“We can’t do anything about the past,” she says, drawing back her hand.
“No, you’re right.” She looks up at that, almost examining my face for what I mean. “We can only look to the future from now on. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to revisit all I’ve missed.” I want to revisit all of it. Build on it. Make a life from it. But here in this kitchen, I want to revisit the shape of her. The soft slope of her hips in my hands and the feel of her body under me.
“I don’t know what you mean.” But the way she ducks her head and slides the tips of her fingers through the ends of her hair tells me otherwise.
19
Kennedy
PRESENT
A DEVIANT FOR SOCKS
“ . . . if it’s okay with you, I’d like to revisit what I’ve missed.”
What the what what?
Keep things platonic, a tiny, panicked voice whispers inside. You can’t afford to become embroiled in this. The man’s father died, and you didn’t even ask him about it. You were too caught up in your own indignation, your own stories about what followed the next morning. The stories you’re still telling.
Of course I’d known his dad had died. At least, I’d guessed as much when Roman had shown me the photographs of his family on his laptop. I didn’t ask because his absence pretty much spoke the truth—that he was no longer in the world. And if that was the case, the thoughts I’ve been harbouring these past eight years, the excuses I’ve made to myself, the way I’ve reasoned away any blame, well, it makes it all bullshit. It makes me the villain. And I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready to deal with that kind of seismic role reversal.
“I don’t know what you mean.” Ack! Stop with the dumb statements delivered in breathy tones. What part of keeping things platonic don’t you understand?
“Just that I know I can’t get it back.” He lifts those twilight eyes to mine, seeming to catch something in my expression. Something that makes him wet his lips, which makes me a little more hot and flustered. “But maybe you could help me.”
I almost groan because, God, I want to. I want to help him out of his clothes more than he can possibly know. I just can’t. I can’t afford to let my guard down, to let him be a part of my life more than I know he must.
“Just say it. Say what you mean.” My answer actually wavers with physical want. Does that make me a masochist? Even if what he’s offering is a one-off thing? Something purely physical—an itch to be mutually scratched. Because I can’t. I can’t ever. Not with him.
Please say it. Just say it. Force me serve you the most colossal of put-downs.
“Do you,” he begins, suddenly shy and a little tentative, “do you maybe have any photo albums I can look at?”
“W-albums?” My lashes flutter a little manically, my mind replaying his words.
“Photos. Videos. Pictures on your phone. Anything like that. I know it’s not the same, but—”
I don’t hear the rest as I jump from my chair, mortified. You stupid, stupid. “Sure!” I swing around to hide my red cheeks and my smarting eyes, darting in the direction of the living room. “Just give me a minute. I-I’ll get them for you.”
I crouch in front of the credenza and slide open the door to where my photographic history of Wilder is stored, willing my heated face and hammering heart to stop. I also use the opportunity to hate on myself, quite rightly. Poor Drew probably thinks I have some kind of personality disorder. He had coffee with enthusiastic, flirty Kennedy (which, to be fair, is no one he’s ever met before), then dinner with a lukewarm and, quite frankly, distracted Kennedy. Thank goodness for Wilder’s steady stream of chatter to carry us through. What the hell was I thinking, inviting him? The truth is, I wasn’t thinking. I was too busy panicking and trying to ignore the rumba beat dancing in my panties not caused by him. And that’s how we come to be eating dinner together. A dinner that feels a little like penance.
And I know I shouldn’t feel like this because Drew is a perfectly nice man. He’s just not a man I’m interested in.
Do I make dumb choices where men are concerned? My thoughts take a hop, skip, and a jump to the conversation I’d recently had with Holland when she asked me pretty much the same question. She asked if it was in our genes. If she was like our mother. She isn’t, of course, and neither am I. Supported by the fact that I’m currently crouched near the floor, weighed down by my conscience, not bent over the kitchen table with my panties around my ankles.