Ask Me Why

by Marie Force

“Mama’s great. She wasn’t a big fan of me going back to school, but every time I need her, she comes through. I couldn’t make it without her.” Cynthie hesitated. “You want to come in before you head back? I can give you dinner. Or at least a cup of coffee or something.”

  He hadn’t followed her home to beg a free meal. He was all too aware of the limits she’d set on their relationship.

  “I’ve had enough coffee recently to last a lifetime,” he joked, and then could have kicked himself at the flash of hurt in her eyes. She was offering him friendship. He felt like a heel for rejecting her. “But I’d love to have dinner with you,” he added hastily. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

  “No trouble.” Her smile shot straight to his heart. “Let me just grab the groceries.”

  “I can help with that.”

  He filled his hands with grocery bags and followed her inside.

  Cynthie’s daughters sprawled on the couch, watching the old tube television in the corner.

  At their entrance, Hannah danced over, throwing her arms around her mother’s waist. “Hey, Mom. Hiya, Mr. Lewis.”

  Cynthie smoothed back her daughter’s wild puff of hair. “Hey, yourself. How was school today?”

  “Good. I got an A on my science report.”

  “That is awesome. Can you take this into the kitchen for me, sweetie? Madison, how was your day?”

  The older girl didn’t take her eyes off the TV. “All right.”

  “You remember Mr. Lewis.”

  She glanced over her shoulder. “Hi.”

  “It’s nice to see you again,” he said.

  “Are you done with your homework?” Cynthie asked.

  “Grandma said I could watch Modern Family.”

  Cynthie made a humming noise in her throat. “After you’ve done your homework.”

  Max went outside to get the final bag of groceries.

  “I’ll do it after dinner,” Madison said.

  The television shut off. In the silence, Max could hear Cynthie. “You need to do it now. We’re eating late tonight.”

  “That’s not my fault.”

  He pushed open the door. Madison was on her feet, glowering at Cynthie. Hannah swiveled her head like an observer at a tennis match, her small face creased with worry.

  “I don’t want to do it,” Madison said. “Algebra’s stupid. Anyway, Meemaw says boys don’t like girls who are too smart.”

  Cynthie opened her mouth. Shut it.

  “Smart boys do,” Max said.

  Three faces turned to him with nearly identical expressions of surprise.

  Madison recovered first. “You mean dorks.”

  Max shrugged. “If you like.”

  “I’m a dork,” Hannah said.

  Max bit back a grin.

  Madison’s face softened as she regarded her little sister. “It’s okay for you to be smart, Hannah Banana. But I’m not. I can’t do it. I don’t get it.”

  “Have you asked for help?” Max asked.

  Madison’s shoulders rose to her ears, an automatic defensive gesture that made him twinge in sympathy. “Who’s going to help me? You?”

  “It’s been years since I took algebra. I thought you could ask your mom.” He met Cynthie’s wide green eyes. “Didn’t you take algebra this summer?”

  “I—”

  “Mom’s too busy,” Madison said. “She’s always too busy.”

  Max’s mom had been too busy. She had no time to volunteer at his various schools or attend his track meets. It would never have occurred to her to monitor his homework. In Dorothea’s view, his parents had provided Max with superior genetic material and an excellent example of academic rigor. If he failed to live up to them, he had only himself to blame.

  Cynthie was a great mom.

  And Madison was clearly trying to jerk her chain.

  Cynthie broke Max’s gaze, her face flushing. “Not too busy to help you, baby.”

  “You have to make dinner.”

  “It’s a casserole,” Cynthie said cheerfully. “All I need is a minute to throw together a salad.”

  Max shook his head in admiration. After the lousy day she’d had, after dealing with school and work and a crappy battery, she was still holding it together. Still all-in where her daughters were concerned.

  He wanted to hug her. He wanted to help.

  “Hannah and I can make salad,” he said. “You two do homework.”

  * * *

  AFTER dinner, Cynthie watched Max tease a half smile from Madison across the kitchen table and felt her heart expand to bursting point. This evening had turned into everything she’d once longed for.

