Thicker Than Water (13 page)

Then I think about the pursed lips and the constant stream of criticism that flows from her mouth, and I’m totally over it.

When I get to the library, I park under a tree, a halfhearted attempt to keep some of the oppressive heat out. Once there, I sit in the car. My thoughts argue with themselves.

My parents would kill me if they knew what I was doing.

No! It’s fine! I’m just bringing Nicole lunch! I’ve done it a dozen times before.

Someone might see me with him. But probably not. Nicole said he was working in the back, so maybe no one knows he works here. It’s not like the library is a hotbed of activity in the middle of the summertime. People come to the Eastern Shore for the beaches, not the reading.

I think of that last picture she sent me, the one where his arms are flexed and a bit of his stomach is exposed. I think of the feel of his body against me, first in the cemetery, and then later, in the woods.

I’m having a lot of feminine thoughts right now. Grandma would be so proud.

The memory of Ben’s voice cuts through my thoughts.

My hand freezes on the door handle. Maybe I’m being stupid. I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

A hand knocks on my window, and I jump a mile. I almost hit the horn.

Thomas stands there, looking down at me. He’s dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, but there’s no ball cap today. His hair is just this side of messy, and he looks rakish and unruly and immeasurably sexy.

“Do you need some help?” he calls.

I open the door. “I think I can manage.”

“You don’t want me to carry you again?”

His voice is teasing, but there’s an edge to it. Almost a dare.

Yeah
, I want to say.
Carry me again.

I duck my head so he won’t see the flare of heat on my cheeks, then reach for the bag of food. “If you can carry this, I think I can get the rest.”

He takes the bag. “What’s in here?”

“Lunch.”

“Oh. I thought she meant you were rolling through McDonald’s or something.”

He sounds disappointed. I spent hours preparing something that would taste good, look amazing, and still not make him think I was trying to impress him, and he’s disappointed that it’s not frigging
McDonald’s
?

I try to snatch the bag out of his hands, but I’m not on my crutches yet, and I almost fall out of the car. I get one strap in my grip and yank. “Fine. I’ll go back out.”

He holds fast, and my yank pulls him close to me. He’s leaning over me, blocking the sun. “You don’t need to go back out. Cold cuts are fine.”

Cold cuts! I huff before I can stop it.

He smiles, and it’s a miracle I don’t melt right out of the car. “You look like you want to hit me.”

“Maybe a little.”

“I’m just yanking your chain. Nicole told me you like to cook. She promised me it would be the best food I’ve ever tasted.”

Part of me wants to kill Nicole. Another part wishes I’d spent another hour searching Pinterest for recipes. “Well, I’m glad she kept your expectations low.”

“I don’t think I can repeat
exactly
what she said. But it involved the word
orgasmic.
”

Oh my god. I will
kill
her.

I reach for my crutches to give my face a chance to cool. I’m regretting the sundress now, because I’m sure my entire chest is flushed. He watches me carefully lever myself out of the car, and his face loses its teasing look.

“Are you still in pain?” he asks.

“Nah. I don’t even need these. I just use them for sympathy.”

“It’s working.”

“I’m really okay. I can put a little weight on my ankle, but the doctor said it would heal more quickly if I don’t. I’d rather be safe than sorry.”

He walks beside me as I crutch-swing my way across the parking lot. “I’ve been wondering about you since Stan sent me to my room.” His voice is rueful. “He wouldn’t even let me ask how you were.”

“My parents read me the riot act and told me I wasn’t allowed to associate with you.”

“Stan said the same thing to me.”

I stop and look at him. “And yet here we are.”

He looks down at me, and I could fall into his eyes. “I work here.”

I half shrug. “I’m just meeting my best friend for lunch.”

He smiles and starts walking again.

When I get through the door, Thomas keeps walking, but I stop short and look around. Carla, one of the librarians, is shelving on the other side of the library. There’s a shady looking guy at one of the computers, but otherwise, the place is empty. Nicole rushes out from behind the counter and all but tackles me.

