Sleeping in Eden (26 page)

It infuriated her, although even as she resented him for teasing her, there was something in Dylan's look that always left her wanting more. It was as if he had things to say, words that were poised on the tip of his tongue, and if Meg could only catch him at just the right moment, she could unlock all the secrets that
hid behind the curve of his lips. She wanted to know. She was dying to know.

“You've got quite the racket going on here,” Dylan said, turning to survey the girls as they walked off the field.

“I'm not conning anyone,” Meg assured him, eyes flashing.

“These girls believe they're actually accomplishing something,” he argued.

Meg exhaled hard through her nose. “They are. We are. We're getting out a little aggression.”

“Girl power to you,” Dylan joked.

“You're an idiot.”

“Hey.”

Something in his voice made her look up.

“I'm giving you a hard time. It actually looks like fun. You guys are brutal. I'd pit you against Sutton's team if they didn't all have a hundred pounds on you.” He laughed then, and it was such a genuine sound that Meg felt a smile tickle at her own mouth. For a split second she saw the GFL the way the rest of the world saw it: as an entertaining diversion. She was happy to make people smile. But then the moment faded as quickly as it had come and she was left feeling cold and tired, with the beginnings of a killer headache thrumming against the base of her skull.

“I'm glad you enjoyed it,” she said, turning to go. “I need a shower.”

She meant for her statement to be taken as a dismissal, but Dylan fell into step beside her.

“I'll give you a ride home,” he said.

Meg faltered, shocked by his offer and more drained than she realized, but Dylan shot out a hand to steady her.

“You okay? There were a lot of girls on top of you.”

“I'm fine.”

“Are you sure? You stumbled there a little. Could be a concussion.”

“It's not a concussion.”

Dylan winked at her. “Didn't think so.”

She yanked her arm out of his grip and picked up the pace, but he kept up easily. The snow was falling harder now, the flakes growing in size as the precipitation made the transition from icy sleet to soft snow. It was just beginning to crown the grass, draping the brown blades with strands of white so clean and delicate, Meg almost hated to ruin it with her footprints.

“Slow down, tiger,” Dylan tugged on the back of her sweatshirt. “My truck is in the opposite direction.”

Meg watched the rest of the girls straggle toward the parking lot and raised a fist in solidarity at the few who were sneaking glances her way. When she could see their smiles across the field, she allowed Dylan to steer her away from the crowd and toward the pickup he must have parked on the gravel road behind the sports complex.

“This your first game?” she asked, trying to make conversation.

“Nope.”

She shot him a dark look. “I've never seen you here before.”

“I sit there,” he told her, pointing in the direction they were headed. The berm around the field rose higher at the south end, creating a gentle hill that ended in a row of live oaks that were easily as old as Sutton itself: linking arms, Meg and Dylan couldn't encompass the girth of the massive trunks. “I've got a bird's-eye view,” Dylan said.

“So you like to see but not be seen?”

“Something like that.”

They walked in silence the rest of the way, Meg painfully aware of the way their shoulders brushed from time to time, the familiarity, even after all these years, of his presence beside her. She wanted to close her eyes and take his hand so he could lead her to the truck. She wanted to feel the brief encounter, to be wholly in it as it happened instead of worrying about where to put her feet and when. In an effort to control the revealing nature of her uncensored thoughts, she folded her arms around her and kept her eyes fastened to the ground.

The falling snow had gathered into an early winter storm
by the time they reached the truck, and Meg was trembling in her sweats. Dylan yanked open his door and ushered her inside, letting her slide across the bench seat so she didn't have to run around the large vehicle. He didn't look at her as he turned the ignition, but once the engine caught, he made no move to flip on his headlights or put the transmission in gear. Tinkering with the vents, he directed them at Meg and turned the heat on high.

“It'll be warm in a sec,” he informed her.

“Thanks.” Her voice seemed strange somehow, small and distant, and Meg held herself tighter to ward off the cold.

“Here”—Dylan started to unbutton his coat—“you don't have a jacket. Take mine.”

For some reason the offer made Meg blush crimson. “No, no, I'm fine.”

But he shrugged it off and handed it to her anyway. When she wouldn't take it, he draped it over her and tucked the collar in around her neck. “What?” he joked. “I have to force chivalry on you?”

She gave him a tight-lipped smile.

“You haven't even had a chance to cool down. You could pull something that way.”

“Since when do you worry about me?”

An indecipherable look swept across his features. Dylan's eyes were at once sad, angry, confused. Did she sense a trace of hurt? But he masked his emotions quickly and laughed. The sound was hollow in the cab of the truck. “No one needs to worry about you,” he agreed. “You can take care of yourself.”

Meg nodded, half wishing that he'd strap on his seat belt and drive away, and half wishing that the snow would fall endlessly and they'd be stuck on the deserted road on the very edge of Sutton. If not forever, at least long enough to work out whatever needed to be worked out between them.

Apparently Dylan was just as torn because he made no move to do what he'd promised, to drive her home.

They sat in the truck, watching the snow outside the window as it collected all around them. Any remnants of daylight were
gone, and the storm had rendered the landscape utterly still and dark. To Meg, it felt like they were alone in the world. She knew there were things she should say, questions she should ask, but the longer they were quiet, the more the quiet made sense. She sat beside Dylan until she was warm enough to tilt his coat to one side. It slipped off her shoulder and she placed a warm hand on the seat beside her.

“You're not wearing Jess's ring.”

