Everything Between Us (25 page)

“Hey,” she says with a smile. “My mom just left. And I sent Willa to the grocery store.”

My muscles pull tight. “And?”

She steps up to me and whispers in my ear. “And that gives us about twenty minutes.”

I let out a shaky laugh. “Okay.”

She grabs my hand and starts to drag me toward the house, and I barely remember to grab my supplies. I set them down in the enclosed porch and pull her into my arms. Our mouths collide, our tongues tangle, and my hand slides under her shirt as she frantically sheds her jacket. There are so many things I want to do to her, and there is not nearly enough time. From the way her hands are clutching at my coat, I think she feels the same way. I burrow my fingers under her bra and tweak her pearled, hard nipple.
God.
I want it in my mouth. I want it between my teeth. I want her skin against mine, her legs spread wide. I want to be so deep inside her that she’ll never be able to forget I was there.

“Stella,” I moan against her throat. “This is going to get out of control.”

I coil my arm around her waist. She touches my forehead with hers. “I thought you’d be happy,” she says. “I thought you’d want—”

“I do,” I say roughly. “But … it’s not the time. Not the place.” I want hours with her, not a few minutes.

She pulls away. “Oh.”

I don’t let her get far, because it feels too good having her against me. I love being with her, sketching side by side. I love talking to her on the phone, which we do every night. We talk about all sorts of random stuff, but there are some topics she always avoids—her therapy … and her plans. Both make me nervous. It’s not right and not cool, but I can’t help it. I mean, what the hell am I doing, letting myself freefall into Stella when she doesn’t even plan to stick around?

And what the hell am I doing, even worrying about that? I don’t think past the moment, not usually. But lately, with Stella, I have trouble not thinking. I let her lay her head on my shoulder and run my hand down her spine, memorizing the bumps of bones under skin. “How’s therapy going?”

“Fine.”

“How come you don’t talk about it with me?” I blurt.

She’s still for a moment, and then she raises her head. “I guess I don’t want to remind you that I have problems.” She rolls her eyes. “Though the fact that you have to come here to see me probably reminds you constantly.”

I skim my fingertips over her cheekbone. The circles under her eyes are a little lighter. I hope that means she’s sleeping better. We talk pretty late into the night. “We all have problems, Stella. And … you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but I’d like to hear about it.”

I thought that was how it would be, that she’d want me to help, but Romy always takes her to her sessions. Not that it’s bad—I think they’re becoming friends, and that can only be good for Stella. But if she let me drive her, it would mean I could see her outside this house, and I don’t know why she doesn’t want that. The only thing I can think of is that she wants me at a distance. I let her in, and she keeps me outside. It fucking hurts.

“It’s getting harder,” she says quietly. “I don’t like to talk about it too much because it scares me.”

And now I feel like a selfish shithead. “The whole thing? I thought therapy was supposed to be safe. Relaxing or something.”

Her eyes are huge, deep brown and liquid. “Not this therapy,” she whispers. “It’s kind of the opposite. Well, most of it.”

I don’t understand that at all, and since Stella’s not talking about it, I make a mental note to collar Romy, because now I’m worried. What if this makes her worse instead of better? Except … Stella came out of the house to greet me today, which she’s never done before. “So which part doesn’t scare you?”

“I have to breathe.”

“Breathing is good.”

Her lips twitch. “Definitely. I have to breathe in this special way. I learned in my last session.”

“Show me.”

“Right now?” Her cheeks darken.

“Yeah,” I say quietly. “Show me how to breathe.” Because right now, staring at that flush in her cheeks and her full lips … I’m having a little trouble.

She smiles. “All right,” she says, taking my hand and pulling me to sit with her on the floor near the glass wall of windows. She sits cross-legged and puts her hands in her lap. “I’m supposed to practice twice a day, for ten minutes.”

I scoot up behind her, so she’s sitting between my legs. She giggles a little as my hand slides across her ribs. “Go for it.”

Her nostrils flare and her stomach muscles tremble. “I’m supposed to be relaxed. You’re making that difficult.”

“Pretend I’m not here.”

