He sighs and turns his head to watch the snow again. “I was following the wrong script.”
“What does that mean?”
“The wrong script—you were going to take advantage of the situation because you didn’t really care. I’d stepped out of line, but I was still within my rights, so to speak.” He laughs derisively. “You were supposed to scream at me and throw some things. After you cooled down, I’d buy you a diamond necklace, and eventually, you’d get over it.”
That annoyingclink, clink, clinkpops into my mind. “Did you buy Delaney that diamond bracelet?”
He immediately meets my eye. “No. She was fucking with you.”
I go back to what he said before. “Why would you think I’d scream and throw stuff? I don’t do that.” Not at people, at least.
“That was the script, right?” He blows out a breath. “I’m not making excuses. I’m just explaining.”
“Because that’s what your mom did?”
He nods curtly.
“Why would you do it if you saw how messed up it was firsthand?”
His lips curl, wry and tired. “Self-sabotage?” He reaches out and uses his cuff to buff the window where his breath left smudges. “You ever wait so long for something good to go bad that you can’t take it anymore?”
No. I’ve never had something good long enough that it sunk in, except for maybe him, and it was so good, I couldn’t really believe it, so I lived in a delusion.
But what’s more interesting than that, so captivating I can hardly stand to consider it more closely, is the part where he said “something good.”
“We were good?” It’s not a challenge, not snark. The question is tentative.
My chest aches from holding my breath.
His jaw clenches. “I was fucking terrified all the time.”
Oh, I understand what it’s like waiting for the good to turn.In my bones. For the sobriety chips to disappear from the bowl on the nightstand and end up in the trash. For all the talk about the future—about paperwork and making it official—to peter out. For the woman who was excited to finally have a little girl to turn watchful. For the man who said to call him Greg or Ray or Dad to start staring all the time, too.
“I was happy before you ruined everything,” I say. Adrian straightens in his seat, bearing up under the blow. “Do you feel safe now that I’m not?”
He shakes his head once.
I toss a shoulder. “There’s no such thing as safe anyway,” I tell him. “Just whether you’re lying to yourself or not.”
“I told myself you didn’t know me, so you couldn’t really care. I’d just wounded your pride.”
“Ididn’t really know you.” I stretch my legs and prop them beside him on the seat. I want him to hold my foot and rub the arch like he does when we watch a movie in the media room, and he sits facing the screen, and I sit sideways on the sofa and rest my feet in his lap. Even though we’re lost and broken, even though we’re strangers, I don’t want to be alone.
He slides my shoe off and cups my sole in his palm, stroking down the middle with his thumb.
“I know you better now.” My voice is drowsy. With each stroke of his thumb, I struggle harder to keep my eyes open.
“And you hate me,” he rumbles.
“Less now than yesterday.”
As my eyes drift shut, I see his lips twitch, and my heart skips. I’m too kind—or too tired—to remind him that not hating someone is closer to indifference than love.
I’m almost asleep when the stroking on my arch turns into a tickle. I shriek, startling back awake.
“What was that?”
“No sleeping. Not until you see Farhadi. You might have a concussion.”
