She nods again. I finish getting dressed and she follows me out to the front door.
“Would you like to go on a date?” I ask her before I open her front door. “A real date, just the two of us. Like a couple.”
She looks shocked but happy. “Yes. When?”
“I have a game tomorrow night so how about the night after?”
“I’d love to.” She rocks up on her tiptoes to kiss me good night.
I head out into the New York streets filled with emotions I’d never thought I’d feel—happiness and hope.
Chapter 22
Brie
Ikiss him, but he doesn’t really kiss me back. It’s adorable. I look over my shoulder to ensure we’re alone and then I give him a playful smile. “My dad doesn’t own a shotgun. And even if he did, you’ve been a delight tonight. He’s not going to shoot you.”
Alex smiles at that. “I did good, eh?”
I grin and cup his cheek. “Très bien. Ils t’aiment.”
They do love him. And I loved watching them love him. He was so adorable helping my mom with the dishes and trying so hard to be polite and complimentary to my dad. Mackenzie loved having him here too. I think it made her less uncomfortable. She told me she never did Thanksgiving with her mother. Her mother didn’t do any holidays so she wasn’t sure what to expect. Having Alex here, who also clearly isn’t one to celebrate holidays, gave her an ally. They both did great and I think they enjoyed themselves.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to wait and walk you two home?” Alex asks.
“Mac and I are going to spend the night here,” I explain. “But I’ll see you tomorrow?”
He nods. “I’ll pick you up at noon. The flight is at two.”
I nod and try not to look as excited as I am. Not just because it’s Rose and Luc’s wedding, which I’m sure will be lovely, but because Alex and I are going to have a sleepover. A bona fide, full-fledged, out-of-town sleepover.
It’s been two weeks since Mac ran away and everything has been amazing, with her and with Alex and me . Three one-on-one dates as well as two outings with Mackenzie for ice cream one day and to see a movie the other. And he dropped by after his last home game for a what was supposed to be a beer and some conversation but what turned into quickie and then he left.
I’m not complaining about the quickie. I had watched the game on TV and the camera loved to focus on him—on the ice and the bench. He was getting lippy with the other team and it was fucking hot to watch him fearlessly taunting the other team, getting under their skin. I never thought I liked the troublemaker bad boy, but damn, it made me wet. So the quickie was as much my doing as his, but then he left.
He still hasn’t spent the night, and as much as I wish it didn’t bug me, it does. I’ve tried to talk to him about it a little more—his past, why he won’t stay over—but he just says he’s not ready. I want to ask him about his foster homes, about those scars on his back and if he got them falling through a window. If one of the other kids in the home was a tiny, scared four-year-old with big brown eyes named Gabrielle. But any time I try to bring it up he gets upset. So I’ve just been trying to enjoy him—us—and be patient.
He kisses me again, this time less PG and with a little tongue. “Á demain, ma belle.”
“Yes, see you tomorrow.”
He heads out into the stormy night, and I watch him go until he’s disappeared from sight. I close the door and walk back through the large Upper East Side penthouse I grew up in to the kitchen. Mackenzie is helping my mom load dishes into the dishwasher while my dad puts the extra food into Tupperware. My dad smiles at me as I stretch out on the bench seat in the little eating nook. “I like him. He’s much more interesting than Victor ever was.”
I laugh. “You used to say Victor was a nice boy.”
“He was. You know what else is nice?” my dad counters with a wink. “Vanilla ice cream. White toast. Plain milk. This guy has character and personality. Like sourdough toast or a milkshake or chocolate ice cream.”
“More like Rocky Road,” I murmur but no one catches it.
“I think it’s so magical that you found a boy with French roots just like you,” my mom interjects. “Are his parents still in Quebec?”
“Alex doesn’t have parents,” Mackenzie replies before I can explain. “He grew up in foster care, like me. And he ran away like me. Only he didn’t have someone to take him in. But he has hockey, so there’s that.”
Now both my mom and dad have stopped their tasks and are staring at me. I glance over at Mackenzie. “Why don’t you go pick out a movie for us to watch? It’s family tradition we watch a Tom Cruise movie after dinner every Thanksgiving. You’ll find a pile of them on Blu-Ray in the cabinet under the TV.”
“Tom Cruise?” Mackenzie repeats and the look on her face says she’s completely baffled. “We’re not Scientologists, are we?”
My heart swells at her use of the word “we.” She feels like she’s one of us now.