“You came!” she cries. “I was worried you’d chicken out!”

“Subtle,” I say.

Nicole hustles us into the back room. “Carla said she’ll watch the desk while we eat.”

I was worried that Mrs. Kemper would be back here, but we have the room to ourselves. Nicole has already gotten sodas from the machine for us, and there’s a roll of paper towels in the middle of a folding table.

Thomas takes my crutches and sets them against the wall, while I begin pulling food out of the bag.

My hand stops on the sandwiches. I know he was kidding about McDonald’s, but all of a sudden I’m self-conscious. Maybe this was a bad idea. He might hate everything. He might be disappointed that I don’t have a bucket of fried chicken and potato salad or whatever he was expecting.

“Come on,” he says, that spark of challenge in his voice again. “The suspense is torture.”

I slowly begin to lay them out on the table. I wrapped each sandwich in parchment paper, then sliced them in half, so they held together well.

His eyes are on me, not the food, and somehow I feel like I’m doing a striptease instead of unpacking lunch.

“I didn’t know what you’d like,” I say shyly, “so I made a selection. There’s Green Goddess sandwiches, which are really just avocado, mozzarella cheese, onions, cucumber, and some spread. If you’re more into red meat, I’ve got sliced steak with blue cheese and aioli.”

“It sounds
amazing
,” he says in an exaggerated voice. Then he stage whispers to Nicole, “I don’t know what
aioli
is.”

“Good,” she says. “Then I can have them all.”

I roll my eyes at her, but I can’t look at Thomas because his teasing isn’t helping my nerves. “I made plenty.”

“Are you sure you didn’t pick these up on the way here?” he says.

“Don’t think I won’t hit you.” I pull a plastic container out of the bag next. “Fruit salad with honey glaze.” Then a large plastic ziplock bag. “Potato chips.”

He mock gasps. “Something store-bought?”

Now I do swat him on the top of his head. “Watch your mouth. I made these, too.”

His eyebrows go up, and he loses the smile. “You made your own potato chips?”

“Mom doesn’t like buying processed food if we can help it. We make almost everything.”

“
Everything
? Like, the bread and the cheese and the . . .”

“Not the cheese.” I giggle at his expression, then busy myself with pulling paper plates out of the side of the bag. “We don’t have goats in the backyard or anything. But we make bread every weekend.”

“Do you use electricity?” he says.

I can’t tell if he’s kidding or not, so I keep my eyes down, on the food. “Once you’re used to it, it’s not really a big deal. It’s cheaper, too. I mean, I’ve got three brothers, and my grandmother lives with us. When you buy prepared stuff for a big family, it costs a fortune.”

I put one of each sandwich on a plate, then a handful of potato chips, followed by a scoop of fruit salad. Then I slide it over to Thomas.

He looks surprised that I wasn’t making the plate for myself. “I could have gotten my own.”

I blush again. “Sorry. Force of habit.”

Nicole is already tearing into a sandwich. Despite how skinny she is, she can put away a table full of food. “Char’s family is super traditional. She’ll probably clean up after you, too.”

I frown, but she’s right, so it’s not like I can say anything to contradict her.

“Is that why you’re so nice?” he says. “Good upbringing?”

Nice.
It’s such a bland word, and I can’t tell if he’s still trying to push my buttons. I keep my eyes on my plate and take a Green Goddess sandwich for myself. “I don’t think I’m especially nice. I just think I’m myself.”

“I have a lot of experience with different people,” he says slowly. “Trust me. You’re very nice.”

I think about the conversation with my grandmother before leaving the house, and I wonder if she’d agree. I take a bite of my sandwich and the avocado practically melts on my tongue.

Nicole is making unabashed sounds of pleasure to my left. “Oh my god, Char, I swear I’m going to marry you one day, just so I can keep eating like this.”

