“Oh, did you now?” He plucks at one of my loose curls, sending it bouncing near my ear. “You think I have a problem with your date?”
Heat is still all over me, and I have to clutch my neck for comfort. “N—no. I was just stating”—I clear my throat—“that, um…ifyou had a problem, that we could talk about it. You know,like adults.” I force a cough, dislodging the heat that’s blocking my airway. Adults. We are adults. And whatever is happening to me physically is just a manifestation of guilt. That’s all these recentepisodesare.
“Ahh, yes.” He gives a chuckle and a nod, instantly relieving the nerves that were working their way through me. “Well…” he says as he lingers, leaning in ever so slightly, “do you want to talk about it, Ms. Stanley?” The smell of coffee on his breath and the oakiness of his body wash swirls around me. A comforting smell.
I take a step back to collect myself—enough room for a small child or a puppy to pass through, a reasonable amount of room. “Do we need to?” Dropping my hands into fists at my sides, my fingers dig into my palms when I see his face falter, a hint of discomfort lining his mouth and eyes.
“Look.” He lets out an exhausted sigh, removing his cap to scratch the top of his head. His hair is wild and untamed underneath, a stark contrast to his entire demeanor in life. My fingers dig deeper, sending a shooting pain down my palms, as I fight the urge to run my hands through his dirty-blond locks. “You’re right. We’re adults. And you know how I feel about Eric. But…” Looking up at the sky and readjusting the cap back on his head, he pauses for a moment.
Malcolm has never been a man of many words. Deep conversations have always been difficult for him. I’ve always assumed it was because he didn’t care to expend the energy on things like that. “Just say how you feel and move on,”he used to say. Irking me more than it should, I would pry for more and drive him mad. Vulnerable conversations are essential in relationships, and there were times I would feel like it was his excuse to avoid them altogether. Eventually, I realized it’s just how he is and grew to accept it—most of the time. But eventually, he started to get deeper with me.
In his own ways. In his own time.
His singular cheek dimple deepens when his jaw tightens—a sign he’s trying to muster the courage to keep talking.
Taking one of my hands with both of his, it stings my chest. The gesture is so intimate and tender I don’t think he realizes how this would look to someone else. The slow, easy touch. A gesture I crave from someone. Something to show me I’m the one they want to have moments like this with. In the middle of a parking lot. Malcolm is the least physical-touch person I have ever met, but over the past five years, he’s become so comfortable in our friendship that these soft, easy touches happen all the time. A hand on my lower back, an arm over my shoulder, a pinch at my waist. These little acts, that are so incredibly personal and intimate, he does with me because we’re friends and he trusts me. But one day, he’ll give them to someone else. Someone he’ll trust more than me. Someone he chooses to live this life with. He does it so naturally with me, and my eyes sting at the thought of losing it to another person.
Don’t be selfish, Kate.
“I want you to be happy,” he says, giving my hand his typical double squeeze. “That’s all I want. And if going out with Eric again makes you happy, then that’s what matters.” He drops my hand slowly, leaving it feeling cold and empty. “I’ll just keep my plan to kidnap him and dump him in the wilderness to myself, unless it’s needed.” A deep, rumbling laugh leaves him as he turns back toward the hotel.
Chapter twenty-one
Kate
“Is that what you’rewearing?”
Malcolm stifles his laugh behind his fist when I glare at his reflection in the mirror. He has draped himself across the bed in the most effortless,I don’t care that you’re going on a date,posture I have ever seen. Maybe a little too effortless. Ever since this afternoon, he’s been a little forceful with his, ‘It’ll be great,’chit-chat. And if there is one thing I know about Malcolm, it’s his inability to lie. Anytime he’s caught in the thick of some scheme or dishonest venture, he becomes this overly cheerful, sunshiny person, asking you how the weather is or how your cat is. Last summer, when I forced him to lie to Uncle Jerry about who really smashed his back window out with a football (me), Malcolm was so cheerful that Jerry invited him on a family cruise—the yearly family cruise I have yet to be invited to. According to Benny, the lie continued for the entire vacation. Malcolm was in so deep he ended up doing karaoke, charades, and a belly flop competition.
He was instantly the family favorite.
All because I made him tell Jerry it was him who decided to kick a football in high heels in the middle of the night after three margaritas.
“What’s wrong with it?” I smooth out the pink blouse I’ve tucked into a pair of black jeans. My pink Converse, with a tiny speck of turf stain on the outside of the left foot, ties the outfit together.
“It seems a little casual, don’t you think?” Stretching himself across the bed, his shirt rides up and reveals a faint diagonal line of muscle that travels along his waistband. It peeks out like a road map for your eyes.
I force my eyes back up to my face in the mirror and roll on a layer of Chapstick. “We’re going to some hole-in-the-wall pizza place.” I shrug, content with what I’ve put together. “Plus, it’s camp. I didn’t really pack for a date this week.”
“Right, because why would you?” He winks at me, leaning back farther until his upper body is against the headboard. The motion jostles the entire bed, sending a tingling awareness down the front of my body. His arms flex as he rests them on top of his head, that line near his waist taunting me even more. My heart flutters into my throat, and I have to turn away from the mirror to rid myself of the distraction behind me.
Hyperfixating on his outfit comment, I look down and re-evaluate my entire wardrobe in a matter of milliseconds. “Do I look alright, though?” I ask, fixing my gaze on the turf stain.
The bed squeaks and ruffles as Malcolm rolls out of it ungracefully. A thud sounds when his feet hit the floor. “You look fine,” he says, leaning against the bed in front of me. He’s within arm’s reach, and for a moment, I want him to wrap me up and tell me it will be okay. That what I’m doing is okay.
“Just fine?” I huff out a laugh.
“Kate, you look great. You always do.” The smile he gives is sincere, and it’s all I need.
Tousling my hair one final time, I grab my purse and stand up straighter. Confident. Confident that this is the right thing to do. The universe wants me to do this, to go on this date, or I wouldn’t keep running into Eric, right?
Right?
I gulp, swallowing the doubt trying to creep up my throat, and squeeze my fists around the strap of my purse. “Great, then let’s do this.”
Malcolm’s neck tightens, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he pins his eyes on my crazy curls. The humid air has made it pointless to bother straightening them, so all week they have been a wild mess atop my head, ringlets every which way. Pain is etched on his face as he stares at them, like what he sees offends him.
“I can’t get them to calm down, okay?” I whimper, trying to smooth down the top of my hair. “This weather is the bane of my existence,” I whine some more, erratically trying to flatten curls, licking my fingers and running them through the strands. “Maybe I should tie it back?” I try to pull my hair back, but he stops me by gripping my elbows.