  And everything she feared. A guy who could appreciate her mama’s chicken salad and praise her daughter’s science report. Who would be there when her car broke down or Madison was acting up. Who made her feel special and smart.

  If Cynthie wasn’t careful, she could let herself want this. Want him. And that would never do.

  Max was being nice to them now because he was a really nice guy. But nice guys didn’t stay with women like her, a single mom with two kids and no money and a twelve-year-old minivan. And when he figured that out and left, Cynthie wasn’t the only one who would be hurt and disappointed.

  She took a deep breath and stood to clear the table.

  Max got up with his plate.

  She smiled and took it from him. “I’ve got this. I’m sure you want to get on the road.”

  “I want to help.”

  Hannah piped up. “The rule is, whoever cooks doesn’t have to clean up.”

  Max kept his gaze on Cynthie. “Will you be okay now?”

  The question tugged at her heart. She made herself answer lightly, which was a lot better than throwing herself on his chest and begging him to stay. “I think I can handle loading the dishwasher on my own.”

  He frowned a little. “I meant in the morning with the car.”

  “I’ll work something out,” she said. That’s what she did. Worked things out. She wasn’t going to burden him anymore. “Thanks for the rescue.”

  “I owed you one.”

  “It was just a sandwich.”

  “What are you . . . Oh, the chicken salad. I was talking about you saving my ass back in high school.”

  Cynthie glanced around automatically for the girls, but they were already gone, taking advantage of her distraction to turn on the TV. Anyway, they probably heard worse in school every day.

  Max cleared his throat. “Cynthie.”

  His low tone made her shiver. She was achingly aware of him, standing close, those steady eyes, that earnest voice. His heat. His scent. She trembled, as if she were seventeen again, teetering on the brink of her first love.

  Except even at seventeen, he wouldn’t have been her first. She wouldn’t have been his type.

  “Hey, I was watching that.” Hannah’s voice rose the way it did when she got tired.

  “It was a commercial,” Madison said.

  “It was almost over. Change it back.”

  Cynthie pulled herself together. “Well.” She smiled at Max, taking a step back. “It’s been fun. Thanks for helping me out.”

  “My pleasure. Thanks for dinner,” Max said, which was polite of him, considering that the casserole was mostly noodles and canned soup and he’d made the salad.

  Men liked meat. Doug had always complained when their budget didn’t stretch to hamburger every day. It was another depressing reminder, if Cynthie had needed one, of how little she had to offer a man like Max.

  He left soon after, leaving her to referee the girls’ squabble over the remote.

  A piece of her heart trailed after him.

  Stupid, stupid. She was not standing around feeling sorry for herself. She had too much to do.

  She supervised the girls as they showered and packed their lunches for tomorrow, listened to Hannah’s spelling words while they brushed their teeth, found Madison’s gym shorts in the dirty laundry and a permission slip for He
alth crumpled at the bottom of her book bag.

  “I can’t find my book! We have library tomorrow,” Hannah said.

  So after tossing the first load of clothes into the washer, Cynthie searched for the missing library book. By the time their backpacks were ready by the door and the girls were in bed, Cynthie was ready to fall flat herself. Or follow Mama’s example and curl up on the couch with her shows and cigarettes. She’d given up smoking last winter when Hannah caught that cough. But after her crappy day, she deserved something. A glass of wine. A cigarette. Sex.

  Sex with Max, she thought, and shivered deep inside with longing and regret.

  With a little sigh, she pulled out her biochemistry textbook.

  She was taking notes on the effects of phosphate concentrations on tooth enamel when a noise penetrated her concentration. A car, outside. Cynthie frowned. The residents of Paradise Shoals, the ones who weren’t unemployed or retired, worked whatever hours they could get. So it wasn’t unusual to hear somebody coming or going at this hour.

  She heard the beep of a key lock and then a muffled metallic thump right by the house.

  She wasn’t worried. Not exactly. Not on Dare Island. But a single woman with two little girls had to be careful.

