Held: A New Adult Romance (8 page)

 "It was kind of you," she says. "Not to ask, I mean. Some days when my therapist comes I feel like I do nothing but talk about...stuff. Issues. Emotions. All of that. You were the first normal conversation I'd had in forever."

 "I'm glad."

 She smiles. "Me too. And I do, by the way."

 "Do what?"

 "Want to make friends."

 I stare at the pool for a moment and swallow. I don't trust myself to look at her. She's too lovely and it's been too long for me. "Good," I say. "So do I."

 She doesn't say anything else. I think she knows somehow that I'm trying to keep my eyes from straying. Out of the corner of my eye I see her rubbing sunblock on her chest. Her fingertips dip beneath the fabric of her bikini. She has one leg bent and I can see the pale inside of her thigh, but it's different this time. Nobody's shoving a camera up her skirt and forcing her to show herself.

 I have no idea what to say. Everything on my lips has the word 'beautiful' in it.

 Eventually she lets out a dry, embarrassed little laugh. "So much for that," she says.

 "For what?"

 "Normal conversation."

 "Oh." I stare at the swimming pool again, but I feel like we've exhausted that topic of conversation. "I don't know what to say," I admit. "If things were different...I don't know."

 "Don't know what?"

 I shrug. "I guess, if this was anywhere else, if we were somewhere else, I guess I would have asked you out for a drink by now."

 She turns her head slightly towards me. Her sunglasses have gone less dark in the shade and I can see her eyes through the big, tinted lenses. "A date?" she asks, with the trace of a smile.

 "A drink."

 "Sounds like a date to me."

 I laugh, not quite sure what's going on here. She's a movie star's kid. She can't possibly be flirting with me. "You're putting words in my mouth. It could just be a drink."

 "Do you ask men out for drinks?" she asks. I think she is. Wow. Her sunglasses have slipped down her nose and her eyes are full of mischief. The tip of her tongue pokes out from between her teeth.

 "I've arranged to meet male friends for drinks, yes," I say, carefully.

 She starts shaking with badly concealed laughter. I'm fucking this up so bad. "So," she says. "Would you go back to the gatehouse, for example, and say 'Cory, I would like to take you out for a drink'?"

 "No," I say. "When you say it like that you make it sound really gay."

 "It would be really gay. You would be asking him out for a drink in a date kind of way. The way you asked me out for a drink. And I'm pretty sure I'm not a man and you're not gay, so doesn't that make it a date?"

 I sigh. "You're determined to make me suffer one way or another, aren't you?"

 She shrugs. "It's kind of what I do." She settles back on the lounger and lights a cigarette. "Where would you take me? Where do you usually go for drinks?"

 That's a laugh. I think of the mysterious watery fruit punch at the CYO. "I don't," I say.

 "You don't drink? After all that?"

 "No, I do. I just don't get much out of sitting around with other men drinking beer. I prefer hanging out with women - that way I get to dance."

 "You dance?"

 "When I can. My Pops says its the Argentine in me dying to get out - I guess I'm sentimental that way."

 Her body moves face me. I have her full attention. "Why sentimental?" she says.

 "National weakness, I guess. Tangos are sentimental songs -
criollos
pining for the land of their grandparents, all that shit. The men are super macho, mothers are always saints. There's always love and loss at the heart of the tango."

 She smiles shyly. "I always thought it was...kind of hot."

 "The dance is, sure. But the traditional songs are pure soap opera. I guess it's one of the reasons I slacked off in Spanish, that and being lazy. When you understand what the lyrics mean they just become...I don't know..."

 "Banal," she says.

 "Maybe. Is that the word I'm looking for?"

 "Probably," says Amber. "It means cliché. Or maybe something that's even more worn out than that. Kind of like the things your grandma shares on Facebook, you know?"

 I laugh. "Yeah, that's it. That's perfect. That's just how it is."

 "Is that what you want to do?" she asks. "To dance?"

 I shake my head. "No. It's just for fun. The world of competitive dancers is way too crazy for me. What about you?"

 "Me? I can't dance, if that's what you're asking."

 "I wasn't, but now I'm curious. Why can't you dance?"

 "Why can't you swim?"

