Parker ran his tongue over his teeth. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to injure you.”
“Oh, you didn’t,” I said cheerfully. “I just said youtried. Which was rude.”
His eyes narrowed.
“And while you’re at it, you could thank me for making you a delicious dinner,” I added, pushing my luck.
“Amostly edibledinner thatIhelped prepare.” He snorted.
“Mostly edible enough that you scarfed that whole bowl while I’ve only eaten half,” I pointed out. “And I’ll accept you cleaning the dishes in lieu of verbal thanks.” I smiled. “I’m easy like that.”
Parker pursed his lips thoughtfully, then nodded. “You know, thatisonly fair.”
He stood up, grabbed the half-finished bowl from my left hand and the fork from my right, and stalked toward the kitchen.
I sat there for another full minute, staring at my lap and my empty hands, feeling a dopey grin on my face, and wondering how the hell confrontation with Parker made me happier than I’d been in years.
Then, because Parker was apparently a magnet and I was as powerless as an iron filing to resist him,goddammit, I heaved myself off the couch and trailed him down the hall.
Parker was standing at the sink with his back to the living room, and I took a moment to study him when he couldn’t see me. He’d taken off his sweatshirt and thrown it on the counter, leaving him in a thin t-shirt and those flannel pants that weresonot sexy, but nevertheless made me lean against the wall for a moment, trying to make out the curve of his ass beneath the fabric.
Parker in the kitchen was… a revelation. His movements were competent. Confident. Practiced. He knew his way around—and not just cooking but cleaning too. Which, yeah, should have been completely obvious—the guy had owned his own place, and you couldn’t do that without getting your hands dirty—but I guess I hadn’t really let myself picture him doing the dirty work. Watching him squeeze soap into the sink basin was oddly attractive.
What about Parker isnotattractive to you right now, dumbass?
My eyes strayed to his cardboard box, which was still sitting on the table where he’d left it, and mostly for the sake of distraction, I strolled toward it and paused with my hand on one flap of the cardboard. “Don’t your plants need oxygen?”
He lifted his gaze from the sink and he hesitated. “I guess you can take them out,” he allowed. “Although, you know, it’s not really oxygen they need. They take in carbon dioxide and give off oxygen.”
I shot him an amused glance. “Notjusta pretty face, ladies and gentlemen, he’s an amateur botanist too!”
Parker’s cheeks flushed pink. “Shut up. I just had a lot of free time on my hands the past couple weeks.”
I pulled the flap back and found three little plants, their pots tucked up in an orange blanket. I moved the box down onto a chair and placed each one on the table in a neat row.
“It’s symbiosis,” Parker continued as he washed the dishes. I wasn’t sure if he was talking to me or to himself. “Plants and animals. It’s, um… a mutually beneficial relationship. Have you ever heard of fig wasps? Because I was reading an article, and—”
“Your plants have names?” I said, looking up at him.
“Oh. Yeah, I… Yeah.” He blushed harder. “Free time, remember? Weird things happen when you’re in a hotel room alone for days on end. You need to havesomethingto care about, right? Even if it’s stupid?”
My heart shifted a little bit at the idea that Parker didn’t have anything in O’Leary to care about besides these little plants. But I reminded myself that was why he wasleaving. That was why he’d always leave.
“It’s cute,” I said. “They’re adorable.”
Parker bit his lip. “Thanks,” he whispered. Then he looked away and resumed scrubbing dishes.
Since he didn’t tell menotto, I lifted the orange blanket from the box and held it up to the light. Parker’s superhero afghan had a bright blue shield in the middle with an orange letterPinside it, and his grandmother had insisted that since she’d knitted it with love, it would always protect him. It was in amazing shape, considering its age, but it was a little damp from the snow, so I draped it over the back of the chair, tracing thePwith my fingers.
Then I hesitated.
At the bottom of the box were a bunch of DVDs and a large, red, metal cookie tin with the words PARKER’S STUFF spelled out in tipsy painted capital letters. I lifted it out and ran a hand over the top.
When he’d said he had mementos in the box, I imagined… well, shit from his life in Boston. Surely those were the times he’d want to remember. College, living with Ethan in the big city, partying with friends, making a success of himself. Seeing this old memory box was disorienting. It made me wonder whether there was anything from his old life left inside it. Any memories ofusinside it.
After that day on the junior high playground when we’d become tentative friends, I’d made a point of walking home with Parker after school pretty much daily. I hadn’t expected him to begratefulfor my friendship,exactly, but I also hadn’t expected him to be so totally unenthusiastic. To have to basically wear him down and twist his arm. If I hadn’t been a stubborn, cocky little shit back then, I probably would have given up. Instead, I’d been intrigued enough to be persistent.
The first time he’d invited me to his house, I’d felt at least as victorious and excited as I had the first time I’d pitched a no-hitter, and not just because the snacks he’d snagged us from the pantry were the name-brand Oreos my mom never bothered to buy. I’d roamed around his room, stuffing my face with chocolate cookies, peering at all his stuff—books and figurines and recipe magazines—trying to figure out what made him tick and why I liked it so much. I’d found this tin, and without thinking, I’d grabbed it off his bookcase.
