Love Is

by S. E. Harmon

  Scratch that. My mother had taken the lead on the lecture while my father had oiled his shotgun accordingly at the dining room table. Then my mother had demonstrated putting a condom on a banana, and Adam and I agreed we would never get the image out of our heads, and we should probably just poison one another.

  The day before we’d left for separate colleges, we’d gone night surfing. One more time when things were simple and we had nothing to think about but the wind in our hair and the sand in our toes. There’d been something different between us, something in the air. Maybe because we knew it was the last time for a long time. He’d girded his courage and leaned in, trying to kiss me, and for a brief moment, I’d been tempted. Mostly because I wanted to know, for sure, that we were nothing but friends. In the end, I’d turned him down, worried we’d ruin a lifelong friendship for something tepid at best.

  I didn’t see him for another couple years, mostly because we both worked during summer vacations. We crossed paths coming home on spring break, and things had been…different. He looked different, of course. More buff and filled out. But it was more than that. He wasn’t the goofy kid who had delighting in perpetually scaring me with rubber snakes anymore.

  He’d smiled a confident, sure, familiar smile, and brushed my hair out of my eyes. It’s been too long, AJ. I’d babbled something in response, wondering what the hell had happened to my lanky, unsure, frizzy-haired buddy. Adam 2.0 wore contacts and used something called sculpting clay to style his hair. But then he’d gone upstairs to change, and came down in one of his old, holey, DC comic tees and some wrinkled cargos, and he’d been even more devastating. He’d made me nervous, mostly because that mix of the new Adam and old Adam really, really worked for me.

  We’d gone out for drinks. I’d purposefully drank too much, giving myself enough liquid courage to take the lead and kiss him first. I knew he wouldn’t try again. Not after being so soundly rebuffed before. Finally, I’d leaned over and grabbed his face in both hands, less for romantic effect and more because my tipsy brain was making everything a little unsteady. That kiss had turned into something more, something that ended with us getting buck naked in the back seat of his tiny car, bumping elbows and noses and God knew what else. The sex had been fast and foolish and we’d giggled through most of it. But even as we’d bumbled our way through, it hadn’t felt wrong. It was comfortable. Familiar.

  We’d dated another four years, taking our slow ass, sweet time to talk about anything more permanent. Things were easy and we complemented one another just as we had when we were a couple of kids running around on the beach. Plus sex. Good sex. It was win-win. When Adam’s mother started incessantly hinting at grandchildren, I’d wanted to strangle her good. Everything was working so well. Why rock the boat?

  My fingers tightened on the steering wheel. That should’ve been my first clue that we weren’t right for one another. I hadn’t longed to see his ring on my finger. I hadn’t seen him with children and wondered what kind of dad he’d be to our own. I’d been happy with things like they were. Our high school relationship. Plus sex. I’d chalked my hesitation up to jitters and prodded myself a little exasperatedly to accept his proposal.

  After I’d accepted, things started going so bloody fast. Suddenly there were decisions to be made. Dates to be booked. People to invite. Cake to order…the fast train called the future started barreling down the tracks…hell, maybe I owed him a thank you for putting the brakes on when I clearly could not.

  I should’ve listened to myself. It would’ve saved me a lot of unnecessary heartache and embarrassment. I wouldn’t make that mistake again. I was single. Ready to mingle. Getting my goddamned groove back—

  “Penny for your thoughts.”

  I glanced over to find Jackson looking my way, head cocked thoughtfully. I smiled a little, trying to shake off the doldrums. “They’re worth a quarter, at least.”

  “Nice dodge.”

  As he waited patiently, I sighed. Clearly, he wouldn’t be deterred by my sarcasm or my stalling tactics. It was his biggest character flaw, frankly. “I was lost in my thoughts.”

  “Just what I wanted to hear from someone driving eighty miles an hour on the interstate, with my very life clutched in her tiny hands.”

  I looked down at my tightly clenched hands and loosened them a tad. I sent him a scowl. “I was thinking about things.”

  “That’s nice and ambiguous.”

