Helen looks nothing but perplexed now, as if she can’t quite figure out what game I’m playing—but, credit where credit’s due, she rolls right along with it. “He showed up at the library almost every day. I thought he just liked to read!” She laughs, and it makes her skin do this kind of glowy thing that’s…nice.
I realize I’ve been staring for just a little too long and clear my throat. “Yeah, so, confession. I’m not much of a reader.” Looking at Ken, who’s listening in on the conversation with interest as he brings some plates into the room, I take a gamble. “I’m more of a sports guy, myself.”
Which is not a total lie. I’m an Alabama boy at heart, and college football is basically my religion. That being said, I wouldn’t call myself the most faithful member of the congregation. I’ve been more like an Easter-Christmas worshiper since I moved to Chicago. I’m counting on being good enough at bullshitting my way through a conversation to get by.
Ken perks up, definitely interested. “Oh, really? Who’s your team?”
“The Red Sox,” Helen speaks up for me, smoothing a hand over my back. I don’t know what’s more distracting—her touching me, or just how quickly she jumps at the lie. “Thad loves baseball, don’t you?”
I can tell by the way Ken’s face brightens that he, too, loves baseball and the Red Sox. Thanks for that one, Helen. At least it’s the sport with the easiest rules to follow—just hit the ball and run around the bases, right? “You’re kidding,” Ken crows. “We’ll have to catch a game sometime, when you and Helen come to visit.”
“I’d love that, Ken, I really would.” I guess I’m getting a bit too into character because I drop my arm from Helen’s shoulders so I can grip her knee under the table.
I hear her little intake of breath, but she recovers quickly. “Maybe we can all go. What do you think, Mom? The next time Dean’s in town?”
This is the part I should be paying attention to, but I’ve gotten a little distracted by Helen’s legs. I really wasn’t thinking things through when I moved my hand, it just seemed like the kind of thing a boyfriend would do. The way she’s sitting, her dress has ridden up a little—not anything too wild, but I guess because she’s usually so covered up, I feel a shockwave go through me when I catch a glimpse of her thigh above her knee. The warmth of her skin seeps through her tights, and beneath the sheer material, I see a little freckle on the inner thigh of her left leg that I’m for some reason desperate to touch.
Swallowing, I force my gaze up again, only to find Pam glaring daggers at me. Her look seems to say,That’s my daughter, you dirty bastard, and I know what you’re thinking. And because I’ve apparently decided to lean into this archenemy thing, I give Pam a look straight back that I hope conveys,You’re damn right that’s what I’m thinking, and there’s nothing you can do about it.
Pam fumes.
Helen clears her throat, sounding a little winded for some reason. “Mom? What do you think? When will Dean be back again?”
Pam blinks, then waves her hand irritably. “You know Dean. He’ll be back when he’s back.” She rises abruptly to her feet. “Does anyone want some cheese? I made up a cheese plate.”
She storms into the kitchen, slamming the separating door with such force that it swings back and forth for several seconds afterward. Ken seems to take this as par for the course and just goes back to setting out plates and utensils like nothing’s happened.
Helen, however, does not seem quite so sanguine. She’s giving me a look, like I’ve just kicked her favorite puppy. “Why are you antagonizing my mother?” she murmurs to me in a low voice. “I thought the whole point was to get on their good side.”
Because your mother doesn’t like me. Because she thinks I’m not good enough for her angel daughter. Because she wants to keep you wrapped up and hidden away. Because I really, really want to touch that little freckle on your thigh, just once.
I don’t say any of those things, obviously, because I’m not cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. “That got a little out of hand, didn’t it? Maybe I should go talk to her.”
“No.” Helen holds me in place with a firm hand to my chest, standing up and making me lose my grip on her knee. Her dress falls back into place, covering up the little freckle, and an unexpected but profound feeling of loss surges through me. “I’ll talk to her. You talk about sports with my dad.”
“I don’t know much about baseball,” I confess to her quietly, daring a quick glance back at Ken.
She raises an eyebrow at me. “You’re good at pretending to be things you’re not, aren’t you? Pretend you do.”
Chapter 19
Helen
In the kitchen, I find my mother aggressively chopping up a block of cheese to lay out along with some crackers and meat for a charcuterie board. Oprah must have done something similar recently, because I can’t imagine Mom hopping on the social media bandwagon and knowing about this trend otherwise.
“Mom?” I approach her cautiously, hands raised. “Let’s put down the knife and talk.”
Not that I think my mother wouldintentionallystab me. Our relationship is complicated, but not that complicated. Well, not unless Dean needed her to stab me for some reason. Maybe if he needed a kidney transplant and I wasn’t cooperating or something. But she wouldn’t stab me for bringing home a boyfriend, and so I’d call that a fairly healthy mother-daughter relationship.
Mom obediently puts down the knife, gripping the edge of the counter until she’s white-knuckled. I notice the white wine bottle is almost empty, and the rest of us are drinking hard cider, which suggests she’s been guzzling it back here in the kitchen. Lovely.
“I don’t like that young man, Helen. He is not a nice boy.”
I can’t exactly contradict that, seeing as how he came here tonight to try to arrest her favorite child. Still, logically, I can’t help but point out: “You can’t know that yet, Mom. You’ve barely spoken to him.”
“No, but I’ve watched him.” She shakes her head, a little too vehemently. “I’ve watched him watching you. That man only has one thing on his mind, and it’s not taking you to mass on Sunday.”
If only she knew how little interest Thad actually has in me. For a moment, I wish the whole situation were just a little less complicated so I could tell her everything—the ideas I built around him, that terribly awkward first kiss, the realization that he’s only been using me to get to Dean. How much I wish Iwereon his mind, at all, as any kind of sexual prospect, even if I no longer hold out any hope that he will be the one to see beyond all the weirdness of my past and just love me, right now, as I am. I want someone to want me. I want someone to be unable to get me out of his head. I want someone to touch my leg like Thad just did, not because he’s playing some kind of role, but because he can’t keep his hands off me.
