by Megan Hart
left. It couldn't have been warm from his ass, or at least I
shouldn't have been able to feel it if it was, but I imagined
heat. I knew I shouldn't pick up the paper, or smooth it
out in front of me. I knew, especialy, that I shouldn't read
it.
But I did, anyway.
I didn't learn the secrets of the universe. I didn't even find
out his name. He'd mostly been scribbling and doodling,
with a few chicken-scratch phrases I could read but didn't
understand here and there on the paper. Looking over it, I
should've felt dirty. I only felt disappointed. But what had I
expected, a hand-written autobiography listing his
expected, a hand-written autobiography listing his
education, career and medical history?
Stil, I smoothed out the creases as I finished my breakfast
and folded the paper in half. Then half again. And again,
until finaly I'd turned a legal-size sheet of paper into a
palmful of secrets. It wasn't any of my business. I had no
right to keep it. It weighed there as heavily as a handful of
lead, and yet I couldn't manage to toss it into the trash.
I did wish, though, that I'd lingered over the coffee.
Riverview Manor doesn't have a doorman, and the front-
desk staff was there to accept packages and take care of
problems, not keep anyone from entering the building. The
building had security cameras in the elevators and on every
floor, but no real means of keeping anyone out who
wanted to be in.
Part of me wasn't surprised when I turned the corner of
the hal to see Austin waiting for me in front of my door.
Another part wanted to turn and run away. I lifted my chin
instead, wishing again I'd at least bothered to wear
makeup, though honestly he'd seen me look way worse.
"What are you doing here?" I bent to put my bags down
so I could pul my key from my purse. When I stood,
so I could pul my key from my purse. When I stood,
Austin's eyes were on my face, not my ass. Now, that
surprised me.
"You didn't answer my cals."
I fit the key into the lock, but didn't turn it right away. "I
meant, what are you doing here? "
"I caled your mom."
I unlocked and opened my door and pushed it, but didn't
go through. I turned to look at him. My irritation must have
been clear on my face, because he held up his hands right
away as though I meant to punch him. "My mother told
you where I lived?"
"Your mom always liked me."
I blew a sigh that fluttered the fringe of my bangs off my
forehead and then pushed through the door. I left it open
behind me, as much of an invitation as I could bear to give.
He folowed and shut the door. Softly, with a click, not a
slam.
I put my bags in the kitchen and kicked off my shoes.
Austin stood stil and watched me without making any
Austin stood stil and watched me without making any
move to sit. He looked around the apartment with interest,
then shoved his hands deep into his pockets and rocked
on his heels while I took my time unpacking and putting
away my groceries.
"Can I sit down?" he asked finaly, when I'd made it clear I wasn't going to offer.
"Do you have to ask?" I kept my back turned as I sifted
through the change from my walet. I found a Wheatie
penny and set it aside to put in my colection, then washed
my hands thoroughly with soap and hot water. Money is
one of the filthiest things a person can touch.
When I turned to look at him, he was stil standing. We
stared at each other across the expanse of my unimmense
living room until I nodded. He sat the way he always had,
legs sprawled, taking up as much space as he could.
I took my time cleaning the kitchen, wiping the counters
and scrubbing the sink with bleach-infused powder. I even
emptied the garbage pail and took the trash out to the
chute at the end of the hal. I expected Austin to be
restless or irritated by the time I came back, but he'd
found a copy of a Robert Heinlein novel inside the pile of
found a copy of a Robert Heinlein novel inside the pile of
books and magazines thrown into the straw basket next to
the couch and was flipping through it.
"It doesn't have any pictures," I said from the doorway.
Austin put the book on the coffee table. "This is nice."
He hadn't risen to the bait, though I'd made a point of
pushing one of his buttons. "The book?"
"The coffee table," he said, stil not rising.
"It was Stela's."
Austin nodded, like that made sense. "Glad I didn't put my
feet up on it."
It took me an actual five seconds before I realized he was
trying to tease me without pissing me off. He was actualy
just…kidding. I knew how to handle him trying to seduce
me or piss me off. I didn't know how to take that.
"I miss you," Austin said.
The words were hard to hear, and I don't mean because
he spoke too low, or mumbled. They were hard for me to
he spoke too low, or mumbled. They were hard for me to
listen to because I didn't know what to say. I didn't want
him to miss me.
I sat across from him, instead. The recliner's springs
sometimes poked through the faded material, though I'd
tossed a fleece throw over it. One did now, and I winced
as I shifted.
"I do," he said, as though my expression had been in
response to his statement and not a coil of wire in my butt.
"Austin." Nothing else would come out.