  “It was meant to be. And my hands are not tiny.”

  He glanced down at his own hands. “They are compared to mine.”

  “That’s what happens when you have hands like a Kodiak bear.”

  “Yeah, well, you know what they say about a man with big hands.”

  I would not laugh, and I would not encourage him. “I’m not touching that with a ten-foot pole.”

  “They say he can carry a lot of stuff.” He sent me a mock-wounded look. “What did you think they said?”

  A laugh burbled out of me before I could censor it. It felt good. An honest, uncensored emotion. Not a snicker or a giggle, but a good belly laugh that was probably way too loud in the interior of the car. When I glanced over at him a little self-consciously, he was giving me a small smile.

  “What?”

  “You haven’t laughed like that in a while.”

  “I laugh,” I said defensively, ignoring the fact that I’d thought the exact same thing. “You make me sound like a robot.”

  “You chuckle. You’re amused sometimes. And dear God above, the snark. Truckloads of snark. But belly laughter?”

  I was starting to fear my face would be red forever. Seriously. “Well, now you’ve heard it.”

  “I hope to hear it again.”

  “You miraculously become funny, and you might.”

  He grinned. “I’ll work on it. I’m just glad you’re paying attention again.”

  “I was always paying attention,” I said. “I like to think when I drive.”

  I was fully prepared to present my famous perfect driving record as exhibit A, but he simply nodded. “You’re a good driver. I would’ve said something if I wasn’t comfortable.”

  My mouth closed. How infuriating. Jackson did not seem to understand the principle of arguing for arguing’s sake. That was going to make this a long trip.

  *

  We stopped somewhere around the halfway mark at a rest stop for gas and food. After filling up and arguing who would pay—he won, we wound up in a Sbarro’s line. The line curved dangerously long, because clearly nothing revved up the taste buds for pizza like the smell of petrol.

  I was tempted to try another line, but forced myself to stay put. I’d already done my Jack-in-the-box routine, hopping from the Nathan’s line to the Panda Express line, and then back to Sbarro’s. Jackson had watched in quiet amusement, shaking his head as each line I gave up on grew shorter. It was like I’d been secretly fitted with a magnet for slow service.

  Now I was determined to stay put, caught in a sea of humanity where no one seemed to be able to keep the line tight, stop talking on their cell phone, or hold on to their kids without hitting me in the gut, arm, and or side. As if to prove my point, the girl in the cut-off shorts and sandals in front of me jabbed me with a Prada bag.

  I scowled, rubbing my arm. I was still having a good time, which was saying quite a bit. Mostly because I had so many reasons to complain. It was getting late. My back and butt were both hurting from sitting so long. We still had another four hours to go, my Kindle needed charging, and I was pretty sure I’d left the charger at home on the dresser. And yet. Still having a good time. It went against the laws of nature. I refused to analyze how much of my good time was due to the man beside me. So what, he was a considerate road trip buddy? He had his flaws.

  I thought hard.

  He loved roadside attractions, and had already made me stop for two—a pecan seller and an orange stand. That counted as annoying, even if I had eaten some of the pecans. And two oranges. He also cued up way
too much Coldplay when he was the car DJ. There was a point somewhere around Tampa when I’d threatened to drive us into the river if I had to hear Clocks one more time, so there was that.

  I squinted. There had to be more. Maybe when I had some sustenance, I’d be better prepared to catalog Jackson’s faults. In the meantime, I was going to hang my hat on the oranges, pecans, and Coldplay thing.

  Cut-off shorts jabbed me again, and my smile faded a touch. I was having a good time, but I wasn’t a fucking saint. Jackson leaned down, close to my ear. “You want me to take her out for you?”

  A grin tugged at my lips. “I wouldn’t want you to get in trouble for me. I don’t know how to post bail in this Podunk town.”

  His laugh made me smile. Every time. I really liked that laugh and I wasn’t the only one. The sound of his laughter had Cut-off shorts turning around. She gave him a saucy wink, and my eyes went narrow. If Cut-offs knew what was good for her, she wouldn’t follow through with that inviting smile.

