A Fine Mess (Over the Top) (16 page)

Lily walks into the living room then, jacket and hat still on, cheeks pink from the cold. So damn gorgeous. Our eyes lock, and she hurries over. Still shivering, she wraps her arms around my waist then presses onto her toes to kiss me. “I missed you.”

I want to grab her and kiss her senseless, show her how three days apart has made me wild for her, but my filter kicks in. Not appropriate behavior when at the ex’s house, especially a day postfuneral. “Me, too.” I finish my Scotch, place the glass on the coffee table, and nod to the hall. “What do you say you take off your coat and stay awhile?”

She glances past me, to Kevin, who’s watching us, that dark look still on his face. He excuses himself from his sisters and comes over. “Everything go okay with the boxes?” he asks her, stepping so his back is to me. Fucker.

I keep my focus on Lily, waiting. Making sure I didn’t read that call wrong.

She blinks. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips. She fidgets.

Not wrong, and my gut twists. When did we start lying to each other?

“Yeah,” she says. “Fine. Perfectly fine. It just took a while to get it all unloaded. And donated. But it’s done. Do you think it helped your mom? Having his stuff cleared out?”

She wrings her hands, and Kevin shrugs. “Hard to say, but she seems calmer. She slept for a bit today. There are a few more boxes, the last of his things besides the garage, but I can deal with those tomorrow.”

“More?” Lily glances around furtively. “I can do it. I mean, I already set everything up at the shop, so…I think it’s better if I go. For sure. Yeah. So, I’ll take the boxes tonight and drop them off tomorrow. You have enough to take care of. It’s the least I can do.”

Talk about high strung. When Lily lost her car keys at the shop and almost missed a big meeting for her purses, she was stress personified. She nearly bit through her lip and picked the shit out of her nails, gripping her purse as if it were her last possession. This is Stressed Lily on acid, and it’s because of those boxes.

Kevin doesn’t seem to notice, though. He shifts his feet and scratches his neck. “Sure. If you don’t mind.”

The guy she dated for eleven years, who claims I’ll never know her as well as he does, doesn’t question her behavior. Maybe he chalks it up to the loss of his father, but that doesn’t fly with me. “Actually,” I say, “I’ll grab them right now and put them in my car. Lily and I will go tomorrow.”

She stops breathing. Her face freezes. Her eyes bug out.

Before she recovers I ask Kevin where the boxes are. He answers grudgingly, and I take off. I don’t stop to put on my coat. Two trips later, I hurry across the snowy path back to Kevin’s, chilled to the bone but satisfied. Jim’s remaining things are in my car. Locked. Secured. Lily can’t hide from me at this point. We’re staying in her childhood bedroom tonight, the two of us alone. No escape. As much as that excites me on many levels, our clothing stays on until I find out why she’s acting like she’s harboring a fugitive. When needed I’m a patient man.

I feel like a rat trapped in a maze, and Sawyer’s eyeing me like he’s the scientist. There’s no doubt I freaked when Kevin mentioned the remaining boxes, a reflex I couldn’t control. I should have let it go. I have the bulk of Jim’s stuff; why do I need it all? Compulsion triumphed over rationality, and Sawyer read my jittery nerves for what they were.
Not
normal. Still, the way he jumped in and had the boxes in his car before I could speak doesn’t make sense.

Does he know about the farmhouse? Is he holding the boxes ransom until I come clean?

I’m probably paranoid, my lies playing with my mind, but I hate this. Hate, hate,
hate
how jumpy I am, how suspicious and nervous and out of control. Like I’m rolling downhill, unable to stop. And still my mind whirls, trying to find a way to get those boxes from him, while avoiding a confrontation.

I may be a panicked mess, but dinner at Kevin’s is a quiet affair. A few other friends and my family eat in small groups with plates on our laps. Sawyer’s attention barely shifts from me as I pick at my food and bounce my heel. For the past three days, without him, my carefully crafted world has unraveled inch by inch, a thread tugged until I’m nearly undone. I want to melt into his arms so he can kiss me and erase my anxiety, but something tells me that won’t work today, that he knows more than he’s letting on.

