“It’s not that hard,” she insists, finally losing some of that dejected tension. “What were you watching?”
I look at the TV, still paused from earlier. “Just a sports documentary. I won’t force you to watch.”
“Hey,” she says lightly. “I’m the Chronicle sports reporter now. Maybe it’s something I need to watch.”
“It’s a doc on Dennis Rodman, actually.” I gesture to the TV with my fork. “It probably won’t help your sports writing career, but he’s definitely one of the more interesting subjects.”
She nods. “Well then, let’s watch it.”
I press play.
r /> We watch while I eat, and Vandy is silent next to me. Sometimes I’ll peek over at her and she looks tired, too. Sapped, like me. Sometimes she’ll see me glancing over and catch my gaze, giving me a small smile.
For the first time since I got back, the house feels like something other than an empty place I stay on my own. There’s life here—a life I almost extinguished on that dark night so long ago. As we sit side by side, I realize that Vandy may be broken, but she’s here, and I’m more thankful than ever for that simple fact.
17
Vandy
I dream, but it isn’t one of the crash. Instead, I’m standing on the floating dock, looking out over the surface of the lake. It’s night and fireflies twinkle all around me, floating over the glassy water and weaving toward the trees in the distance. It’s a warm, indistinct feeling of comfort and stillness. I’m safe here, but I’m also waiting. I’m not sure what for, but the frisson of excited anticipation settles like a cloud around me. It’s not an impatient feeling. I just know that soon, I’ll have something really amazing.
I wake with my cheek pressed to a warm, bare shoulder. It takes me a moment to shake out of the dream because I want to go back, to the fireflies and the stillness and the thing I was looking so forward to. My eyes feel gritty and sensitive, like I’ve been crying, although I don’t know what I’d have to cry about. It’s so warm and comfortable here. I flex my hand and open my eyes just in time to see it sweep against a smooth, defined abdomen.
Reyn’s lower belly caves inward and he shifts, free arm sliding around my back, pulling me toward him. I realize that he’s reclined against the side of the couch, his elbow propped like a pillow, and I’m curled up against his side.
It comes back to me in a rush. Bringing him food. Seeing his scars. Feeling his forehead pressed into my belly as he shook, hands clutching my hips. The kiss. Oh god, the fucking kiss. Him telling me that it was a mistake. The stinging plunge of rejection. The relief when he asked me to stay. The bright satisfaction of watching him eat my meal.
Falling asleep on his shoulder.
I blink hazily at the faint line of hair that begins at his belly button and disappears beneath the waist of his pants. It’s two shades lighter than the hair on his head, and never in my life have I wanted to touch something so badly just to see if it feels as soft as it looks.
I’m staring at that line of hair when he shifts, his fingers curling against my back. A jolt of pure electricity runs down my spine. I’m working out how to extract myself from this position when I feel him gently press his nose into my hair. It’s a slow, testing sort of gesture. I know he’s awake. I can feel it in his inhale and the twitch of his fingers against my back. Even so, he doesn’t pull away.
Not until the pounding comes at the door.
Reyn jumps, jostling me as he shoots upright. “It’s almost midnight.” The clock on the wall above the TV confirms this.
The booming door-pound comes again and I lurch to my own feet, knowing instinctively who’s at the door. Reyn must too, because his eyes are sharp and full of dread as they dart around the room.
“Fuck, fuck, where’s my shirt?” He’s pulling at the cushions, face wild.
“It’s okay,” I say, trying to calm him, even though my own heart is pounding almost as loudly as the door. “It’s okay. I’ll explain.”
Reyn doesn’t answer. He’s fixed on his task of finding the shirt, and his movements are growing jerky and panicked, so I help. I find it on the floor behind the couch, all balled up into a sad lump, and he catches it easily when I throw it to him.
He doesn’t look any less scared. “Maybe you can sneak out the back,” he says, wild eyes holding mine.
I shake my head, though. “I’ll take care of this. Don’t worry.”
But when I get to the door, Reyn hovering halfway between following me and bolting up the stairs, I’m secretly not feeling so confident.
Especially when the pounding comes again. “Reyn!” Emory calls. “Open up.”
Reyn spits out a low curse, and when I look back at him, his fingers are running agitated circuits through his hair.
“Just let me talk.” I take a calming breath, trying to remember the stillness of the lake, and open the door.
Emory and my mom are both on the porch.