  Not that Jackson belonged to me, exactly. My brow furrowed. He was still mine more than anyone else’s right now. Right? I was debating on how long they’d put me in a TSA dungeon for getting rowdy at a Sbarro’s when the cashier drolly said, “Next.”

  Lucky for Cut-off shorts.

  We ordered two personal pizzas and a salad, which we ate near a window at a tiny, wobbly table that had to be seventy percent cardboard. Even though we had to balance our drinks on our knees, I finally felt like things were going my way a bit. We were making good time, the car was gassed up, and I was getting food in my belly. And then Jackson got chatty.

  “This is probably a good time for you to brief me on all things Avery-related,” he said.

  I shrugged, taking another bite of pizza. It had been worth the wait. The gooey cheese pulled away from me and I tsked, pulling it back. Not so fast, cheese. “What’s there to know?”

  “Anything your family may ask?” He raised a brow. “So far, all I know is that you’re perpetually irritable and you like cheese.” He glanced down at my pizza slice. “A lot.”

  I smiled. “And mushrooms.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “So am I.” I raised an eyebrow. “Shiitake is my favorite.”

  “Tell me about your family,” he demanded.

  I caved with a disgruntled little sigh. “I have an older sister, Lane, and a brother, Art. Lane’s married to a big bear of a guy, Rick. She’s a CPA, he’s a CFO, and no couple in the history of man has maintained a better set of balanced household books. Art is the middle child, and he’s the executive chef at the Bleu Dolphin.”

  “The one in Vegas?”

  I nodded. “It took him a while to find his niche, but he’s a beast in the kitchen.”

  “And your parents?”

  It hurt briefly to think of them in those terms. They were no longer a set. I wondered when it would get less difficult to think of them that way. “It’s just my father. He’s a retired police officer.” I changed the subject before he could ask about my mother. “Now that I think about it, I don’t know you all that well either.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “Meaning?”

  “Meaning exactly that. Most of what I know has been garnered from a few random times that our paths have crossed. And of course what Julian tells me. Spoiler alert—he’s not always complimentary.” I swiped at my fingers with a napkin. “For all I know, the real you could have bodies in your basement.”

  “I don’t have a basement.”

  “Exactly,” I said, nodding. “See how little I know about you? I didn’t even know you don’t have a basement.”

  “We live in Florida, AJ. Most people don’t.” He rolled his eyes, but they twinkled with amusement. “Besides, do I look like a serial killer?”

  “What does a serial killer look like? They can be charismatic,” I informed him before taking another bite of pizza. “It’s much easier to get someone in your house as a charismatic person than wearing a Jason mask and grabbing people off the street.”

  He stared at me briefly before shaking his head. “Thanks for clearing up why even though you look like you do, you’re still single.”

  “My point is that I don’t think it’ll be a big deal if we slip up on the details. We’re just dating after all.”

  “How long have we been dating?”

  I shrugged. “I wasn’t specific. Maybe a couple of weeks.”

  “I don’t like that.” Jackson grinned, finishing off the last piece of his pizza. He crumpled the box in on itself and tucked it in the bag. “I think we’re an established couple.”

  I sent him a squinty-eyed look. “How established?”

  “Long enough that we wear old flannel pajamas around one another and finish each other’s sentences.”

  “So we’ve been married for ten years?”

  A smile tugged at his mouth as he pretended to think. “Five. We still pee with the bathroom door closed and refer to each other as bae.”

  “Oh my God.” I’d like to think I didn’t sound terror-stricken, but I probably did. “If you call me bae, I may keel over.”

  He grinned. “I’m guessing ‘boo’ is out as well?”

  “Christ.” I crumpled my pizza box to join his in the bag and took a long sip of my tea. When I could speak again, I laid out a set of specs that did not include any hugging, kissing, or calling one another nicknames that would make me hurl. “We’ve been together a month, Sparks. You call me AJ or honey. You live for my every word. You think I’m adorable and sweet.”

