A Fine Mess (Over the Top) (7 page)

Her brows are relaxed now, no nail polish collecting on the floor, and she’s smiling.

“A tie then,” I say to keep the game alive, even though I totally won. “My turn.”

We swap a couple of rounds back and forth, the creepy cat and mysterious coughing the only things to break our quiet rhythm. The more we play the game, the more she relaxes. Something tells me this isn’t a habit she shares with people. More like a secret, a glimpse of her private self. It does weird things to my chest and makes me want to shield her from the world.

Mine, mine, mine.

But she’s not. Not when I’ve made it clear I’m not willing to take things further.

She looks at me the way my mother looks at my asshole of a father, and I’ve seen what happens when assholes break hearts. If I hadn’t been home that day, shit would have been a lot worse, and there’s no denying my tainted DNA. If I truly care about Lily, I should push her away. Sayonara. Have a nice life. Who needs a girl
friend
anyway? I should flaunt chicks in front of her like I did at the grand opening of Moondog Toronto. Dick à la mode.

Seeing her with Kevin that night was a kick in the balls. The only answer: retaliation. I put on a show with my date, and she kissed the man-child in front of me. The incident instigated the Pussy-athon. Up until National Cockblock Day, I got busy with as many willing partners as there were days of the week, and twice on Sundays. (I’m a religious man.) But no amount of coital bliss could erase the visual of Kevin sucking Lily’s face.

I could try harder this time. I could repeat my sexcapades with renewed vigor until she hates me, but maybe,
possibly
, there’s a slim chance I’m more like Finn than like our sperm donor. Finn is Mr. Monogamy. He’d sink with his ship. You could tie a naked Kate Upton to his bed and swear up and down Meryl would never know, and the dude would hightail it out the door. My sister-in-law may be a doctor who performs circumcisions, but it’s more than fear. Finn is a solid guy. The twins have him as their bitch, and he loves every second of it. He’s a family man, through and through.

Could I be like him? Devoted? Honest? Loyal? Kolton thinks so, and he’s seen me at my worst. It’s not the most farfetched idea. I’ve just never had a reason to test those waters.

Until Lily.

I study her as she picks up a ring, her hair a bit frizzy from her hat. Pale skin. Delicate hands. Knees that often turn in. How this slip of a girl got under my skin, I’ll never know. But she has burrowed deep.

Superpower wish: genetic control,
rewrite my DNA
.

She holds up her new treasure. “Found a good one.” The blue stone in the center of the ring catches the light of a nearby lamp, the thick band decorated with filigree.

“Okay,” I say. “You first.”

She swallows and peeks at me from below her lashes. “There was this man.” Another swallow. “He was a soldier about to be shipped off to war.” She scrapes her teeth over her bottom lip. “He bought this ring but didn’t propose to his girl before he left. He was afraid. He didn’t think he’d do right by her. But he held on to it during every battle, and every horrible night. When he got home and realized he was being foolish”—she looks at me with glassy eyes—“the girl had fallen for someone else.”

Single Lily fights dirty.

If witnessing Ethan fucking Goldstein’s wandering hands was hard, seeing her fall in love with another guy would probably feel like swallowing acid. And she’s calling me on it. Maybe I
am
being foolish. Maybe I’m more my brother than my father, and I could make us work. How much longer can I resist her, anyway?

My pulse kicks up a notch as I approach her. I stop a foot away and hold out my hand. “The ring, please.”

Trembling slightly, she places it in my palm, her fingers grazing my skin.

“A man,” I say, turning the band over, “proposed to the girl of his dreams with this ring.” I step closer. “He worshipped her. I mean, she was hot as fuck”—eye roll
numero cinco
—“but they were meant to be, like real soul mates. Then the unthinkable happened.” I shift my feet until there’s barely an inch between us.

Self-control at DEFCON 2.

“What happened?” she whispers.

I grin. “A car fell on her. Freak accident. Dropped from the second story of a parking garage. Nasty mess.” I grab her hand and place the ring on her finger as she mumbles something about my maturity. I knock her toe with mine. “Quiet. I’m not done.”
Numero seis.
I clear my throat. “Although the man loved his wife more than anything, he pawned the ring. He knew it was special. He hoped the next person to buy it could be as lucky in love as he was.”

That stops the eye rolls.