Just paranoid
, I remind myself. Still, my temples throb.

Kevin’s sister, Amanda, is on a chair beside us, filling me in on her wedding details. Her hair is as straight as Kevin’s, her features fine but angular—sharp cheeks, pointy chin. The only hint of her turmoil is her red-rimmed eyes. “Dad was going to give me away, of course.” She exhales with a sigh. “He actually asked if he could wear this tie I gave him when I was a kid. Did Kevin ever show it to you?”

When I shake my head, she goes on, “It’s this hideous thing, a Father’s Day project from school. It’s blue with sparkly paint and tacky rhinestones. It says
Number One Dad
.” She snorts. “I told him no. I mean, who would want their father wearing that in their wedding photos? I wish I’d said yes.” She blinks rapidly. “Patrick said he’d wear it if I want, but it would creep me out.”

“The groom?” Sawyer asks.

She nods. “Yeah. He’s on a business trip in England. He wanted to fly in, but it’s a big trip, important for his career. Dad wouldn’t have wanted him messing things up to be here. He’s flying back in a couple days.”

“I’m sure it’s hard for him,” Sawyer says. “Being away while you’re going through this.”

“It’s been hard on both of us. A lot of long-distance calls. He’s my sounding board. Always has been. I try to be strong on the phone with him so he doesn’t worry, but it never works with Patrick.” She shoots me a small smile. “Lily knows. I could never keep a secret from him, even the ones I should.”

My mom collects our plates and cutlery as I stifle a much needed laugh. “He didn’t have to know you ran into your ex at that bar.” My gaze darts back to Sawyer, and my good humor dissipates. He’s studying me again, the intensity of his attention unnerving. He hasn’t mentioned the boxes since he took them out, not a peep. Maybe I can sneak his keys tonight and grab them early in the morning, leave while he’s asleep. Say something about wanting to spend the day together without running around. That could work. He might believe me. But the
deceit
. Just thinking it fills me with shame.

He leans more heavily on his chair’s armrests, his hands clasped in front of him. The movement stretches his black long-sleeved shirt over his shoulders. Shoulders I’d love to touch, to kiss. In Belize, I forgot everything but him and the feel of us together. What I wouldn’t give to regain that amnesia.

He frowns at me. “What’s wrong with running into an ex?”

I uncross and recross my legs as I focus on our conversation. “We went to a strip club for her stagette a couple months back. Turns out he has a new job.”
God
, that night. When Amanda’s ex, Trevor, walked onstage in a cowboy hat and buttless chaps, we all stared, dumbstruck. Then we lost it, cackling, shouting, “Oh my God” over the music. The second he recognized us, he tripped and nearly landed on Amanda in the front row. He recovered, we cheered, and we stuffed money in his G-string.

Unforgettable.

Amanda blushes the color of her ruby nails. “Honestly, it was no big deal. It’s not like I hadn’t seen the guy naked before. But Patrick got kind of mad. Not that I blame him. We fought pretty badly that night.”

Sawyer spins his pinky ring. Once. Twice. “Better to be honest. If he heard the story from someone else, he would’ve wondered why you didn’t tell him. It would’ve been a bigger deal than a quick fight.” He turns to me then, gaze unwavering. “Trust is what it’s all about. Nothing works without it.” He quirks an eyebrow—a dare, a challenge.

Not paranoia.

My moment of levity balls in my stomach.

He knows…something. He knows I’m hiding things from him, which means he’ll never buy my “Let’s spend the day together” story. I am so screwed. So, so screwed. He’s going to find out about the farmhouse, and everything will change. He’ll leave me or stay out of pity. Our time in Belize will exist as only that—a moment in a bubble. Perfection that didn’t last.

My eyes fill, and Amanda squeezes my knee. “I know how close you and Dad were, and I’m glad you’re here. I’m happy things ended well enough with Kevin. I’d hate to lose you as a friend.”

