Rachel gets out of the pool and goes inside to get started on lunch. My dad trails behind her, dragged along by the invisible choke collar and leash that make it physically impossible for him to be more than fifty feet away from her.
I open my book and page back a few pages. My mind’s foggy from jet lag and I can’t remember what happened in the last chapter. Luke gets out of the pool and comes hurtling over. He’s dripping wet. His dirty blond hair looks almost brunet. When he gets close, he stops so suddenly it looks like he’s run into a large pane of glass. He stands at the foot of my lounger, directly in front of the sun, casting a long shadow over me, allowing me to open my eyes fully without squinting.
“Your nipples are pierced.”
It’s not a question, it’s a statement, but the look on his face makes it feel like he requires an answer.
“No shit,” I say, carefully arranging my lips into a smile.
He plops down on the lounger closest to me, despite the fact the cushion is wet from my dad sitting there previously, and there are several others available that are dry. I open my book and make a point of looking engrossed.
“When did you get it done?”
“When did I get what done?” I know exactly what he means, but as my mom always says, if I was an animal, I’d be a cat; I’d be the kind of thing that likes to play with its food.
I feel his eyes on my chest. They wander from left to right. “Your nipples.” His voice hitches almost imperceptibly. “When did you get them pierced?”
“I had them done last year when I turned nineteen. A birthday present from me, to me.”
“Oh,” he nods sagely. His eyes are still on my chest and his fingers have found their way to one of his own dusty pink pebbles of flesh. He flicks it absently. “Did it hurt?”
I sigh loudly and look at him pointedly enough that he drops his hand down and makes eye contact with me. “I had two metal bars driven through my skin. Yes, Einstein, it hurt.”
“Oh,” he says again and then he’s mercifully quiet for almost fifteen minutes.
By evening, I’ve hit a wall. I feel deranged and uncoordinated from exhaustion. My dad gets the burgers done by five thirty, so I can get an early night. Still, I’m weaving on my feet by the time dinner is over.
“Here you go, Jessie,” says Rachel, handing me a lime green kid’s school lunch box, “in case you wake up feeling hungry. Eating something might help you get back to sleep.”
“Thanks. This is great.” I look at Luke and add pointedly, “I’ll keep it in my room, so I won’t disturb Luke by getting up to go to the kitchen.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that, make yourself comfortable. He sleeps like the dead. You could drop a bomb next to him and he probably wouldn’t hear it.”
Lady, don’t tempt me.
I let myself into the guest house and let out a loud sigh.Fuck, it feels nice to be alone. It feels so nice, I drop down on the sofa and relish the peace. I open the snack box and find protein balls, dried fruit, nuts and jerky, all packed with such care I’m pretty sure this snack box would be an instant hit amongst helicopter moms all over Pinterest. As soon as I’ve settled, my limbs feel so leaden I start to worry about how I’m going to get up and get myself to bed. Turns out I don’t have to worry about that for long. Luke swings the door open, knocking it against the wall loudly enough to startle me.
“Thought I’d get an early night, too. Don’t want to wake you by turning in later.”
I manage the smallest of up-nods.
He sits down on the sofa, curling one leg under himself and turns his body to face me. He looks at me intently. I stare him down. Or, I try to. I’m not at my best and the way he’s looking at me is throwing me. Expectation is written all over his face. His tongue darts out of his mouth and he rubs his lips together, moistening them. His eyebrows are raised and his eyes are intently focused. Sky-blue and stupid.
Nervous, maybe?
Wait. Is thathope?
An alarm sounds at the back of my mind and a voice deep inside me saysget the fuck away from this guy.
“Welp.” His voice is more breathy than usual. “I guess we should probably talk about what happened at the wedding, huh?”
I’m instantly furious. I’m fucking exhausted and this conversation is making me feel triggered.
“Can’t remember the wedding. I remember the ceremony and the photos, and I remember going from table to table collecting dregs and calling the mixture I made a cocktail. I remember puking my guts out the next day and that’s about it.”
His face falls like he’s been punched, he flounders for three or four beats before he corrects and plasters a dumb smile back on his face and gives a dry chuckle. “Yeah, the ‘cocktail’ probably wasn’t the best idea.”
“I’m bushed. Might hit the sack.”