He shrugged. I hadn't falen in love with him because of his
way with words. Back then it hadn't mattered if he spoke
more with his hands than his mouth. Back then we'd both
been young and dumb.
"You look good, Paige. This place," he gestured, "it's nice."
"Thanks."
His hair used to be bleached almost white by the sun, and
he wore it so short I could see his scalp. When I ran my
fingers through it, my nails scraped skin. Now it fel
fingers through it, my nails scraped skin. Now it fel
forward over his ears and forehead and was the color of
wheat in a field, waiting to be cut. His eyes, moving over
my face, made me think he was waiting to be cut, too.
I almost couldn't do it. I mean, the night before I'd let him
put his tongue down my throat and his hands al over me.
When the warmth of him wafted over me, I wanted to
close my eyes at how familiar it was. How easy it would
have been to take him by the hand and lead him to my
bedroom.
I kept my eyes open, a lesson I'd been taught a long time
ago but had taken me a long time to learn. "I don't miss
you, Austin. Last night was a mistake."
"C'mon, Paige. Don't say that. We were always good
together."
"We haven't been together for a long time," I said, not
quite as evenly as I wanted.
"It's not just the sex." Austin leaned forward, too, his
hands on the knees of his dirty denim
jeans. A white spot
had worn through just below his kneecap, not quite a hole,
but on its way to becoming one. "I didn't just mean that. I
but on its way to becoming one. "I didn't just mean that. I
can get laid anytime I want."
"I'm sure you can." I got up, my arms folded across my
chest.
He got up, too. "I didn't mean it that way."
I wasn't going to bend. Not over the chair, not over the
bed, and not over this. "It doesn't matter how you meant it.
I think you should go."
"Same old Paige," he said with a shake of his hair. "Stil hard as nails, huh? Hard as a rock. Can't ever give me a
break."
"You don't need a break from me. Besides, you can just
get laid whenever you want. Look, Austin," I said when it
looked as though he meant to speak. "We can't keep
doing this."
"Why not?"
I studied him deliberately until I couldn't hold in the sigh
any longer and it seeped out of me like air from a nail-
punched tire. "You know why not. Because fucking
doesn't solve every problem. And we had a lot of
doesn't solve every problem. And we had a lot of
problems."
He crossed his arms and looked stormy. I didn't point out
the arguments we'd had about money, about religion,
about monogamy. I didn't remind him of the nights he'd
gone out for a few beers with friends and had come home
smeling of perfume and guilt, or that it didn't matter
whether he had or hadn't fucked anyone else, it was that
he was content to choose a night with his buddies over
staying home with me. I didn't bring up the times I'd said I
was studying for school when I was realy someplace else,
with someone else.
"I just want you to be happy, Austin." I meant it.
He leaned back and frowned more fiercely. "You want me
to be happy so you can feel better about yourself, that's
al. So you don't feel so bad about what happened."
The truth of that stung me like a wasp, smooth-stingered
and able to jab more than once. "I think you should go."
Damn him, he didn't. He moved closer and cupped my
elbows in his palms so I had to uncross my arms to push
him away or let him snuggle up close. I put my hands on
him away or let him snuggle up close. I put my hands on
his chest, but didn't push. His muscles beneath the tight T-
shirt were hard and firm. He leaned, and I didn't pul away.
If he'd kissed me, I'd have been lost, but if he'd ever
thought he knew me, he proved himself wrong again. He
didn't kiss me. He spoke, instead.
"I'm your husband."
I pushed my arms straight. His hands slid from my elbows
along my arms and fel away at my wrists. I stepped back,
my hand against his chest preventing him from folowing
unless he pushed me, too. Austin looked for a second as if
he meant to try it, but didn't.
"I have a folder ful of paperwork that says otherwise," I
told him.
"Okay, so not officialy. But you can't tel me—"
"I can tel you anything I want, so long as it's true," I shot back.
"Can you tel me it's true that you don't miss me, too? Not
even a little?"
"I miss fucking you," I said flatly. "The rest of it? Not so
"I miss fucking you," I said flatly. "The rest of it? Not so much."
Austin grinned and spread his fingers. "It's a start, right? I'l cal you."
"I won't answer."
"I'l cal again."
I pointed at the door, and he went. I waited until it closed
behind him before I gave in to the urge to sigh. What is it
about bad boys that make them so, so good?
I've known him since kindergarten. Austin. In my
elementary-school class photos, more times than not, his
freckled face is beaming from the row behind me. In one,
we stand beside each other, our grins showing the same
missing teeth.