She looks at the ring, then at me, then back and forth again.

Her lips part. Her chest rises.

Sirens ring: DEFCON 1.

I’m a thrill seeker. Cliff jumping, fast cars, steep slopes—you name it, I love it. The adrenaline rush gives me Spidey-sense, and my pulse shoots from one hundred to 220 in ten seconds flat.

Leaning in to kiss Lily is like skydiving without a chute.

I don’t give her time to turn me down, not a moment for either of us to overthink. Heart in my throat, I taste her lips. Yep,
strawberry
. She’s soft and tentative, then eager, a whimper escaping when our tongues swipe. I grip her harder and walk until I have her pressed against a table. She tugs my hair. I grab her ass. The next whimper is louder, the sound shredding what’s left of my self-control. I
need
to hear what other sounds she makes,
need
to hear her fall apart. Will she chant my name or pray to her maker? Will she scream or groan? Our mouths move faster, hands greedier, my jeans barely containing me. If I don’t stop soon, we’ll be giving these antiques enough stories for another century.

By the time I pull away, she’s swallowed my heart.

We’re both breathing hard, her lips full and swollen from our kiss, my arms itching to get around her again.
Mine, mine, mine.
She touches the ring on her finger as another mucus-filled cough sounds out, closer this time.

“That piece has a tragic story.”

I swivel toward the voice, but our Oz is still a no-show. Then I glance lower. Dwarf? Little person? I’m unsure on the PC term, but the guy in question would maybe reach my chest. Considering I’ve been reduced to the Tin Man, I could go with Munchkin.

Tufts of white hair circle his bald head, round glasses perched on his nose. He pulls a handkerchief up to his mouth and practically coughs up a lung. “Apologies,” he says when he catches his breath. “Emphysema.”

Neither of us says a word. I don’t know about Lily, but my focus is on how quickly I can get her out of here and out of those clothes.

Superpower wish: X-ray vision.

Oz nods to the ring she’s wearing. “It arrived a week ago. The woman was frantic to be rid of it. I believe she’d caught her husband in a compromising position.” He pauses for effect, and my libido nose-dives.

Of course she chooses the ring of a philanderer.

“I contacted her yesterday to share some information,” he continues. “I’d learned some history about the ring, but I was given the most distressing news. The woman had taken her life. Sad when love turns on you.” He presses his handkerchief to his lips but doesn’t cough. When the moment passes, he glances around the shop. “Some of these pieces have tragic stories, some joyful, but they all speak.”

Cheating. Divorce. The fallout.

Great timing, dude.

The awareness of what I could do to Lily renews, and the empty cavity that housed my heart clamps shut. She removes the ring, and I step back, the energy between us frosting over.

Oz shoos Caesar away with a clap of his hands, then he sighs. “Shame on me, sharing mournful tales. Not the best sales tactic, I’m afraid. I get caught up in the history of things. Do you need help finding anything specific?”

I fold my arms, unable to face Lily. I just kissed her and obliterated a line that can’t be uncrossed. She has my heart, for fuck’s sake. With the touch of our lips, we each gained the ability to destroy the other. A superpower I’d rather not have. It’s a good thing Oz stopped things from going further.

She touches my elbow. “I think Hayley would like the jewelry box. And I’d get Hazel the brush-and-mirror set. The engravings on the backs are beautiful.” She points to the pieces, then grabs her jacket. “I’ll meet you outside. I need some air.”

Then she’s gone, with my heart, her disappointment etched in her tight features.

Oz gathers the items as I try to figure out how to make this right. We need to get back to our normal: harmless flirting, easy conversation. Light and fun. Find the place where we can hang out like before, none of this bullshit in the way. If she’s working tomorrow, I’ll go by with the sample sweaters I brought. Since meeting Lily, I can’t finish a design without seeing her in it. I’ve flown to Toronto often to fit her. My muse. My inspiration. That can’t change. It won’t.

If our friendship gets weirder, if I’ve screwed things up with that kiss, it’ll leave me one option. I’ve never told a soul about my mother. Not Nico. Not Kolton. Not even Finn. My mother’s instructions were clear: no one is to know. But I’ve messed with Lily’s head too much, pushing her away and drawing her in like a marionette. Like I’m a total fucking asshole. She’ll need to understand. One last-ditch effort to get us back on track, and if I fail, confession it is. Twenty-two years is too long to keep a secret anyway.