“You might have some competition,” says Thomas.

My eyes flash to his, and I find him watching me. I don’t know what to say to that, but I can’t leave it hanging out there. “A marriage proposal, so soon?”

“I’m surprised too, but I’ve never had a girl cook for me before. Besides, I said
might
.”

“Maybe you should feed him by hand,” says Nicole. “Push him over the edge.”

I almost choke on my food.

Carla sticks her head into the back room. When her eyes settle on Thomas, she scowls, but she doesn’t say anything. “Nicole, can you come watch the desk for a few minutes? I need to run down to storage for some more end caps.”

Nicole heaves a big sigh and heads for the front. She takes her plate with her. “Don’t be naked when I get back,” she calls.

“I can’t decide if working with Nicole is better or worse than getting threatened with arrest at the supermarket,” Thomas says.

“I’d tell you that you’ll get used to her, but that might not be true.”

“She cares about you a lot.”

I look at him again. One of the steak sandwiches is in his hands, and he’s eaten half of it, but I can’t tell if he likes it or he’s just choking it down for my benefit.

“We’ve been best friends forever,” I say.

“She said. She also told me that she’d break my legs, stand on my chest, and shoot pepper spray directly into my face if I ever hurt you.”

I smile. “I’d do the same for her.”

“I believe it.”

I wish I could stop blushing when he talks. This is the most relaxed I’ve seen him, and it’s reassuring to know his personality isn’t
always
intense. “You’re the only one,” I say. “To listen to everyone else in my family, I couldn’t swing a flyswatter without a big, strong man to help direct my aim.”

“Maybe they’re trying to protect you so they can keep eating like this.”

I smile. “It’s no McDonald’s.”

“Now I feel bad for teasing you. I really would have been fine with cold cuts.” He leans closer, his voice getting softer. “I’m not sure I’m ready to agree with Nicole’s . . . ah . . . word choice, though. The jury’s still out on that.”

The air is warmer suddenly. I want to touch him, and it’s all I can do to keep my hands to myself. I think of the way he carried me through the woods, the strength of his arms beneath my thighs. It’s a miracle I don’t leap across the table and tear his shirt off. I’ve never wanted to do that to a guy before—god knows I’ve never done it in actuality—but something about him makes me forget all sense of propriety.

His lips curl into a slow smile. “Penny for your thoughts.”

“They’re not decent.”

I. Did not. Just say that.

His smile widens, and he looks genuinely amused. “Really. What if I offer you a dollar?”

I put my hands over my face. “Can we please just pretend this moment isn’t happening?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Shush, you. Eat your food.”

Nicole cavorts back into the room, and her plate is completely empty. “Good!” she declares. “There’s food left.”

I could not be gladder that she has interrupted this moment.

“What were you guys talking about?”

Thomas’s eyes meet mine. “Currency values,” he says.

“Is that a euphemism?” she asks. “Like, are you hiding a roll of quarters in your pocket right now?”

“Nicole!” I can’t look at Thomas now. I
cannot.
I take another bite of sandwich and act like my food is the most fascinating thing in the world.

“Please,” he says, deadpan. “One roll of quarters? Give me some credit.”

“A sleeve of Ritz crackers?” she suggests.

I cough and drop the sandwich. “Nicole. You are killing me.”

She doesn’t look a bit ashamed. She pushes her pink glasses higher up on her nose and blows a strand of blond hair out of her face. “I’m just trying to get you necessary information. It’s what any good friend would do.”

“I’m surprised there’s not a camera in the men’s room,” says Thomas.

“Watch yourself.” Nicole narrows her eyes and levels him with a potato chip. “There just might be.”

“If there is,” I say, reaching into the bag to pull out the dessert I packed. “Do
not
send me those pictures.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

L
oneliness is a funny disease. You don’t realize how badly you’re infected until someone gives you a shot of contentment—and then it wears off.