“That’s impossible, Daniel,” she says with a laugh. But then she closes her eyes. “It’s like this—I have to breathe with my belly, instead of just my throat and chest.” She draws in a deep breath.

Aching for her, I lean in and whisper in her ear. “So if I want to feel it, my hand should be here.” My hand trails lower and rests flat on her belly.

“Yes,” she whispers, her eyes still closed. She takes another breath, and so do I.

“I could get used to this,” I murmur, strands of her hair tickling my face.

She doesn’t answer. She just breathes. Slow and devastating, like the more relaxed she is, the more I’m wound tight. I stay close, absorbing every rise and fall of her chest, every smooth movement of her body, every flutter of her eyelashes, her warm scent. She’s been baking again. She smells a bit like vanilla and orange peels, and I want to taste her. I am so fucking entranced that time stops. The only thing that snaps me out of it is when her head leans backward and rests on my shoulder.

“I like breathing a lot more when you’re here,” she says, her voice husky. Her hand rests over mine on her stomach, and her other rises to twine in my hair.

My heart pounds as I find her lips. She parts them for me, letting me in. I groan and trap her back against my front, kissing her with slow thrusts of my tongue. It’s what I’d like to be doing with my hips. Desire incinerating my thoughts, I slide my fingers under the waist of her pants, seeking the softest part of her. She makes a whimpering sound and tilts herself up as my fingertips find her clit. I stroke her, still learning what makes her hot, desperate to know every secret of her body. Desperate to make her want me so badly that she’ll never think about anyone else. I probe deeper, finding her core and sliding my fingers through those delicate, slick folds. I tease her, circling, exploring, and her grip in my hair goes tight. Eager. Pleading.
Yes.

Her back rubs against my hard-on, wearing me painfully thin. My hand spasms and I push my fingers into her, using my leverage to hold her against my body. She moans into my mouth as I stroke. A few inches, a few moments, and I’d be inside her. Her knees rise, her heels pressing into the carpet. Her hips undulate, grinding against me like she wants it, too.

“Knock, kno—oh my God!” comes a shrill voice from behind us.

I yank my hand away from Stella and scoot back quickly, panting, my fingers slick and incriminating. I look over my shoulder to see Liza marching into the enclosed porch, with Markus a few paces behind her.

“What the hell is going on?” demands Liza, looking back and forth from me to Stella, who is on her knees facing her mom, her dark eyes wide. Her hand is on her stomach.

No. Please don’t panic now
, I beg her silently. “We were breathing,” I stammer at Liza.

Liza’s eyebrows would probably be at her hairline if she could manage it. “I’m paying you to teach her how to draw,” she growls. “And you’re—what—trying to get back at me?”

My mouth drops open. “What? No, Liza—” I blink, trying desperately to think of the right thing to say, the thing that’s going to make this okay and not piss her off. “No, Stella and I are …”

Her lip curls contemptuously. “You’re what? You’re taking advantage of my mentally disabled daughter, and—”

“I am not mentally disabled!” shouts Stella, louder than I’ve ever heard her say anything. She rises to her feet, her cheeks crimson. Her gaze darts to Markus and back to Liza, and now her eyes are shiny with tears.
No, Stella. No.

“Fine. But you’re young and naive,” Liza snaps. “And an older man is taking advantage of that!”

Stella draws a long, slow breath, her belly expanding, and then lets it out. “He’s only four years older than me, Mom,” she says quietly. She’s getting paler by the second, like her strength is draining away.

Markus, still standing behind Liza, puts his hand on her shoulder. “Liza, I think we should—”

Liza shrugs him off and returns her attention to me. “You figured if you couldn’t have me, you’d go after
her
? That’s sick, Daniel.
Sick
.”

 “I care about her, Liza. It’s not about …”
You. It never has been.
If I say that, she’s going to go nuts.

“Mom,” says Stella. Her fight to stay calm is written in every line of her body. “I care about him, too. He’s not using me.”