Her hazel eyes are as glassy as mine. It’s easy for others to think I’m sad about Jim. And I am. But Sawyer sees me; he knows. He reads the truth behind my picked nails and flitting eyes, our moment of reckoning not far away. I blink quickly and place my hand on hers. “I’m glad, too. And I’m here for you. Just call if you need anything.”

I barely talk for the next hour, the minutes flying too fast. Two of my cuticles are raw by the time we say good night. We trudge to my house in silence, Sawyer’s presence thick around me. I run through possible excuses and explanations, but they all fall flat, and I’m not so sure I want to lie any longer. It’s debilitating, this constant stress. Worry shredding my sense. How long can I go on like this?

Once home, my mother falls onto our sofa, my father already at the liquor cabinet. “You kids want a drink?” His moustache is streaked with gray, his paunch growing heavier with passing years. “Your mother cooks too damn well,” he often says. The sight of him normally gives me comfort, one hug zooming me back to the safety of childhood. But not tonight.

“I’d like to turn in early,” Sawyer says before I can respond.

Definitely not tonight.

My father grabs a glass, a hefty pour of bourbon sloshing into the bottom. It’s not uncommon for him to savor a drink at night, but his glass is filled with more than alcohol, the amber liquid brimming with memories of his lost friend. Hopefully, it helps him heal. He raises his glass. “Sleep well. Maybe I’ll take you on a tour of the property tomorrow.”

“Sounds great,” Sawyer replies while I stay mute. “It’s been nice to meet you. Both of you.” He smiles at my mother, charming her with his dimples.

“Likewise,” my mother says. “We’ll see you in the morning.”

I wait for them to make a fuss about where my new boyfriend will sleep, like I’m still nineteen. Give Sawyer the third degree and tell me to keep to my room. I’d welcome the distraction. It doesn’t come, though. We say good night and he follows me upstairs with his bag, a death march playing in my head.

He drops his suitcase and tours my room, nodding. “It’s very…purple.”

I try to picture it through his eyes: the lace curtains, the lilac walls, the floor-to-ceiling bookcase, and the queen bed made up in a thick violet quilt. The huge stack of stuffed toys I could never give away. The word
girly
comes to mind. “I haven’t changed it since I was a kid. I like keeping it this way.”

He touches the riding trophies on the bookcase, pausing on a picture of Raven, Shay, and me on horseback, then he stops at my desk, turns, and folds his arms, resting against my desk chair. “I like it. I like seeing this side of you. I like all sides of you, actually.” He emphasizes the last part and holds out his hand. “Come here.”

I rock on my feet, wishing I had a trapdoor. A secret passageway. Any escape. “There?”

He curls his fingers to call me over. “Yes. Here.”

I swallow and fix my hairband, grazing my antique earring as I do. The gold hoop and hanging jade stone are cool to the touch:
A girl, kidnapped by pirates, is forced to walk the plank, sharks circling below.
My belly roils.

I approach like I’m wading through quicksand, sinking. As soon as I’m close enough, he grabs my wrist and pulls me against him. “First, you’re going to give me the hello kiss I didn’t get. Then we’re going to talk.”

He doesn’t give me time to stress about the talking part, not when his soft lips capture mine, erasing my memory. My existence. My anxiety. I melt against his chest, and groan into his mouth, too many clothes between us. Like this, with him, I’m nothing but heat and fire, embers snapping in the light. With him I’m normal.

Until his lips leave mine.

He doesn’t give me space. He keeps me locked against him, his voice deep and low. “I got in early and went to the Salvation Army. You lied to me on the phone and told me you were there. You panicked when Kevin mentioned the boxes, and you’ve been a nervous wreck all night. What’s going on, Lil? What aren’t you telling me?”

Blood rushes to my head, the effect dizzying. He may not know about the farmhouse, but he knows enough to connect the dots eventually. I try to look past him, to latch on to anything in my room, envision a story that isn’t mine. But Sawyer crowds me, holds me close. Another lie forms in my mind, but there are so many jumbled together, I can’t see the shape of it, and I don’t have the energy to piece it out. With no other options, I steel myself for the truth. If I lose him in the end, better to have it all on the table, my oddity on display. Still, heat stings my eyes, my chest and neck burning.