In other words, my lunch hour is too short. I feel like we’ve just sat down, but now it’s time to clean up and walk Charlotte back to her car.

She swings along on her crutches and I carry the bag, just like before. Once we cross the threshold of the library, the heat smacks me in the face and reminds me how lucky I am to have found a job indoors.

Without Nicole, Charlotte is quiet again. Her friend is entertaining, but I like that Charlotte isn’t afraid of the silence, that she can be quiet without being awkward.

Or maybe she’s shy now that we’re alone.

Once we reach her car, she digs for her keys.

“Here.” I set down the bag. “Let me start it for you. It’s going to be like a furnace in there.”

“It’s only been in the sun for an hour.” But she hands me the keys, and I start the engine. She’s right, it’s only been an hour, but the car interior feels like someone’s been running the heater the entire time.

Besides, this buys me a few minutes.

I flip a few dials until I get the air conditioning running, and then I step back out to close the door.

She’s leaning against the back door, her crutches propped beside her. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

We stand there for the longest moment. I must look like a freak, standing here staring down at her. She probably expected me to start her car and go back inside. Hell, the bag was empty. It’s not like she needed me to walk her to her car.

Maybe I completely misread the whole not-awkward-silence thing.

I shuffle my feet and glance at the front door. “So . . .”

“So.”

“Thank you for lunch.”

“You already thanked me.”

“It deserved extra.”

She smiles, but doesn’t say anything to that. Instead, she tilts her head and looks at me sideways.

“I don’t understand that look,” I say.

“I’m glad I got to see you like this,” she says.

“Like what?”

“At ease.”

At her words, I’m suddenly not. I stiffen and look away. “I feel like I’m hiding here.”

“That’s really not a bad thing.”

“I don’t like it.”

“It’s better than sitting in jail, waiting for a trial.”

I snort. “Not much.”

“What would you be doing if you were back home?”

My old life flashes before my eyes. Art. School. Work. “I have no idea.”

She bites at her lip and studies me.

“What?” I say.

“You don’t say much about yourself. People might be less suspicious if you weren’t so determined to be a mystery.”

The words hit me hard. “I’m not doing . . .
that
.”

She smiles. “We spent an hour together, and I still don’t know anything about you. You sidestep anything personal. For all I know, you go back to Stan’s and stare at the walls until he gets home.”

“You’re not too far off the mark.”

She raises her eyebrows, as if to say,
See?

I glance around the parking lot, and even though it’s not crowded, I move closer to her so I can speak low. “I can barely imagine what I’d be doing if I were back home. It feels . . . it feels like a different life now. A different person. I feel like my life has split into a third act, but I don’t know my lines. I feel—” I scoff and look away. “I’m really helping the mystery, huh?”

“It’s okay,” she says. “It’s okay. Keep talking.”

I move closer, as if her presence is helping to keep me grounded. “I miss—” My voice catches, and I have to swallow. “I miss my mother. But I feel like I miss someone who never existed outside of Stan’s house. Everyone hates me, but no one knows her.” I wince, and the words claw their way out of my throat. “No one knew her. No one cares about her. No one cares about finding out who did this. They just care about how much they hate me.”

I have to stop talking. I’m going to lose it right here in the parking lot.

Arms go around my neck, and I stiffen in surprise. She’s hugging me. Charlotte is
hugging
me.

I can’t remember the last time anyone hugged me.

Mom. On her wedding day. The memory hits me like a freight train.

I choke on a sob.

“It’s okay,” Charlotte whispers.

“It’s not.” My voice breaks. My face presses against her shoulder.

She strokes my hair. It feels so good to be held that I don’t want to let her go.

But I do. I have to. I draw back. My eyes ache, and I’m sure they’re red. They feel damp.

This should be humiliating, but somehow it’s not. Charlotte’s eyes are full of sympathy, not pity.

“Hey!” Nicole calls from the main entrance to the library. “I know it’s not Grand Central Station around here, but maybe making out in the middle of the parking lot isn’t the greatest idea, huh?”