In high school, we had nothing in common. Austin was a
jock. I was a gothpunk girl with multiple piercings and a
tattoo of a dragonfly on my back. We shared colege-level
classes and the same lunch period. I knew who he was
because of his prowess on the footbal field. If he knew me
it was maybe because I was one of the girls every boy
it was maybe because I was one of the girls every boy
knew, or maybe just because we'd been in the same
school since we were five. We didn't say hi when we
passed in the hals, but he was never mean to me the way
some of the boys could be. Austin never caled me names
or made crude invitations.
In the fal of our senior year, Austin went down under a
pile of boys pumped up with testosterone and fury. We
won the homecoming game, but instead of riding in Chrissy
Fisher's dad's 1966 Impala convertible, Austin took a red-
lights-flashing ambulance to the Hershey Medical Center.
He recovered, nothing miraculous about it. His body,
bones broken and skin torn, healed. Nobody ever said
he'd never play footbal again. Austin simply never did.
Nor basketbal, either, and in the spring, not basebal. By
then his chances of going to anything other than community
colege had vanished along with the scholarship offers, but
if he ever cared he wasn't getting a ful ride to Penn State,
he never said so to me.
And by then, he would have. By the time our senior year
ended, Austin told me everything.
We were an odd couple, but nobody shunned us for it. I
We were an odd couple, but nobody shunned us for it. I
didn't hear whispers in the hals. No jealous cheerleaders
tried to pul out my dyed-black hair, and no slick rich
jocks tried to convince him he was better off without me.
We didn't go to the prom, but only because we decided to
stay home and watch soft porn and fuck, instead.
When I told my mom we were going to get married, she
hugged me and wept. Her bely poked between us—she
was pregnant with Arthur, then. If she suspected I wanted
to marry Austin as much so I could move out of the house
as for passion, she didn't say anything.
When we told his parents, his dad said nothing and his
mother's eyes dropped to my waistband. She didn't ask
me if I was pregnant, and she must have been surprised as
the months of our marriage passed and my bely stayed
flat, but no matter how she might have felt about the
prospect of me as a daughter-in-law, the idea of a bastard
grandchild must've been worse.
I wore a thrift-store wedding dress and Austin wore a suit
of his dad's we'd paid the dry cleaner to take in. In
pictures, my thick black eyeliner and my spiked black hair
make me look pale, wan. Tired. Scared, even.
The truth is, I was happy.
We both were, I like to think. At least at first. Austin went
to work for his dad's construction business, and I kept up
work at my mom's shop. My granddad had died and it
was hers, ful-time, and now that she had Arty, she
couldn't spend as much time with it, so I managed the
We were happy.
And then, we weren't.
Chapter 07
When I was younger, the prospect of Sunday dinner at my
dad's had so excited me or stressed me out I'd vomit.
Never at my father's house—even when I was little I knew
Stela wouldn't approve of a puking kid. I didn't puke
anymore, but I'd never managed to get rid of the knots in
my stomach, either.
I popped an antacid tablet now as I sat in my not-
expensive-enough-to-be-impressive car in their half-circle
driveway of stamped concrete. This was the fourth new
house my father'd had in the past seventeen years of life
with his second family. Before that he'd lived in a stately
Georgian-style half mansion with his first family. He'd
never lived with my mother.
Birth-order studies claim that an age difference of six or
more years between siblings complicates the normal
oldest, middle and youngest personality traits by also
making each child an only. That's why, though I have five
half siblings and an uncle who's more like a brother, I'm an
only child. I've tried identifying with being the middle kid—
but what it comes down to, in the end, is I'm not.
The door opened and Jeremy and Tyler ran out. They
both favor my dad, too. Al of us look more like siblings
than we were raised to be. I was fourteen when Jeremy
was born, sixteen for Tyler. They're more like nephews or
cousins than brothers. I'm not sure what they think of me,
just that they're always glad to see me and aside from the
fact they're spoiled brats who could use a good spanking
now and then, I'm usualy glad to see them, too.
"Hey, Paige." Jeremy at twelve no longer ran to clutch at
my legs. He settled for a half wave with limp fingers.
Tyler, ten, was nearly as tal as me but squeezed me
anyway. "Paige, c'mon, we're going to play Pictionary.
Grandma and Grandpa are here already. So's Nanny and
Poppa."
"And Gretchen and Steve, too, I see." I pointed to the two minivans that belonged to my dad's kids with his first wife.
"Everyone's here," Jeremy said somewhat sourly, and I
gave him a glance. He'd always been a pretty upbeat kid.
Today he scowled, blond eyebrows pinching tight over the
smaler version of our father's nose.
I leaned back into my car to grab the gift, then locked my
car. It was unlikely anything would happen to it parked in
my dad's driveway, but it was habit. "Come. Let's go in."
