THIRTEEN
Mila
When I agreedto pretend to be Ozzie’s fiancée, I had no idea something like this would happen. Boyfriends and girlfriends sharing a bed isn’t a thing that happened inside the Emil “Bulletproof” Whitman compound.
Uncle Emil’s offspring might be violent criminals, but the family was oddly prudish. I’m sure my so-called cousins and stepbrother were sleeping around or having sex with their significant others behind Bulletproof’s back. Still, the subject of sex in conversation was taboo. Questions about the best way to dispose of bodies or the best way to slice open someone’s throat? Open season. Totally appropriate dinner conversation.
I’m starting to think my upbringing was weird.
And now, standing here in front of Ozzie in my pink polka dot pajamas, staring at the low, angled walls of his childhood attic bedroom, I know my life was weird.
But not as weird as his Duke basketball pillowcases. “That’s a bit disloyal to your school,” I say.
“Everyone in my family except Dad went to Duke. I end up with all their hand-me-down gear. Any time they give me shit, I threaten to burn it all,” he says, fluffing the pillows. Which of us will be sleeping on those pillows, I wonder. Is he expecting me to sleep with him?
“Or, you could gift the Duke stuff to their kids,” I offer. “That seems like a less psychotic solution.”
Ozzie laughs wickedly as he folds down the covers. I notice how he looks like someone’s dad in his tee-shirt and boxers. Someone’s exceptionally sexy, snuggly dad. Ozzie catches me looking at his soft midsection and sucks his gut in with an exaggerated gulp of breath.
I laugh, “Stop it.”
He lifts an eyebrow, and his voice drops an octave. “I can’t help myself around a pretty lady.”
“So corny,” I snort, almost adding,I like your tummy.
But I hold back. Feelings, Mila. Sure, you want to take a bite of that bod, but that will only lead to feelings. You won’t be able to put those feelings into a box, to be shoved to the back of a closet. But, god, look at him. That’s the person I could fall asleep on top of every night.
And that would be bad because…why?
Oh, right. All the touching and kissing we did for show, for the benefit of Ozzie’s family, is fogging my brain.
Reality check: My entire fucking identity puts anyone I’m close to at risk. This is what they taught me, not by words but by example. My mother was taken away first when Daddy couldn’t pay his debts. They killed her first.
The memories of losing my parents sear my skin like hot needles.
“You okay?”
Ozzie has stopped prepping the bed and is now staring at me.
“Yeah. Spacing out. Sorry.”
The bed creaks when he sits on it, propping himself up against the headboard. He gestures to the empty space next to him on the bed. “Want to talk about it?”
I’m not ready to crawl into bed and have late-night conversations. Oh, I want to. My attraction to this man is playing tricks on my mind. Every interaction with him makes me like him more. And every time I feel that fluttery feeling, I have to remind myself that I can’t give him what he needs. I know what he wants—what everyone else in his family has. A wife, kids, and a normal life. Me, I can’t give that. I will live a lie for the rest of my life just to survive.
It’s one thing to hide out at college. It’s another thing to hitch myself to a wonderful man and a generous family and endanger them all. I can see it now—me, a suburban mom. She volunteers for the PTA and drives a Tahoe with a chocolate lab in the back seat, except she’s also a moving target for a crime syndicate. How’s that going to work?
Delaying bedtime and pivoting away from talking about myself, I turn to examine Ozzie’s bookshelf. “Aha, now this is where I’m going to get to know the real Ozzie,” I say, running my fingers along the spines of several giant tomes. “Lord of the Rings.The Hobbit.Star Wars…wait. They wrote a book aboutStar Wars? I thought they were only movies.”
Ozzie laughs at first, but when he sees my quizzical expression, he stops short. “Oh, you weren’t joking. Yeah. I mean, no. They’re not just movies. What…what books do you like?”
How do I tell this man that I wasn’t much of a reader before I arrived at Pine Mountain? That I graduated high school by the skin of my teeth (and probably some threatening by some of Bulletproof’s foot soldiers)?
One half of me thinks, why bother telling the truth? You’re already ass deep in lies. And yet, the other half realizes that I’ve been reading nonstop since I arrived at college, and I like it.
“I think my favorite stories so far have been by Flannery O’Connor,” I tell him. And it’s true. I sometimes don’t get the Southern dialect, but she knocks my socks off.
“Really? Why?”