“Have you gone back and visited?”
“Not in years, but yeah. My grandparents live in a walkup in Brooklyn. It’s a totally different way of life there.” I’d like to go back. My grandma and grandpa are old and they might not be around much longer.
But they don’t really like Adele, so we didn’t go to see them much.
“I’d love to go there sometime.” She sighs wistfully. “I’ve always wanted to see New York City.”
“It’s an experience, that’s for sure.” I wish I could take her. Totally presumptive of me, but I’m compelled by the need to make her happy. Show her stuff that I know her life won’t allow her to see.
“Tell me something,” I say when we’re finished eating and waiting for the waitress to bring us the check.
“What do you want to know?” Wariness flits in her eyes and it calls to me. We’re more alike than I ever thought, and I find that reassuring.
“How did you get your name?” When she frowns, I continue. “Fable. You have to admit, it’s pretty unusual.”
“Oh.” Her cheeks turn pink, like she’s embarrassed, and she drops her gaze to the table. “My mom. She’s…different. When I was born, she took one look at me and declared me a wise soul. Supposedly she knew without hesitation I’d have many stories to tell. At least, that’s what she told me when I was around five. My grandma said the same.”
“A wise soul, huh?” I study her and those big, fathomless green eyes are looking right back. She does seem so much more mature than other girls I know our age. She’s dealt with a lot more, too. She seems to take care of everyone. So who takes care of Fable? “Do you have a lot of stories to tell?”
She slowly shakes her head, her cheeks darkening to crimson. “My life is infinitely boring.”
“I doubt that.” I find her mysterious. She puts on a front, like she’s tough and takes no shit, but I get the sense that there’s a giant vulnerable side to her.
“If you’re referring to my supposed sexual escapades, really. Totally boring. There’s nothing to tell. Most of the stories floating around out there aren’t true anyway.” Her mouth is screwed up so tight after that statement, her lips practically disappear.
I’m momentarily taken aback by what she said. I’m trying to get to know her, not pry into her private business and her sexual past. I’m certainly not ready to go there yet.I don’t know if I ever will be. “I don’t care about any of that.”
“Yet it’s precisely why you chose me to be your fake girlfriend.” The hurt in her voice is unmistakable. By choosing her, I’ve hurt this already-damaged girl. The fact makes me feel like shit.
“I’m not going to lie. You’re right.” Reaching across the table, I take her hand in mine and entwine our fingers. Hers are slender and so very cold. I give them a squeeze in the hope I can warm them up. “But now, I’m really glad I chose you.”
Her gaze meets mine once more, stark and wide, and I feel as if I just bared my soul. “I’m glad you chose me, too,” she admits, her voice so soft I almost didn’t hear her.
A rush of emotion burns through me and I try my best to keep it easy and light between us. But inside, I’m reeling. We make small talk and I pay the bill, yet all I can think about is her. How much I want her. How easily she’s snuck into my life and how I can’t imagine her out of it.
Completely crazy.
Plus, whatever happened last night eased the tension between us and we’re a lot more open with each other this afternoon. So open that when we leave the café and head up the steep sidewalk toward where I parked my truck, I grab her hand and she lets me hold it.
Like we’re a real couple.
“Smells like rain,” Fable murmurs, and I glance up at the sky and notice the dark, swollen clouds hanging low.
“Yeah, it does.” The first drop hits the moment I say the words and she smiles and laughs, the sound sliding over me, twisting me up inside. I love the sound and I want to hear her do it again.
Fat raindrops start to fall and we stop and look at each other. I tighten my hold on her hand and we start to walk faster, as if we can escape the rain as it comes down harder and harder. Until we’re in the middle of a torrential downpour and we’re getting soaked to the bone.
“How far did we park again?” she asks. The rain is coming down so hard, I can barely hear her.
“Way too far.” I went to a public lot so I wouldn’t have to worry about the parking meters, and now I wish I hadn’t done that. The sidewalks are already virtually abandoned. The rain is starting to come down in sheets and we still have blocks to go.
“Maybe we should duck into a store and wait it out for a bit,” she suggests.
That would work, but I see a better solution. Dragging her with me, I slip inside a narrow alleyway that I know leads to an artist’s studio and gallery. The alley is completely covered overhead, thick ivy growing along the sides and across the trellis that’s built there. It’s dark and safe from the rain, and little white twinkle lights have beenstrewn among the ivy in preparation for the upcoming holiday season.
It’s downright magical and I notice how Fable stares up at it in wonder, her lips parted, her eyes wide. She turns to look at me, her long blond hair sopping wet, her cheeks sprinkled with raindrops. Without thought, I reach out and wipe the droplets away with my thumb, first from one cheek, then the other. A tremble moves through her and she presses her lips together, her gaze dropping to the ground.
“Cold?” I murmur. I’m overwhelmed with the need to touch her, to keep on touching her. She’s somehow become my lifeline.