Meg looked down at her left hand as it rested on the ripped seat of Dylan's truck. There wasn't even a faint line where the ring had been. There was no evidence that she had worn it at all. She wanted to tell him that she took it off for football, only because they had instigated a “no jewelry” rule, but the air in the cab was charged and living. How could she talk when she couldn't breathe? So she stared at her fingers, willing the answer to materialize between them, to make sudden and obvious sense, so that Dylan wouldn't wonder at her inability to speak.

“You took it off,” he said again, tumbling the words like the sides of a Rubik's Cube, and all at once everything changed. The act of removing the ring was no longer passive; it was active. She had removed the ring. It seemed to make all the difference to Dylan.

Meg wasn't entirely surprised when she felt the tip of his finger draw a line from her ear to her chin. But his touch burned all the same, white-hot and tingling, and she stifled a shiver in the dark truck. She closed her eyes as he said her name, again and again and again, until his lips found hers and his whispers sighed their way into her mouth. It was what she had been waiting for, and she kissed him back, arching her neck for the warmth of his tongue and not stopping to think of the consequences.

“Y
ou don't like her here, do you?”

The question was so fraught with potential disaster that at first Lucas tried to ignore it. He busied himself by putting his toothbrush and toothpaste away, then gave the bathroom counter a quick swipe with the hand towel. The way Jenna hovered in the open bathroom door made him feel oddly exposed, like he was back in college and had to share personal space with relative strangers. They didn't use the bathroom together anymore, Jenna smoothing on makeup with a foundation brush while he shaved over the sink. Now they slipped into the intimate space in shifts, almost secretively, as if they had much to hide. Lucas hadn't closed the door to brush his teeth, but for a moment he wished he had.

“I'm glad she's okay,” Lucas finally managed, and it was a close approximation to the truth.

He had expected Angela to leave as quickly as she had come, but one week after seemingly materializing out of thin air, she was still claiming his couch as her own. Even after the debacle of their attempt at a happy family dinner, Angela seemed content to dwell amid the thick and stifling hush that had settled over the Hudson house. Coming home from work in the evenings, Lucas had the feeling of wading into a shallow body of still and stagnant water. It was calm, but it was heavy and depressing just below the surface. He set his jaw, tried not
to breathe too deeply, and leaned against the bathroom counter since Jenna was blocking the door.

“What is it about her that you can't stand?” Jenna said softly.

“Nothing,” Lucas said. “I can stand her. I stand her just fine.” Actually, he was surprised that Jenna could stand their houseguest. After all, Angela had more or less committed treason by bringing up Audrey, even if inadvertently. And though Jenna didn't know what Angela had done in a manipulative moment at the age of eighteen, couldn't she feel the tension between her houseguest and her husband? The unspoken guilt that filled their interactions with shared shame?

“Well, I think it's obvious you have something against her.”

“I don't have anything against Angela,” Lucas said, but he suspected that what Jenna really wanted was a confession. “It's just hard, having her around. I mean, we don't have an extra bedroom, she's practically a stranger . . .”

“She's practically a family member.”

“That was years ago. We thought she was dead, remember?”

“Well, it's pretty obvious she's alive.”

“I just don't understand what she's doing here.”

Jenna turned her head to look down the hallway, and although Lucas couldn't see her face he knew the expression it held.

“At least we didn't have to go to a funeral,” Lucas said, assuming that his wife was as grateful as he was that Angela decided to have Jim's body cremated and forgo a traditional ceremony.

“That's heartless.”

“I didn't mean it that way.”

“I think she skipped an important part in the healing process.” Jenna sighed.

“That's what she's doing here? Healing?”

“She's saying good-bye. She's making amends.”

He didn't get why Angela had to use their couch as home base for coming to peace with her past, but he was wise enough
not to say as much. Instead, he let the silence stretch until Jenna drew her own conclusions.

“But she has to be doing something, doesn't she?” Jenna eventually said, her voice suddenly thick with sarcasm. “It wouldn't be enough for her to simply take it all in, work through her past and her relationship with her father in whatever way she feels necessary.”

“That's not fair.”

“It's perfectly fair. You're a fixer, Lucas, you're hardwired to mend things. But some things just can't be fixed.”

“Angela can't be fixed?”

“Don't be dense.” Jenna turned away from him and started toward the attic stairs.

Lucas flew out of the bathroom behind her. “Why do you want to fight?”

Jenna stopped with her hand on the doorframe of the tiny alcove that opened on the staircase. Her head drooped a little. “I don't want to fight.”

“Yes, you do. Stop picking fights with me, Jenna.” Lucas was surprised to discover that he was angry, but the fine specter of sorrow walked hand in hand with his fury. “Don't you want to make this work?” he asked, his voice cracking.

Jenna looked down.

“Have you given up completely? Because I'm not ready to give up.” Lucas closed the space between them and took Jenna by the arm. His touch was gentle, but she flinched as if he struck her. Maybe she was afraid that he would kiss her again. Maybe she hoped he would.

“What happened between us?”

When Jenna looked up at him, her eyes were filled with tears. They were wide, and so stark with pain that Lucas's fingers tightened on her arm.

“What?” he whispered, drawing her close. She fought his embrace for a moment, but then she softened into him, giving in as he curled his arms around her and held her close.

“You have no idea what I've been through,” Jenna breathed against his chest.

Lucas drew back and lifted her chin with his finger, forcing her to look at him. “Unless there's something that you're keeping from me, I know exactly what you've been through. I went through it, too. Remember?”