My head is so filled with Sawyer I almost rear-end a car on the way to work. The brush of his stubble. His breath on my lips. The weight of his hands on my body. He should come with a warning label:

Extreme fixation probable. Avoid operating a moving vehicle.

I’ve experienced want before, the heat that develops from anticipation. But I’ve never known this. Yesterday, as soon as Sawyer leaned down to kiss me, my brain short-circuited. No touch was needed. He was a beam of light and I was caught in his energy, bowing to the pressure of desire. Desire that sent heat coursing through my body. His lips were soft yet firm, his slight scruff scraping my chin, but it was his tongue that worked magic—dancing with mine in a sensual twirl. He didn’t demand me, but he didn’t ask, either.

He took. I gave. We forgot ourselves.

Then we remembered.

I stare at the drafting board in front of me, a half-finished sketch of a purse begging to be reworked. Shakey Graves strums from my iPod, and I lose focus, the buckle I’ve redrawn several times blurring on the page. My mind wanders to yesterday’s agonizing car ride back to Sawyer’s hotel, each minute of silence horrible. Weirder than weird. The DJ on the radio laughed about some joke, heightening the dead air between us.

When I parked, Sawyer paused with his hand on the door. “Are you working at the shop tomorrow?”

I nodded, but my voice was still stuck at the antique store.

“I’ll be by in the afternoon. I have some samples to show you.”

I mumbled, “Sure,” as I stared at the steering wheel.

Then he left.

I’ve been glancing at the clock since noon, trying to decide precisely when
after
noon falls. Is it twelve on the nose? One minute past? An hour later? I force my gaze to the opposite wall. Shay designed it as a massive bookcase, the white cubbies filled with magazines, books, and binders. The table in the middle of the space is strewn with illustrations, leaving room at the back for a mannequin dress form and a rack of samples. Framed articles line the remaining walls, the stories of success both a celebration and motivation to excel. Sawyer beams in one, his smile lighting up the shot.

The opposite of yesterday’s frown.

The second the store owner mentioned infidelity, Sawyer’s face hardened, and my stomach curdled. I know he wants me. That kiss was all the proof I needed. My body ached all night, remembering, like my skin was on fire. The brush of my sheets, the whisper of my nightgown against my skin—each graze scorched like a branding iron. And the feeling hasn’t lessened.

The wall clock teases me, each tick a moment closer to Sawyer’s arrival, his presence likely to suck the air from the room. For the fourth time, I erase the asymmetrical buckle on the purse I’m drawing, and I step back. Sometimes distance is needed to see things properly. Reassess. Take in the whole rather than the details. I blink, shake my head, and refocus on the sketch. I’ve overworked the stitching and haven’t balanced the positive and negative space. The buckle is wrong. Too much. It should be a zipper crossing the leather at a diagonal. The rest pops into place, the pockets and stitching rearranging themselves just so. Clarity.

“Hey, Lil.”

Sawyer’s voice muddies my lucidity, leaving only the burn.

I stay facing the drafting board. If I turn, he’ll see everything on my feverish skin—the want, the way he affects me. The door clicks shut, and his boots thud on the concrete floor, followed by the sound of a metal hanger hooking on the rack. “I’ve got the sweater samples. The wool is giving me some trouble. I’d like you to try it on.”

The buzz of a zipper sounds, and my skin blisters.

Try it on.

This habit of ours began innocently enough. He’d bring samples when visiting the store and ask me to model them. Sawyer claimed the mannequin was too stiff, that he needed to pin the garments on flesh and bone. Secretly I hoped he liked standing that close, leaning over me, pressing his fingers against my ribs and hips. After our kiss and his confession at the party, I no longer question his intentions. Now he wants me to try on a sweater, as though it doesn’t mean more.

“Lily,” he says, and my heart trips.

Will he apologize for yesterday or ignore it? Does he wish it never happened?

I hold my breath until he says, “Did you get a zit or something?”

I whirl around. “What?”

He motions to my face, grinning. “You’re facing away like the time you got that breakout on your chin.”

Sawyer West: always the comedian.