  She twitched aside the curtains. A car was parked behind hers on the drive, a looming shape in the dark. Her heart beating wildly, she flipped on the outside light. Yanked open the door.

  Max smiled on her front porch. “Oh, good, you’re still up. I need your keys to pop the hood and change your battery.”

  SIX

  MAX SEATED THE heavy battery in the hold-down tray, taking care to line up the charges.

  Cynthie sat in a mildewed plastic garden chair, watching him. She’d tugged a hoodie over her dress, but her legs, curled around the chair, were smooth and bare.

  He was glad for her company. From the corner of his eye, he could see her feet in flip-flops, her toenails painted sparkly silver. The image of her glittery toenails burned the back of his eyeballs like fireworks against the autumn sky.

  He stuck his head back under the hood before he got any ideas.

  She sighed contentedly, cradling a longneck bottle in her hands. “This is nice.”

  Max’s beer stood untouched on the table beside her. From the darkness around them, a few late tree frogs, joined by a backup insect chorus, sang their mating song. Let’s get it on . . .

  Like he needed encouragement.

  He cleared his throat, ratcheting the clamp that held the battery in place. “Yes.”

  She took a pull of her beer. “Nice of you, I mean. I was afraid we’d scared you off. A lot of guys—single guys—don’t like kids.”

  “I haven’t been around them much. I like yours,” he said simply. “I had a good time tonight.”

  “So did I. I get so used to listening to the girls, I sometimes forget what it’s like to have an adult conversation at the dinner table.”

  “You’re good at getting them to open up. My parents—” he said and stopped.

  “Your parents,” she prompted softly after a pause.

  It wasn’t only the kids she could get to spill their guts, Max reflected. But he was a grown man, long past the point of complaining about his parents’ absorption in their own pursuits. As he got older, their lack of interest in how he, their only child, spent his days was actually something of a relief.

  He looked at Cynthie, her cloudy dark hair, her soft green eyes, her glittering toes. Besides, he didn’t want her pity. A pity fuck, maybe . . .

  He shook his head, reattaching the battery cables to the terminal posts. Red, then black.

  “Anyway, you’re good with the girls, too,” Cynthie said. “That was cool what you said to Maddie. About boys liking smart girls.”

  “It’s true.” The battery in place, he risked another glance at her. “She certainly speaks her mind.”

  “She doesn’t mean to be rude,” Cynthie said. Mama Bear, he thought, touched and amused by her immediate defense of her cub. “She’s at a difficult age.”

  He tested the clamps. “You don’t have to explain to me. I went through a difficult stage myself.”

  “And you turned out all right. How long did it last? The stage, I mean.”

  “Most of middle school. Well, and high school,” he admitted. “So, basically, my entire adolescence, give or take a couple years.”

  A soft huff of laughter escaped her. “I can’t see you as a problem teenager.”

  “I wasn’t a problem student. More wildly awkward.”

  “And I was plain wild.”

  “You were beautiful. Bright. Kind.”

  “Was I?” Her voice was wistful.

  He nodded. “You are beautiful.”

  Her eyes were huge and dark and slightly unfocused, tempting him to thoughts he was better off not thinking. She was wiped out after her lousy day and, he suspected, more than a little drunk. He was not taking advantage of her car troubles to make his move while her defenses were down.

  He gave the battery a final wiggle, making sure it was tight. “Let’s see if she’ll start.”

  The engine turned over on the first try.

  Max climbed out of the van and smiled at Cynthie. “You’re all set. I’ll go wash up.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  She wobbled a little on the steps. He put a hand on the small of her back to steady her.

  They crept into the kitchen like teenagers sneaking in after curfew.

  “Be right back,” Cynthie whispered.

  He washed his hands at the kitchen sink, prepared to say good-bye and go.

  Cynthie returned, still wearing her dress and hooded sweatshirt. She pulled two more beers from the fridge, holding them up in his direction. “Another round?”

  He’d barely touched his first. She was on her . . . second? Third? But he didn’t want to leave her. “Thanks.”