 She makes me laugh. "I never learned."

 "Same here," she says, taking out another cigarette. Her glasses have slid down onto the end of her nose. "Maybe we should teach each other a thing or two."

 I glance at the oval of clear, blue water. She sees my expression and sighs. "It's not that hard," she says.

 "It is."

 "It's not. You just have to learn how to float."

 "The only thing I'll learn is how to sink."

 Amber laughs. "That's the art of floating, dummy. You just have to forget how to sink."

 She makes it sound so easy, but I've been sitting here for too long. If I stay here much longer they'll want to know what's up. "I have to go."

 "That's a shame. I kind of like your company."

 "Me too." I reach out a hand and she takes it. Her skin is smooth and still greasy with sunblock. Her fingers seem very small in mine. She's looking at me with something like expectation, but I don't dare move closer. I still remember the way she went flying from my touch the first time we met.

 "Can you get back here?" she asks. "When your shift is over?"

 "Yes," I say, a tiny word that swallows the world in that moment. Everything takes on a new glow of possibility.

 "Good. Maybe we can have that drink?"

 "I'd like that."

 My radio crackles and she lets my fingers fall. Back to work.

When I come back later the doors beyond the pergola are open and I'm looking into a living room - kind of off-white with pretty dark red accents. The couches are low and modern and in the middle is a long coffee table. When I get closer I see the whole back wall is some kind of fabric - like suede or something, and the delicate red flower design is actually embroidered, with sequins and glass beads that catch the light.

 Amber appears from behind a door, a lit candle in her hands. "Hey," she says, exhaling as if she was making a great effort to keep herself together. She looks amazing. I don't think I've ever seen her wearing make-up before. Her eyes look enormous. She sets the candle down on the table. "Citronella," she says. "I don't know if it really keeps the bugs away, but it can't hurt to try."

 "I didn't realize there was another room here," I say.

 "Yep. Actually this is kind of a special occasion." She smiles and folds her arms tight again, her hands on her elbows. "It's the first time I've been in here since...well...since I got sick, I guess. Can't very well invite you into my bedroom for a drink, can I?"

 I feel my face turn hot. "No. That might not be a great idea."

 "I didn't mean it like that. It's not really presentable in there. Laundry, books. Crap everywhere. I'm kind of a pig - never really got properly housebroken." She picks up a throw pillow and gives it a quick shake before setting it down on the couch. "Please - sit down. Make yourself comfortable."

 "Thanks." Her hair is loose around her shoulders. She's too-thin in a straight little black dress that comes down to her knees. I want to ask her about the scar, about why she's hiding herself away, but that wasn't the deal. I want her to tell me only when she wants to tell me.

 "Is wine okay?" she asks. "I don't really like beer."

 "Wine is great. Thank you."

 This is terrible. This afternoon I thought we were easier with one another, more relaxed, but now my spine feels like a steel rod. We're not talking - we're just making polite noises at one another.

 She pours out two glasses of pink wine and passes one to me. "Zinfandel," she says. "Kind of training-wheels stuff, but I'm a cheap date these days. I hope it's okay." She sits beside me and holds up her glass - she's trying so hard to play the perfect hostess but the ripples once again give her away.

 "You're shaking," I say, as our glasses clink.

 "I know. This is big - for me. Huge, actually. Isn't that stupid? I walk into a different room and it's some kind of progress."

 "Amber, it's not stupid at all."

 "It is. You don't have to pretend I'm not a freak."

 "You're not a freak," I say. "You've obviously got some things going on. That's all."

 "You're very sweet," she says.

 I laugh it off. "Nah. Not really. But if you ever want to talk...you know."

 She reaches out and gives my fingers a quick squeeze. "I know. Thank you."

 We sit there in stiff silence for a while. I watch the light play on the surface of the pool. "When are you gonna teach me to swim?" I ask, eventually. I've no desire to get in the water, but I have to say something.

 She laughs. "I don't know. When are you going to teach me to dance?"

 "Why not now?"

 "Now?"

 "Why not?" I get to my feet and hold out my hand. Her face is a study in comic anxiety. "Come on. I'll show you something."

 Amber sets down her drink. "Oh my God. I can't believe I'm even thinking this - I'll be awful. I hope you like your toes being crushed."