I sputter out a laugh, but it sounds strangled. All I can do is drink him in. Dark jeans, heavy boots, slim white T-shirt exposing the solid plane of his chest. A man’s chest. Sawyer is pure masculinity, down to the ridge of excitement that pressed into my belly yesterday.

My thighs clench at the memory. “Nope. Acne-free.” Then I add, “Any other guesses?” My sarcasm is uncharacteristic, but I’m tired of his hot-and-cold routine; I’m not a tap he can twist at whim.

He doesn’t bristle or comment on the flush of my cheeks. No jokes are cracked or silly dances offered. He broadens his stance and tilts his head. “Just trying to exterminate the weird, and your music is too mellow for a danceathon.” Smiling like yesterday never happened, he holds out a black sweater. “Mind trying this on?”

Not a word about the kiss. No apology for the excruciating ride to his hotel. At least one of us can pretend it never happened.

I grab the wool and pull the sweater over my head, messing up my bun as I slide it on top of my clothes. The fabric is tighter than my loose green dress, whose cap sleeves catch in the arms. I pull my skirt lower and adjust the sweater’s wool seams. Finally, I stop fidgeting.

Sawyer walks to one of the cubbies, the space housing scissors, measuring tape, and supplies. He grabs a box of pins and moves behind me. Pausing. Waiting. We’re not even touching, but
God
, I might combust, my marrow boiling, cooking me from the inside out. He lifts my arms and glides a hand down my left side, following the seam. Gooseflesh explodes in his wake. One pin. Two. He tapers the side closer to my body. My eyelids flutter, and I focus on my shoes, the vintage ballet flats I bought last week:
A woman’s last dance with her lover.

Not even stories help. He’s too much. After that kiss, being in the same province as him is too much. I step forward, and his hands fall away. “I can’t do this,” I say, my voice cracking. Steeling my nerves, I face him. “You obviously have reasons for not pursuing this thing with us, but I don’t really understand it. Not after yesterday. I just want…”

Everything. Him. Us. To know what his hips would feel like flush against mine. What it would be like to wake up next to him. How his side of the bed would look—sloppy, neat, or, knowing Sawyer, sagging under the weight of comic books.

I don’t finish the sentence.

He looks at the embossed ceiling, then drags a hand down his face. “This isn’t working,” he says, more to himself than to me. Then he sighs. “I’m sorry about yesterday. Not about kissing you. That needed to happen. But about after.”

My breath falters.

Another apology, this one laced with…hope? If he’s not sorry about the kiss, does he want to do it again? Do more?
Dirty things.
I’d kill to know what he’s imagined.

“The after was pretty awful,” I say.

“It was.” Gone are his joking tone and flippant attitude, heaviness in their place. He settles against the edge of the table. “I have to tell you something, some shit that happened when I was a kid. I think it’ll help you understand why I’ve been such a dick since the Kevin thing.”

He pats the table beside him, and I mimic his pose—shoulders tilted forward, legs outstretched. “Bully’s Lament” plays from the stereo, the steady drums beating in my chest. His deep voice blends with the beats.

“I was eight when my dad left,” he says. “Finn was on a school trip, and I’d come home from baseball practice. It was a shitty day, for an eight-year-old. The kind that has you tossing your backpack on the floor after you slam the door shut.”

I almost laugh at the visual, an angry Sawyer hard to imagine. But I don’t. He doesn’t often talk about his father, and he never mentions specifics about his parents’ divorce. He’s sharing something personal with me, like I did with him yesterday.

“Did someone steal your lunch money?” I toss out the question to keep him talking, lightening the mood as he would.

A partial smile curves his lips. “Some moron in my class stole an X-Men comic from my bag and messed it up, and the coach at practice chewed me out for showing off in front of girls.”

“At eight?”

He shrugs. “I jumped from the womb cooing for the nurses.”

Says the man who’s stolen my heart. And probably countless others.

His smile fades. He rubs his thigh, and I place my hand on his back, sensing his need to purge. To share whatever story is weighing him down. At the antique shop, when he confronted me about my odd behavior, he didn’t laugh or judge or freak. He forced me to share things I’ve never told anyone. Instead of making me feel small, his calm acceptance was like an extra skin sewn over my insecurities, and my need to shop abated. Because of him. Because he glimpsed my true self and didn’t run away. Only a glimpse, but it’s the most real I’ve been with anyone, aside from my nana, and the most loved I’ve felt.