  She tiptoed back outside, swaying as the cold air hit her. “Brr.” She wrapped her arms at her waist, still holding a beer in each hand. “Let’s sit in your car.”

  “My car,” he repeated.

  She nodded. “Big backseat. And no candy wrappers.”

  Max’s blood pounded. Cynthie Lodge, the girl known in high school as Body of Sin, wanted to climb into his backseat.

  He was trying hard not to make assumptions, not to misread her invitation. Just how much had she had to drink? “Sure.”

  Once they were inside, she seemed content to stay on her side of the seat, bottle in hand.

  The car wrapped them in a bubble of glass, magnifying the sound of their breathing. Max inhaled the commingled smells of leather and car wash, the warm clove scent of Cynthie. Her long, pretty feet were pale in the gloom, one bare foot swinging idly back and forth.

  “You like my nail polish?” Her voice swam out of the dark.

  “Er . . .” Had he been staring? “Yes. Very much.”

  “Thanks.” She twisted her foot, so that the silver sparkles caught the light. “It’s Maddie’s.”

  “It’s very . . . shiny.”

  Her low, warm chuckle stirred him deep inside. “That was the idea. You ever notice a server’s shoes? They have to be close-toed, to protect from spills, and nonskid, to protect from slipping, and flat, because you’re on your feet all day. Which is fine, except I’ve been wearing those shoes all my working life. So I paint my toenails. It gives me a lift, wearing something pretty where nobody can see.” She rolled her head against the seat back to smile at him. “Like really good underwear.”

  All the blood deserted his head, replaced by images of underwear. Cynthie’s underwear. Cynthie without underwear. His mouth dried.

  He took a swig of beer he did not want. “Boy, this takes me back.”

  Her full lips quirked. “Cheap beer?”

  “Talking to you like this in the dark. Feeling inadequate.”

  She laughed, which actually made him feel better. “You’re a college professor. You love your work, you make
a difference in people’s lives, and you can change a car battery. You are definitely not inadequate.”

  “I was in high school,” he admitted ruefully. “The one time I talked to you—really talked, more than mumbling ‘Hi’ in the hall—was a disaster.”

  “You never . . . Wait. You’re that boy. The guy in glasses. Doug punched you.”

  He winced. She remembered. “And you were the most beautiful girl at the party. I couldn’t believe you’d even speak to me.”

  “Of course I spoke to you. You looked so . . .”

  “Out of place?” he suggested wryly when she paused. “Awkward? Inept?”

  “I was going to say ‘nice.’”

  “That might be worse.”

  “Well, but you were nice. Sweet.”

  He shook his head. “Definitely worse.”

  She laughed, the sound warm and husky in the dark. “I liked it.”

  He didn’t remember. The particulars of their conversation that night were lost in the mists of time, in a blur of beer and wonder and lust. Until Cynthie’s boyfriend had shambled over. He’d shot one squinty-eyed glance from beneath his ball cap before dismissing Max as of no importance. “Come on,” he’d said to Cynthie, jerking his chin toward the door. “Out back. I got us a bottle of Jack.”

  She had tossed her head. “I’m not done here, Doug.”

  “Yeah, you are.” He’d snapped his fingers at her, like she was his dog.

  Something inside Max went hard and bright. “Don’t talk to her like that.”

  Doug’s head lowered like a bull’s. “Who’s gonna stop me, dingbatter? You?”

  “Dingbatter”—the island term for idiot outsiders. One of Doug’s buddies guffawed.

  “Quit it, Doug,” Cynthie said.

  “You shut your mouth.”

  Max’s hands clenched. “I said, don’t talk to her like that.”

  He’d stood then, the room tilting around him. But before he found his feet, before he saw it coming, Doug swung. His fist plowed into Max’s face.

  And Max went down in an explosion of pain and beer.

  “Max?” Cynthie’s voice, soft and urgent. “Are you okay?”

  He blinked, recalled to the present. “Fine. You stopped your boyfriend from kicking my ass.”

  “He should never have hit you. You weren’t doing anything.”