I hesitate, wavering between allowing this to happen and finding a polite way to evict him.
But when he squeezes my hand and says, "Come on, I promise not to bite," his smile is so irresistible, his touch so warm and inviting, that my only hope as I lead him upstairs is that Riley won't be there.
/> The moment we reach the top of the stairs, she runs from the den and calls, "Omigod, I am so sorry! I so don't want to fight with-oops!" She stops short and gapes, her eyes wide as Frisbees, darting between us.
But I just continue toward my room as though I didn't even see her, hoping she'll have the good sense to disappear until later.
Much later.
"Looks like you left your TV on," Damen says, going into the den, while I glare at Riley who's skipping alongside him, looking him up and down, and giving him two very enthusiastic thumbs up.
And even though I beg her with my eyes to leave, she plops right down on the couch and places her feet on his knees.
I storm into the bathroom, furious with her for not taking the hint, for overstaying her visit and refusing to split, knowing it's just a matter of time before she does something crazy, something I can never explain. So I yank off my sweatshirt and race through my routine, brushing my teeth with one hand, rolling deodorant with the other, spitting into the sink just seconds before pulling on a clean white tee. Then I ditch the ponytail, smear on some lip balm, spritz some perfume, and rush out the door, only to find Riley still there, peering into his ears.
"Let me show you the balcony, the view's amazing," I say, anxious to remove him from Riley.
But he just shakes his head and says, "Later." Patting the cushion beside him as Riley jumps up and cheers.
I watch as he sits there, innocent, unaware, trusting he's got the couch to himself, when the truth is, that prick in his ear, that itch on his knee, that chill on his neck, is courtesy of my dead little sister.
"Um, I left my water in the bathroom," I say, looking pointedly at Riley and turning to leave, thinking she'll follow if she knows what's good for her.
But Damen stands up and says, "Allow me."
And I watch as he maneuvers between the couch and table in such a way that clearly avoids Riley's dangling legs.
Then she gapes at me, and I gawk at her, and the next thing I know she's disappeared.
"All set," Damen says, tossing me the bottle and moving freely through the space that, just a moment ago, he navigated so carefully. And when he catches me gawking, he smiles and says, "What?"
But I just shake my head and stare at the TV, telling myself it was merely a coincidence.
That there's no possible way he could've seen her.
"So would you please just explain how you do it?"
We're sitting outside, curled up on the lounge chair, having just devoured almost an entire pizza, most of which was eaten by me, since Damen eats more like a supermodel than a guy.
You know-pick, pick-move the food around-take a bite pick some more, but mostly he just sipped his drink.
"Do what?" he asks, arms wrapped loosely around me; chin resting on my shoulder.
"Do everything! Seriously. You never do homework, yet you know all the answers, you pick up a brush, dip it in paint, and voila, the next thing you know you've created a Picasso that's even better than Picasso! Are you bad at sports? Painfully uncoordinated? Come on, tell me!"
He sighs. "Well, I've never been much good at baseball," he says, pressing his lips to my ear.
"But I am a world-class soccer player, and I'm fairly skilled at surfing, if I say so myself."
"Must be music, then. Got a tin ear?"
"Bring me a guitar and I'll strum you a tune. Or even a piano, violin, or saxophone will do."
"Then what is it? Come on, everyone sucks at something!
Tell me what you're bad at."
"Why do you want to know this?" he asks, pulling me closer. "Why do you want to wreck this perfect illusion you have of me?"