I snap back and swipe a hand across my eyes, glad my back is to her.

“It’s okay,” Charlotte whispers. “She can’t tell.”

“I didn’t mean to lose it.”

“She’s going back inside.” Charlotte’s eyes return to mine. “If you were a girl, I’d tell you to go buy a pound of chocolate and a good book and get in a hot bath.”

I try for a smile. “You mean I can’t do that because I’m a guy?”

She smiles back, but it’s a little hesitant. “Are you going to be okay?”

I feel too exposed now. I run a hand through my hair and nod. I feel like I’m in a dozen pieces. “Yeah. I’m good.”

She frowns. “Is Stan going to be home when you get off work?”

“No, but it’s okay. He’s back on duty, so he’s got the three to eleven shift.” I try for another smile, and this one feels more genuine. “I can get back to staring at the walls.”

She doesn’t smile back. “I don’t think you should be alone.”

“I’m fine. Really.” I’m even close to convincing myself.

She studies me for a moment. “Okay. If you’re sure.”

I nod.

She turns to open her car door, and the air conditioning is blasting. Cool air hits us both. She eases onto the seat and swings her legs in, then pulls her crutches across to lean against the passenger seat.

I hesitate before closing her in, but nothing I say is going to undo the last five minutes. I don’t think I want it to.

Before I can think better of it, I slam the door. She shifts the car into gear.

I turn away.

I wish I’d said something more. I wish I’d
done
something more.

“Hey!”

I turn. Her window is down, and she looks at me, then back at the windshield. “You said Stan is working till eleven?”

“Yeah.”

“I usually babysit on Friday nights, so my mom doesn’t expect me to be home. You know. If you want company.”

I don’t know what to say.

She doesn’t look away. “I really don’t think you should be alone. I could come over. We could talk.”

We could talk.
From any other girl, that would be loaded with double meaning, but I think of the way Charlotte blushed at Nicole’s teasing. There’s no double meaning here. It’s such an innocent offer, made more obvious by the fact that she doesn’t even seem aware that it could be taken another way.

I should refuse. For exactly that reason.

I should refuse.

I think about loneliness. I think about her arms around my neck. I think about my mother and how isolated this quiet little town has made me feel. Sudden emotion almost chokes me again.

I should refuse.

“I’d like that,” I say.

 

Charlotte knocks on my door at seven o’clock on the dot. She’s wearing the same dress she wore to lunch, a hot pink sundress that stops halfway between her waist and her knees. She’s pinned her hair up, in some kind of clip that leaves curls spilling over the top of her head. The sun hasn’t set yet, and the rays sliding between the trees stripe her hair with gold.

I have to remind myself that she’s here out of sympathy, not for a booty call.

I have to remind myself to be a gentleman.

Either she’s putting on a brave face or she’s lost any trace of fear of me. Stan’s house is somewhat remote, and there’s no one to see her here or to notice the strange car in the driveway.

She doesn’t look the least bit shy. In her hand is a plate of cookies.

I raise my eyebrows and take them from her. “Cookies? I thought girls only did that on TV. In the fifties.”

“I always take cookies when I babysit.”

“I can see I’m going to gain twenty pounds hanging around with you.”

She smiles. “They’re oatmeal raisin. Made with maple syrup and almond flour. Low sugar.”

“I was kidding.”

“Oh.” She loses the smile. “Well. They are.”

“Do you want to come in?”

“You don’t want to sit on the porch this time?”

Now I lose the smile. She’s referring to the afternoon when I carried her back to the house. When I spent the entire walk waiting for a bullet to get me in the back. Or the head. I can’t tell if she’s making a dig or if it’s a genuine question.

“Your call,” I say. “We can sit wherever.”

She wets her lips and glances past me, into the dim foyer. “You’re sure Stan won’t be home for a while?”

