell party. I was busy crying my eyes out alongside a hormonal Storm. I’ll never take him up on it but I appreciate it, all the same.
“When do you head back?”
“Tomorrow afternoon,” I say with a sigh. Not necessarily a happy sigh. The last time I left Miami, I was sad, but I had a ball of nervous excitement for college to help me get on the plane. Now, I don’t have the same excitement.
At least, not for the classes part of college.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Falling
“Your dad throws this party every year?” I ask as Reagan pays for the cab with her credit card and we hop out. Either Princeton rowing coaches get paid very well or Reagan’s family has money through other means, based on the two-story house we pulled up to. It’s a mix of stone and brick, with steep roofs and a matching turret. English-style gardens break up a perfectly groomed lawn and the driveway forms a large loop at the front door. A dozen or so cars are already parked around the circle, including Connor’s white Audi.
“Like clockwork. Kind of a ‘welcome-back-slash-we’re-gonna-win-the-big-race-slash-I’m-gonna-work-your-ass-over-the-winter’ gathering.” I trail her as we walk around the side of the house to an equally beautiful backyard. About fifty well-dressed people mingle with drinks in hand, accepting appetizers from the servers in tuxes floating around. The crowd is predominantly male, but there are some girls around. Girlfriends, Reagan confirms.
I instinctively smooth my gray pencil skirt. Reagan described the party as “dressy but modest.” I didn’t bring a lot of dressy clothing suitable for the still-warm temperature, so I’m limited to a fitted skirt and a violet-colored sleeveless silk blouse with a deep dip in the back that, unfortunately, shows off my new tattoo. Reagan assured me that her parents won’t think any less of me if they see it. I kept my long black hair down, all the same.
I quickly scan the group, looking for Connor. I don’t know if Ashton will be here. I’d think that, being the captain, it’s expected, but . . . it’s also expected not to sleep around on your girlfriend, and Ashton hasn’t figured that one out yet.
“Oh, Reagan! How are you?” a female voice cries out. I turn to see an older version of Reagan dash toward us, her arms extended, and it makes me smile. They’re identical in height, figure, smile . . . everything.
“Great, Mom,” Reagan says calmly as her mom plants a kiss on her cheek.
“How are you doing? How are classes? Have you been going out?” she asks in a quick, hushed voice. She seems a little frantic, as if she doesn’t have much time to talk but needs to get information out of her daughter.
“Yeah, Mom. With my roommate. This is Livie.” She directs her mom’s attention to me.
“Oh, it’s so nice t
o meet you, Livie. Call me Rachel,” she says with a warm, polite smile. “My, you are pretty. And so tall!”
Heat crawls up my neck. I open my mouth to thank her, but her attention has already turned back to Reagan. “And how is the dorm? Are you getting any sleep in that tiny bed? I wish they’d make them bigger. They’re not fit for people!”
As she prattles on, a snort escapes me and I quickly cover my face and pretend to cough. Somehow your daughter’s bed fits two.
Reagan answers with a broad grin. “It’s not bad. More comfortable than I had expected.”
“Okay, good. I was afraid you wouldn’t sleep well.”
“Mom, you know I’m sleeping well. I talked to you yesterday. And the day before. And the day before . . . ,” Reagan patiently says, but I catch the note of exasperation.
“I know, dear.” Rachel pats her shoulder. “I have to go now. The caterers need some direction.” With that, Reagan’s mom sails off like a wisp of smoke in the air, swift but graceful.
Reagan leans forward. “Excuse her. I’m an only child and she’s a little overprotective. And high-strung. We’re weaning her off her antianxiety medication.” In the next breath she starts to ask, “Are you hungry? Because we can go over there and—”
“Reagan!” a man’s voice booms, cutting in.
Reagan’s eyes light up and she grabs my hand. “Oh, come meet my dad!” I can barely keep up with her as she takes off toward the house at a brisk, excited pace. She’s more like her mother than she wants to admit. The only time she slows down is when Grant appears out of nowhere to hand each of us a drink. “Ladies,” he says with a curt bow, and then disappears as quickly as he came, giving Reagan a quick wink as he turns. One sip tells me it’s loaded with Jack and I’m relieved. There’s been an edge lingering at my nerves since leaving the hospital today.
Reagan continues on, cutting through a crowd of guys—grinning at them as we pass—until she reaches the covered patio area near the house, where a giant man with a gray, neatly trimmed beard and round belly—her father, I presume—stands next to Connor.