Then he shut me out, and the need to buy resurfaced.

Still, I’ll offer him something, a safe place to unload. I could never deny him that. “What happened when you got home?”

He grips the table, his knuckles whitening under the strain. “It was quiet. I was stomping around, pissed off. Slammed the fridge door when I couldn’t find anything to eat. I got angry about that, that there was no food. So I went looking for my mother. I wanted to bitch at her about it, and I found her in her bedroom…”

I wait. And wait. The heat clicks on, a soft air current blowing through the room.

Then, “She was passed out beside an empty bottle of pills.” He exhales, as though he’s released a burden from his shoulders. “I’ve never told anyone about this.”

But he’s telling me. Even though his mother’s alive and well, my heart breaks for the child who witnessed such pain. I slide my hand under his, nudging until he releases the table’s edge, smoothing his tensed fingers the way he eased mine yesterday. My thumb brushes his wrist, a rapid pulse tapping beneath his skin. “I can’t imagine dealing with that at any age, let alone at eight. What did you do?”

His palm dampens against mine. “I nearly pissed myself when I couldn’t wake her. She just lay there, like she was dead. So I called 911. The lady on the line asked me a bunch of questions, but I don’t remember answering. I don’t remember much after that. But…the way my mother’s mouth hung open, that stayed with me. And her shirt had ridden up. I wanted to tug it down, but I was too scared to touch her again. It was fucked up.”

If I were his girlfriend, I’d pull him against me and rub his neck and back until his pulse slowed. I’d kiss his temple, hoping to ease his pain. Instead I shift closer and our thighs brush. “It’s awful you had to deal with that on your own. Finn must have flipped when he found out.”

“He doesn’t know. No one does.”

I pause midbreath. “What do you mean no one? How’s that possible?”

His weight sinks heavier onto the table. “When my mom woke up at the hospital, she was angry. I didn’t get it at the time, you know, exactly what went down. But my father hurt her bad enough to make her hurt herself. She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he had that power over her, I guess. She made it clear I couldn’t tell anyone about it. Not even Finn. So he got back from his school trip to find out our father split, and our mother was a mess, but he never knew what she did. I tried playing sick for a bit to get out of school, worried I’d come home and find her like that again. Or worse. She wouldn’t have it. I spent a lot of time pissed off, but I tried to keep her happy. I’d do what I could to make her laugh. Like it was on me to keep her together.”

He stubs his toe into the floor, the sole squeaking each time. “Finn forgave our father for fucking around on her, but he’s never fully understood why I hate him so much. And I think…” He flattens his other hand over mine, sandwiching my palm between his. “I think it’s why I’m struggling with us.”

I’ll say. The thought of him angry, upset, and alone as a child tears my heart out. An eight-year-old shouldn’t have to spend his days thinking his mother may take her life because his father screwed around. Most adults would cave under that pressure. “I get it. But which part, exactly? If we’re together, what do you think will happen?”

He drops my hand and pushes to his feet. He paces a tight line. “That kiss. I mean, Jesus, Lil—it was beyond intense. That’s more than I’ve ever felt with anyone, and I’m guessing it was the same for you.”

Like I could deny the moans that escaped my lips. “Yes.”

Frowning, he stops by my drafting board. “Thing is, I have a shit track record with women. I never told you, but I cheated on a high school girlfriend. It pissed me off I did it. I wasn’t into her, but that wasn’t the point. After that, I stopped swimming upstream. No matter how much I’d like to deny it, I’m my father’s son. Every person in my family is divorced.”

I match him frown for frown, the absurdity of his comment fanning my sudden anger. There’s no question what he’s been through has shaped him. How could it not? But it shouldn’t define him. “You can’t base your life on your father’s actions, and we all do stupid stuff as teens. At least you realized it and didn’t do it again.”

His brows pinch together, but there’s hope in his pleading brown eyes. He needs a push to get past this roadblock that’s been in place for most of his life. A push to be with me. “What about Finn? He and Meryl are amazing together. The twins are happy. He’s your flesh and blood just as much as your father is. More, even.”

He shoves his hands in his pockets. “I’ve seen what happens when a man hurts a woman. I’ve lived it. And us, this thing we have, it’s strong enough that if I hurt you, I could do some real damage. I’m not sure it’s worth the risk.”