Ouch.
Something ruptures in the center of my chest, just below my ribcage. It can’t be my heart. My spleen, perhaps? Why would that be bursting at the reality of his words? I’m not sure what failing organ is at the root of this sudden nausea and upset, but I do know the blame lies with Zachary Hawthorne. He could have said something along the lines of “it’s not you, it’s me,” or even “let’s just be friends.” It still wouldn’t have hurt as much as knowing the thought of having sex with me was hardly a thought in his mind at all.
“I see.” I take a seat at one of the breakfast chairs overlooking the kitchen area. It’s high up, and I practically have to hop into the chair.
“Is your friend going to be joining us for breakfast?”
“Did you make breakfast?” I feign being impressed. None of the pots or pans dangling down from the hooks overhead have been used, and as far as I can tell, he’s only made a pot of coffee.
“I tried,” he says, playing along. “But I’m afraid I am limited to the number of unexpired ingredients in my pantry. Which consisted of coffee, some sugar and this questionable bagel.”
He flips the bagel he had been eating between his fingers as if examining it for evidence of mold and disease. The look he gives it is one of equal parts of horror and hunger. I can’t blame him. I’m ready to tear into the leftovers just sitting here thinking about it.
“You still decided to eat said bagel, I see.”
He shrugs and tosses the remaining piece in the trash. “Yes, well, I take pretty good care of myself, so I figured my chances of living were in my favor.”
I laugh. Despite the alarm bells triggering in my brain, I note how nice it is just to have someone to share a cup of coffee with in the morning. Lyndsey is rarely up before I leave, and when she is, she spends an hour or more preparing for her grand entrance into the world. I don’t have time for that. I’ve never had time for that. I wake up with enough time to wash my face, brush my teeth and make myself a coffee-to-go in the morning.
Even if I had any makeup, I probably wouldn’t use it. Last night was the first time I had even worn any in a long time.
“She usually takes a while to get ready,” I say. “Especially if she is doing her hair and makeup. At least we don’t have to wait for her to find a fresh pair of clothes.”
He smiles. “Well, I ordered just some basic food. Fruit, bacon, eggs. Stuff like that. It should be here soon.”
The awkward silence drifts between us again. Do I break it? Ask him a question about the proposal? Ask him a personal question? I feel like after what happened last night, there’s no way we can go back to being casual acquaintances. Even if he doesn’t want to sleep with me, he went out of his way to protect me. Strangers don’t do that for one another. Not to this extent.
“I wanted to ask you something,” he says. Clearly, I’m not the only one unnerved by the silence. “My friend, Marianne, the one with the housing project. They need volunteers for the first leg of their project this weekend. Would you be interested in going? They have space for a vegetable garden and need some ornamental gardening to really clean the place up.”
“Ornamental gardening?” In a housing project? Most people are more concerned with patching up leaky roofs and holes in the walls. Even when they are worried about the yard, it has more to do with keeping it mowed for seniors who can’t do it themselves. They’re not concerned with planting marigolds and alyssum to transform their home into a pseudo-suburbian paradise. “Is that really necessary?”
“Hey, you want something to feel like home, make itlooklike a home. Not a project. Marianne is really big on the design aspect. She wants everything to look like it belongs to that particular person. Not just a cookie-cutter house cut from the same mold as the next.”
This Marianne person, again. A niggling ache winches in my stomach. How close are they? He seems to think very highly of her. He buys supplies for her charity, recruits volunteers to join the building project. Am I jealous of this woman? She could be his sister for all I know. And here I am, begrudging a woman her good deeds in the community because I want the man who holds her in high regard all to myself.
“You remind me of her,” he adds. “Idealist. Wants to save the world. Plans too big to see through sometimes. But somehow, she makes it work.”
I remind him of her? Is that a good thing? It doesn’t sound terrible. She sounds amazing, actually. So why is there still that feeling like quicksand in my stomach? “I’m not an idealist.”
“Yes, you are.” He laughs. “But it’s good. We could all use more people like you in our lives.”
His smile fades like he hadn’t meant to say something so intimate. As though he revealed more than he wanted to in this confession, or at least discovered something hidden about himself. He recovers quickly, and adds, “So? Are you available?”
I’m struck by too many questions to think straight. I work until noon, but it may be an all-day sort of event. I could make it afterward if that was a possibility. And would I be going to this alone? Just because he asked me to volunteer doesn’t mean he plans to participate as well. He’s even said so himself, he doesn’t volunteer. He just pays the tab.
Still, deep down, I want to do this. I want to give back in some way or another. Every contribution I’ve made to my community this far has been to keep my mom afloat for as long as possible. Every bit of spare change I’ve had has gone to help her. Almost every spare moment of my time has been spent keeping her from tumbling over that edge, spiraling deeper and deeper into the void of depression. Drawing her back from the ledge, before I can no longer reach her to pull her back.
“I’ll do it,” I say. “So long as I can be there after noon. I work until then.”
“Great.” His smile returns, wide and welcoming in a way that inspires too many x-rated thoughts. The man isn’t even trying to seduce me, and I am already at the point of begging him to take me here and now. I remind myself that my lips were there just yesterday, at his perfect mouth, our tongues intertwined in an intimate dance. I try to repress the fact that my hands roamed across the hard surface of his chest, while his hands explored parts of my body now tingling at the memory of his touch. And I want to so desperately do it all over again.
“I’ll pick you up at noon, then,” he says, and I realize just what I’ve agreed to do.
So, I’m not going alone.
And the man of my dreams has just asked me on the closest thing to a date we will ever get.
Chapter Twelve