Liza’s mouth is tight, little puckers and lines forming around her lips. Markus wraps his tattooed fingers around her arm. “Hey,” he says quietly. “This caught you by surprise. What if we give everyone a chance to cool down? If you’re worried about Stella, then it’s important to do things calmly, right?”

His eyes meet mine over Liza’s shoulder, and I can see that he’s really trying to help us. I mentally forgive him for every asshole thing he’s ever done. Especially when Liza sags against him. “I need to go lie down,” she says in a thin, strained voice. “This is too much. Daniel, I want you to leave. Markus, make sure he leaves?”

She turns and stalks down the hall, her hand on her forehead. Markus turns to us. “She forgot her lipstick and we had to come back. I’m sorry.”

Stella lets out a shuddery, gasping breath, and I go straight to her, trying to take her in my arms.

She pushes me away. “No,” she chokes out. “No.” She turns abruptly and walks out of the room, jogging for the hallway where her suite of rooms is.

And I stand there, still reaching for her, hollowed out.

“So sorry, man,” mutters Markus. “I’ll try to calm her down. Liza, I mean,” he adds quickly. “Anything you want me to tell her?”

“I have no idea,” I say hoarsely. “But please …”

“I get it, dude. I’ll do my best.” He slaps my shoulder and heads down the hall after Liza, leaving me standing in the porch, Stella’s glass cage, all by myself.

The floor of my studio is scattered with pages. I’m a book murderer. I stare at them, little circled passages marked on the faded paperback scraps. I got the book secondhand. A couple of copies, in fact. But this is their last stop. I hope Charles Dickens wouldn’t mind. My fingertips brush over one circled quote, my chest aching: “
If she wounds you, love her. If she tears your heart to pieces – and as it gets older and stronger, it will tear deeper – love her …”

Is that what this is? Is that why I’m terrified that I won’t see her again? Is that why, when she didn’t answer the phone last night, I was too choked on my own words to even leave a message other than “I’m sorry. Please call me?” Is that why I’ve ignored all the messages left by Isla and Franka, cougars looking for private lessons, offering me two hundred an hour? I should do it—call one of them, fuck her hard, try to cut Stella out of me in the process. Because if this goes on … I’m done. I’ll have to make a living on talent I’m not sure I have.

My eyes drift to another passage on the very next page: “‘I’ll tell you … what real love is. It is blind devotion, unquestioning self-humiliation, utter submission, trust and belief against yourself and the whole world, giving up your whole heart and soul …’”

It sounds horrifying. Why would I ever let myself do that?

Especially if it feels anything like this?

“Daniel,” says Romy, sinking to the floor next to me.

I flinch and sweep the pages into a quick pile, then set my sketchbook over them. “Hey,” I say, rubbing my hand over my eyes. “What’s up?”

“I just came by to grab Caleb’s phone. He forgot it here last night and he had to be with Katie at her program today. Is your mom okay?”

“Yeah.” I clear my throat. “She’s been resting at home. She can’t work right now, and she’s just trying to get her strength back before chemo starts in April.”

“So she’s not the reason you look like you’re about to crack into a million pieces?”

I let out a hoarse bark of a laugh. “I don’t crack.”

“Of course not,” says Romy with a gentle smile. “Nothing ever touches you, right?” I give her a sidelong glance, and she puts her hand on my shoulder.

My phone rings. I rip it out of my pocket, but my stomach falls when I see the number. It’s not Stella. It’s Isla. Again. I stare at the phone until it falls silent, then toss it onto my drop cloth, though what I really want to do is hurl it against the steel wall of my studio.

“Some of the women in Caleb’s class were talking about how you haven’t returned their calls,” Romy says quietly.

“I should. I
will
.” I groan. “As soon as I figure out what the hell is wrong with me.”

“I bet I could tell you the answer with one word,” she says. “One name, actually.”

“I bet you could.” I stare at the wall. Why hasn’t she called me back?

“I think I need to explain some things to you.”

I sigh. “Please. Because nothing is making sense.”

“I just came from taking Stella to her therapy appointment. She’s working really hard, Daniel. It’s not easy for her.”

“What the hell kind of therapy
is
this?” I snap.