an amazing gift, all the shit she puts up with from you.”
“As if I’d do anything else.” I find myself smiling as I think of the “gift” in the deep drawer of my desk when Tucker’s less than sage advice drifts through my head.
The couple who plays together, stays together.
It’s probably bullshit.
It’s definitely bullshit, considering where the advice came from. Or rather who.
“But that’s not all you called to say, was it? Spit it out. To what do I owe this honour of a call?”
“Can’t I call my friend for no reason?”
“You can, but you usually don’t. Check-ins are more my remit.” Hence her greeting. Where in the world is Carson Hayes. But thank fuck, we’re back on track, even if my lead-in is weak.
“There seems to have been some confusion with the mail, and I was hoping you could tell me Fee’s last name.”
“That’s weird, but it also reminds me, I had the funniest conversation with Lulu.”
“About plants?”
“No, about you kissing her mother,” she says utterly deadpan.
“That is weird. And something I think I would’ve remembered.” And do. Almost constantly. The way her chest rose and fell with her breath. The warm press of her lips. The way she’d fed her hands into my hair as though to anchor me there as she took her pleasure.
“So very strange,” she continues, this time with an air of inconsequence. “You say you haven’t kissed her, and she says she’s sure you don’t swing that way.”
Oh, angel, you kind of overshot there.
“Which makes me feel like I’m living somewhere between denial city and crazy town, because—”
“Rose,” I bite out, my reflection grim in the darkening windows, my scowl is reflected back at me. Crazy town, it is, if I’m gay, and she’s partying at Ardeo. She fucking wishes. “Are you going to tell me the woman’s last name?”
“Sometimes, you can be such an ass. I told her that too because it was only a matter of time before she found out herself. She’s not like me, Car. She’s softer. Gentle. So you’d better be nice to her.”
“I’ve been exceedingly nice to her.” If only she knew. I’ve tried being nice, and that didn’t work. And if she’s at Ardeo, all bets are off, nice or otherwise.
“Want to elaborate on that tone?”
“Rose,” I growl for a second time.
“It’s Abernathy, asshole. Fee Abernathy. And if you have her mail, you’d better get it to her soon because she’s found somewhere to live.”
I set that information to the side—where she resides is a matter for consideration beyond tonight.
“One more thing—”
“Promise you’ll be nice first,” Rose demands, cutting me off.
“I’m always nice, aren’t I?” I slightly condescend.
“No,” she answers baldly. “But what do you want?”
“I’m just curious. Remy told me she doesn’t ever date. Why is that?”
“Are you interested in her, Carson?” There’s a lot more encouragement in her tone than I’d credit her husband for.
“Rose.” For fuck’s sake. Being married to her must drive Remy crazy sometimes.
“Fine. But if you are, you should know she won’t be interested in casual. She’s hanging out for the one. But that doesn’t mean—”
I don’t hear the rest as I stare at her name on my laptop screen, the knowledge that she’ll be there tomorrow reacting inside me like a tiny explosion of delight.
Delight that’s short lived. A delight that becomes a shower of shrapnel, sharp and painful, bleeding thoughts and sentiments and bitterness.
Good. Nice. Kind. Honey hair and wildfire eyes.
Soft, gentle, and a liar, it seems.
But hardest to take is that she’d choose to fuck a stranger over me.
17
Fee
You look done up to the nines, I almost hear my mother say.
More like the tens.
“Oh, Mommy. You look so pretty!”
“It’s just a dress, Lu.” My answer wavers with a laughter that feels unfamiliar. Sort of girly and young, which is pretty much how I feel right now. When was the last time I wore my hair in anything but a ponytail? I can’t even remember.
Sophia, Mr Martinez, I mean, Ed’s daughter jumps up from the sofa in the den-like a soldier standing to attention. “You look beautiful, Miss Fee.”
“Just Fee, unless you want me to feel ninety-two.” Which, incidentally, is almost the same number of dollars I paid for this dress. Picked out from the sales rack in Bloomingdales lunchtime yesterday. I slide my hand down the grey-coloured silk, comfortable in the knowledge that no one but me will know there’s a hole in the hem while wondering for at least the tenth time tonight what kind of singles