 "Pfft. You're like a hundred pounds wet. I'm gonna teach you a basic tango step, okay? Eight beats. Watch me."

 We stand shoulder to shoulder as I show her the steps. She shakes her head. "I'll never remember that."

 "Sure you will. Do it along with me. Weight on your right foot - one forward, two side, back three four, and cross left over right..."

 She crosses her legs the wrong way round and groans. "Jimmy, I'm hopeless. It's like my brain and my feet are wired all wrong."

 "You barely started. Everyone sucks at first. Do it again. One, two, back three four and cross on five, shift back on six...that's it. You're doing it. Side seven and close eight. You see? You got it."

 "I won't remember it," she says, staring down at her feet. "How does it even work when you put it all together? Won't we step on each other, doing the same steps?"

 "Nuh uh. When we do it for real I dance different steps, so don't try to copy me."

 "Oh shit," she says, laughing. "You mean I can't just follow you? I have to remember?"

 "You can do it. Give me your hand. We'll put this together."

 She stares down at her feet as she goes through the steps. She crosses a beat too early and swears. "Relax," I say. "You know what you did wrong - that means you know how to fix it. Don't mind what I'm doing. Back three four..."

 This time she gets the cross right, but I can feel her trying to take the lead. That prompts all kind of wrongheaded thoughts and I feel my cheeks turn warm. Her waist is nothing under my hand, but she moves with a kind of persuasion that makes me wonder what the red in her hair might mean. A hot temper, a bossy tongue.

 "Relax," I say. "You're doing great."

 She laughs. "Great at what? Stomping all over your poor toes?"

 "You're not stomping. You're good. See?"

 We're moving a little easier now, but then she steps forward when she's supposed to go back and our toes bump. "Shit," she says, looking up. "Told you I was hopeless."

 Her smile fades fast as soon as she sees the heat in my eyes. I should let go of her, but she doesn't release my hand. Instead she leans forward, and the next thing I know my free hand is full of her hair and my mouth is full of her taste, her tongue. She lets out a low groan deep in the back of her throat, almost a growl, and my blood runs that little bit faster. I can feel the soft press of her small breasts against my chest and her thigh works its way between mine, seeking hardness. This time I'm the one off balance and I fall on my butt on the couch.

 Amber stands over me. Her lips are soft and her hair tumbled, but there's a gleam in her eye that makes me ache. She reaches up under her dress and I can't believe what I'm seeing - her tiny black lace panties coming down over her long white thighs. She steps out of them carefully, one high heel at a time, and smoothes down her dress.

 "Are you crazy?" I whisper. What does she think is going to happen now?

 "Yes," she says, raking her hair back with her fingers.

 I swallow. "Okay. Dumb question."

 She grins, her lower lip caught between her teeth, then all of a sudden her whole attitude changes. Her spine straightens, taking the sexy tilt of her hips with it. She gets this kind of neutral, country-club expression on her face and quickly reaches for the wine bottle. "Refill?" she says.

 I almost laugh, but she gives me a warning look. Cockblocked by John Gillespie - there's one to add to the celebrity scrapbook.

Chapter Eight

Amber

My heart skips a beat when I see my Dad standing there. "Sorry to barge in," he said. "But I wanted to see this miracle for myself."

 Jimmy has gone the weirdest color - a kind of putty-gray. His eyes are drawn inevitably to my feet; my panties are lying there in full view. I'm guessing Dad can't see them from where he's standing, else he wouldn't still be smiling. Oh God. This looks bad. There's no way this is going to look anything but bad. After more than six months of sweatpants and not washing my hair unless someone pointed out it was hanging in lumps, I'm suddenly all dressed up and no place to go? I can see the worry behind his smile.

 "You want some wine?" I ask.

 "Is that a good idea?"

 "I can handle a glass, Dad."

 He moves towards us. With a deft little flick of his foot, Jimmy shifts on the couch and neatly conceals my underpants beneath it. I doubt they taught him that step in dance lessons, but I'm both relieved and grateful. Dad gives me a squeeze and pops a kiss on the top of my head. "You're privileged, Jimmy," he says. "This is the furthest she's been out of her shell for a while."