  “I do?” He rounded his eyes. “Our cover story should include my concussion, then.”

  “Laugh it up, Sparks. ’Cause when we touch down in Coral Bay, I’m sweet and sexy and all you can think about it.”

  “I don’t think that’ll be too much of a problem.”

  My eyes jerked up to his. His eyes were warm and intent on mine. It would be easy to get caught up in a gaze like that. A flush slowly inched up my neck that I was powerless to stop. My libido needed a swift kick because it was clearly malfunctioning. Surely I was not crushing on a footloose and fancy free playboy whose longest relationship was with an Amazon Echo.

  It would help if he wasn’t quite so sexy. Yeah. That would help me out quite a bit. At least most of that sexiness was covered. I gave a silent “thank you” to the powers that be for long-sleeved Henleys. At least I couldn’t see the tattoos on those heavily muscled arms. I’d always been a sucker for tattoos. And wide chests. Broad shoulders. Long, jean-clad legs.

  And that was the moment I knew. Only a few hours into this fake-date business, and it was already the second dumbest idea I’d ever had. Second. Coming in at an all-time first was the time I decided canning looked fun and spent three days and a boatload of money making soggy pickles.

  But everything was going to be fine. I was an adult, a strong woman capable of resisting things that I knew were bad. Unless they were dipped in chocolate. That got me to thinking about dipping parts of Jackson in chocolate. Which got me to thinking we should probably stop bumping knees under our table and get back on the damn road.

  I cleared my throat. “We should get going.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Home.

  The sun was making a slow, lazy descent off Coral Bay’s coast as I finally pulled up in the front driveway, casting everything with a soft, golden glow. The house was a sprawling ranch style with a wraparound porch, its once pristine white exterior peeling, stripped from weather and sun. Gatherings of clingy vines wound their way up the side of the house, ending in a profusion of flowers I couldn’t quite name.

  I parked behind my father’s old Buick in the driveway—not a speck of dust on that puppy. That man had been parking in the driveway the same way my entire life. Not a millimeter to the left or right. But the little blue Focus behind his car was new. His girlfriend’s car, probably.

  As I got out of the car, I took a deep breath and…there it was. That sweet, salty smell of the ocean. The slight rustle
of the palm trees mixed with the soft sounds of the waves, lapping at the shoreline. It smelled like the beach. It smelled like bonfires and marshmallows and sand in my sandals.

  It smelled like home.

  The yard was completely different and I looked at it for a moment, staring at the barren hedges. My mother and I had spent many a Saturday in the rose beds, our knees covered in soil and grass stains. I could still picture her instructing me on how to treat the finicky flowers, her face leaned toward me, cast in shadow and relief by the light, her usually brown eyes gone whiskey in the sun. In my vision, she smiled and pointed at one of the flowers. Her gardening gloves were speckled with dirt as she plucked thorns from between the flourishing leaves.

  We’d had a wide variety of roses of all colors—common red, of course, along with a few white. Then there were the wilder colors that made it all worthwhile—orange roses so vivid they almost hurt your eyes and yellow ones that fairly burst with sunshine. The blue had been my personal favorite, the petals deep bluish purple and soft as baby’s skin. The blue on such a delicate flower had been such a juxtaposition of sadness and love.

  The yard was less whimsical now, with more weeds than grass. As long as it was cut, trimmed, and neat, my father was happy. I understood. Roses and marigolds were a lot of work for something so delicate and non-sustainable, something grown for beauty and not much else. The truth of the matter was my mother’s roses were gone, just as she was.

  It was only fitting.

  “Avery?” I blinked to find Jackson looking at me, his eyes dark with concern. “You okay?”

  I let out a breath of air I hadn’t even known I’d been holding. “Ask me that in another ten minutes.”

  His mouth lifted. “I will.” He reached out and tucked an errant strand of hair behind my ear, smiling as it immediately came untucked. “It’s going to be fine.”

  I nodded, almost automatically. “And if it’s not?”

  “Then that’s what I’m here for.”