“He’s never come home early the whole time I’ve been living here.” I shrug. “Which admittedly isn’t very long. But still. He doesn’t strike me as the type.”

“Okay. I’ll come in.”

She steps cautiously into the house, glancing around like she’s worried someone is going to jump out of the shadows.

“I’m the only one here,” I whisper.

“I know. I’m being ridiculous. Half the time I wonder if my brothers are having me followed.”

I stop short. “Is that a real possibility?”

She lifts one shoulder in a halfhearted shrug. “I don’t think so. But Ben flipped out on me after I told him what happened in the woods.”

“Where do they expect you to be babysitting? Will they drive by?”

“Nah. Other side of the county. I just have to remember to check in with my mom after the ‘little boy’ goes to sleep.”

She’s so guileless, and it’s charming. There’s also a part of me that feels like I’m corrupting her with half the comments I make. Like this one: “Does that mean you’re putting me to bed sometime soon?”

She blushes and gives me a rueful look. “Don’t make me regret coming here.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Her crutches clack on the slate flooring, then go silent as she moves to the carpeting. She looks between the kitchen and the living room. “Now where?”

“Kitchen. Your cookies are going to be my dinner. There’s iced tea, too.”

“You didn’t eat
dinner
?”

She’s looking at me like I told her I haven’t bathed today. “No,” I say. “Stan was gone when I got home. Unlike you, I don’t know how to cook much that doesn’t come with directions on a box.”

She immediately heads for the refrigerator. “What does he have? I can make you—”

“No.” She is too much. I push the refrigerator door closed. “Sit. You don’t need to cook for me twice in one day.”

“But I could—”

“
Sit.
”

Charlotte tries to pull the door open again. “But—”

I put my hand beside hers and hold it closed. I lean in, until we could share breath. “Don’t make me pick you up and put you in the chair.”

Her eyes widen, and for a fraction of a second I think she’s going to dare me to do it. This close, I can smell her shampoo or her lotion or something sweet that makes me want to get closer.

“Sit,” I say again. “Stan would never believe I cooked something for myself, anyway.”

“All right.” She steps back and sits in the chair, but she doesn’t look happy about it. She begins unwrapping the plate of cookies.

“Iced tea?” I offer.

She nods. “Please.”

Then we’re seated next to each other, a plate of untouched cookies and two sweating glasses between us.

All of a sudden, it’s awkward again.

I realize that part of that is my fault. I look at the table and take a cookie. “I’ll let you make dinner next time. I promise.”

“Now you’re just making fun of me.”

A little. “Not at all.”

“Don’t you have any hobbies?”

“Of course.”

She looks at me, waiting for me to elaborate, but I don’t. Talking about anything creative leads to demands for some kind of demonstration. That always opens the door for rejection. Even if someone says they like your work, you get to know the difference between the genuine and the pandering.

Charlotte leaves me off-balance enough as it is. I don’t have the courage to put my life’s work in her hands.

I poke at the cookie, but I haven’t taken a bite. “I didn’t mean to lose it this afternoon. I’m sorry I got . . . emotional.”

Her brows draw together. “You don’t have to apologize for that.”

“I can go for a while without thinking about it. It’s weird. Then something will trigger a memory, and . . .” My throat tightens, and I swallow. I don’t want to lose it again. “I just can’t.”

“I remember when Ben came home from his first murder case. I don’t think he slept for weeks. And that was a stranger. Someone he didn’t know. It was just . . . too close to home.”

“Ben.” My mind seizes on the name. “Is that the case like . . . like my mom?”

“Yes, but no.” Charlotte shakes her head. “I asked him about it. It wasn’t like your mom at all. Apparently there were emails back and forth with a secret boyfriend, but they never figured out who he was. They had . . . you know . . .” Her cheeks actually turn pink and I can’t believe she’s glossing over the word
sex
in the middle of a conversation about murder. “. . . and then he killed her.” She swallows. “I’m sorry—we don’t have to talk about this—”