I nod. “And I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to him.”
Knox blinks. Gulps. I’ve never seen him so thrown before, and there’s something satisfying about being the one to put him off his game.
After an unnecessarily long pause, he finally speaks. “Oh, yeah. Staten is every guy’s dream girl. I didn’t even want to sleep with her in the beginning.”
Oh. My. God.
I give him what I hope is some kind of possessed demon look.
“I mean, I did want to sleep with her?” he backtracks.
I kick him in the shin underneath the table, and he grimaces in pain. “Nope, definitely didn’t want to sleep with her. Probably won’t ever, because I’m a child of God, and fornication outside of marriage is a sin. I value women’s brains over their bodies…though I’m not saying that your daughterdoesn’thave a good body. She has an, um, conventionally attractive body?”
Jesus fucking Christ. I’m going to slit my throat with a steak knife.
“What Knox istryingto say is that we both lik—love—each other for who we are. And we’re definitelynotsleeping with each other,” I save.
He looks up from his half-decimated meal. “Ever?”
“Seriously?”
While it feels like I’m surfacing too fast in deep water and retaining the worst decompression sickness, my mother simply erupts into laughter, purging the room of any and all tension.
“Good. You don’t want to make the same mistake your father and I did. I thought I was safe from the horrors of teen pregnancy, but your dad had some freakishly strong swimmers.”
Aaand…appetite gone. I know this is all hypothetical talk, but I don’t like the ache compounding in my lower abdomen—you know, the kind that has me worried for the sake of my goddamn underwear. Sleeping with Knox is a possibility that’s crossed my mind one too many times, and I’m going to have to invest in a No Pedestrian Crossing Sign at some point.
“Trust me, Mom. You have nothing to worry about,” I promise.
I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince.
Knox plops onto my bed, creating a slight depression where the mattress sags from his weight and muscle mass. “That went well,” he says with a kernel of hope that would be comforting if it wasn’t downright fallacious.
My room looks like something out of a nature pop-up book—a modern-day take on cottagecore that romanticizes a rural lifestyle not dissimilar to the one I live now. My queen-sized bed is cloaked in a floral duvet, which matches the chiffon curtains that maximize the natural light coming in through a large bay window. Linen throw blankets and tassel pillows add depth to the mattress, and the watercolor landscapes plastered to the walls resemble a hazy daydream that might’ve been conjured in the early hours of the bedewed morning.
Wicker embellishments are scattered throughout the earthy décor, ladder-style bookshelves are overrun with apothecary jars, bronze-brushed frames showcase botanical prints, and ceramic woodland creatures serve as emotional support trinkets. A color palette of browns, greens, and faded blues denotes a harmonious relationship between every individualized element, further accentuated by the lily of the valley floor lamp that emits a golden glow in the corner of my room. Lastly, a string of fairy lights and bushels of hanging plants suspend from my ceiling, emulating the coziness of a natural-forming alcove without ever having to step outside.
I sport an aggravated expression, all heavy brows and a frown that’s become somewhat of a permanent fixture on my face. “Oh, sure, if you consider talking about our nonexistent sex life a ‘healthy staple’ between couples,” I snark.
“I panicked, alright? Plus, your acting skills need a bit of work. There’s no way that your momactuallybelieved we were together.”
Now that we’re in private, is it socially acceptable for me to strangle him?
To my misfortune, my annoyance never hits a wall and crests—it waits, recedes, prolongs the inevitable meltdown of the century. “Myacting skills? It was your fault we had the chemistry of two divorcees handling a goddamn custody exchange.”
“Seriously? I was carrying the entire performance.”
I busy my hands by pulling out Hardwin’s essay rubric and instructions, along with a hearty stack of paper, because there’s no telling how long Knox and I will be here trying to decode the perfect A.
Night exhales a colony of stars from beyond my window, and I can practically feel the imperviable layer of frost hovering over our town.
“Like hell you were,” I mutter under my breath, scrounging up a variety of pens and pencils.
Knox purges a sigh, running his fingers through his artfully tousled hair. “Let’s just—let’s just focus on what we actually came here to do.”
Right. Along with trying to pull off the impossible, I now have to help Knox turn his grades around. I don’t know why I’m being so hard on him. A performance is only as believable as its scene partner, and I’m pretty sure I looked like I was being held at gunpoint.
Could it be that my way of keeping things…professional…is by engaging in meaningless fights to create a larger rift between the two of us? A rift where feelings go to die?