Soon he’ll know I’m not his Venus. I’m just a girl with a problem, who’s about to lose the boy she loves. But the constant lies are draining—lies to my mother, Kevin, my friends, telling Grace her husband’s belongings have been donated when I’ve hidden them at my farm. Humiliation coats my tongue, the bitterness worsening by the second. In the end, I may lose Sawyer, but I can’t keep on like this. It’s time, finally, to ask for help.

Waiting on me, he hugs me close and stiffens. “Your heart’s beating out of your chest.”

“I’m sorry,” is all I manage. “I didn’t want to tell you. Or anyone. I just…”

He pulls his head back, the skin between his brows puckered in a tight line. “Whatever it is, I’m not going anywhere. And we’re not leaving this room until you tell me. So, unless you want your folks thinking I’m into kinky sex, I suggest you start talking.”

He makes it sound so simple, like telling him will make everything okay. I won’t be strange. I won’t feel the need to shop compulsively—buy, store, keep. They make shows about people like me. Freaks. Addicts.

When I don’t answer him, he dips his head so we’re eye to eye. “If I told you I love you, would it help?”

My breath catches. The room swims. He can’t. “You can’t. You don’t know me.”

“I can, and I do. If I’m not mistaken, you’re kind of taken with me, too. If you deny it and keep telling me I can’t love you, I’ll just fall harder. The whole reverse psychology thing still works like a charm on me.”

If he does, the fall when he realizes who I truly am will hurt that much more. The type where you never land. Still, hope whispers through me. With or without him, I need to face my issues. But if he knew, maybe it wouldn’t feel so consuming, with a lover to share the burden. If he knew.

He kisses my head, both eyes, my ear. “I love you,” he whispers. “I fucking love you, so deal with it.” He hugs me tighter, his heart racing in time with mine.

You’re mine, I’m yours.

Instead of telling him how far gone I am, how much I love him, too, I say, “I shop a lot.”

Poundpoundpound

Whywhywhy

Why am I different? I wait for the floor to drop from below my feet, the walls of my room to crumble. Nothing happens. He moves and pulls me with him to my bed, sitting cross-legged on my quilt, asking me with a nod to do the same. He inches closer, until our knees touch, then he takes my hands. “What does ‘a lot’ mean?”

“More than normal. And I never give the things away.”

“Does this have something to do with those stories you invent? Like at the antique shop?”

I search his face for judgment but find only curiosity and worry in his soft, brown eyes. “A little, I think. No…it does, it definitely does.” I frown, unsure how to describe the feeling that overtakes me when I see things I want—
need
—wondering if there’s a way to sound less crazy.

“Can you explain it to me?” he says. “I’d like to understand.”

His knees press against mine, his fingers tracing soothing circles on my palm. There’s no point sugarcoating this for him. Time to let my crazy shine. “It started when my nana died, when my mom wanted to donate her stuff. I’d always shopped before that, a bit more than was normal, and always secondhand things, but I didn’t think anything of it.”

I stare at our knees as I spill the whole shameful story, my gaze locked on the rips in my jeans. Keeping my nana’s things in a storage locker until my inheritance came through. Buying the farmhouse. Slowly filling it with more things—purses, quilts, clothing, jewelry—hoping to keep their owners alive. How in times of stress, the purchases and stories keep me grounded. My web of lies. The embarrassment, the guilt. How the need comes in waves, so much so that I convince myself I’m fine. That if I want to, I can walk away from the farmhouse, as though I have some semblance of control. Then Jim passes and I’m drowning again, my compulsion controlling me.

Sawyer doesn’t interrupt, but I don’t dare glance at his face. Our palms are sweaty. My anxiety? His? Is he eyeing the door, hoping for a quick getaway? Is he wishing he never asked? But under my dread is relief. Revealing a long-kept secret is like lancing a boil—the ugly leaks out, but the pain lessens, and
maybe
the healing begins.