My Heart for Yours (8 page)

Tobin had every reason in the world to hate me.

***

“
Hi Delia!” Weston smiles wide. “Surprise.”

“
Hey.” Weston doesn’t belong in Crawford, but I stumble toward him anyway.

He wraps me up in his arms as soon as I’m close enough. “I’m sorry about your friend. I wasn’t thinking you were as close as you were,” he whispers. “I can’t be here the whole time you’re here, but I want to help, Delia. I was on my way when we spoke earlier. I’ll have to take off probably Saturday or Sunday, meet my dad in Baton Rouge, and then up to Tennessee, and down to Atlanta, but I’m here for now.”

Tears start sliding down my cheeks, but I don’t think it has anything to do with Eamon, Weston, or Tobin. It has everything to do with confusion.

Weston and I sit on the front porch holding hands while Mom and Dad argue inside. He’s politely ignoring the loud voices like I knew he would, but I can’t. Neither of us speaks. I start laughing because it’s such an absurd situation. We’re being so polite in front of the house, while the inside is a mess. It’s a metaphor for so many different things that I don’t even know where to start.

“
You okay, Delia?” Weston’s hand squeezes mine.

I let myself really look into his dark brown eyes as he rubs his thumb over the back of my hand. My laughter fades slowly.

“
You’re not tryin’ to ignore that, are you?” I tilted my head back to the house.

A soft smile slowly spreads. “Your accent. It’s cute. It’s been a while since I’ve heard you talk like that.”

Heat slides up my cheeks.

“
Don’t be embarrassed.” He kisses my cheek. “It reminds me of when we first met.”

“
Right.” I nod. “The
informal
barbeque.”

He chuckles and lets go of my hand to put his arm around me. I snuggle into the warmth of someone safe because Weston’s been my refuge for a long time.

***

The invitation said informal barbeque at Senator Willis’ home in Virginia. Dad was thrilled to be invited to his house, as was Mom. They both dressed for a late dinner at the country club, but I didn’t see the point when the invitation said informal. I’d left my cut-offs at home in Louisiana, but still wore shorts and a simple button-up shirt. I thought I was adding something nice with my chunky wedge sandals.

Dad frowned.

Mom said I was pretty enough that no one would care.

Well, when we got there, I cared. The lawn felt like a golf course it was so massive, littered with perfect white tents, waiters with flutes of champagne and hors d’oeuvres. The girls my age were all in dressed like I’d never seen. In fabric so soft that I’d be afraid to touch it, much less wear it. No comfy sandals for them either. Their shoes had higher heels than their mothers’ did. I wanted to hide in the car.

Mom and Dad stood under the tent talking to people that Dad watched on the news channels. I was still in disbelief that this was supposed to be my new life. I watched the people who looked about my age—all miniature versions of their parents. I’d never felt more out of place, or more like the small town girl that I suddenly knew I was. Standing next to Dad while he gave a small speech in Crawford made me feel important. Special. At that barbeque, I’d felt lower than low.

“
Don’t worry,” a boy whispered behind me, “you’re still the prettiest girl here.”

I turned and met Weston for the first time. His cheeks were pink, and I guessed that was pretty forward for him. He had short, dark hair, a fairly average build, and deep, brown eyes.

“
You’re Delia Gentry, am I right?” he asked.

“
Yeah…” I took a deep breath and tried to push away my southern drawl, because that’s what it suddenly felt like. A drawl. “Yes. I am.”

“
Our fathers work together. We might end up being friends.” He smiled and stuck his hand out for me to shake. “I’m Weston.”

I pulled a deep breath in and let myself relax for probably the first time since our move, and shook his hand.

“
Hint for you.” He stood next to me and rested his hands in his pockets. It was the first time I noticed that he was the most casually dressed of the guys there—his shirt might have been plucked from the floor, and his khakis were in need of a wash. The familiarity felt good.

“
Hint for me?” I prompted, as his brown eyes didn’t leave mine.

“
Oh. Right.” He shook his head and smiled. “When you’re not sure about something, just raise your chin a bit, and always look them in the eye. I have a feeling you could pull a bluff on any girl here.”

And that, at least, was something I could understand.

***

“
Wanna come upstairs?” I ask Weston, still leaning into his warmth.

“
What,
now
?” His brows come up.

“
Scared?” I tease as I stand. My dress is wrinkled, and I’m not sure why I haven’t bothered to change.

“
No. I just worry about what your parents will think.” He follows me through the front door. “Your dad walked me to my room and very specifically said that’s where I was staying.”

Mom and Dad’s voices echo in from the living room—still angry. I’m guessing that Mom came home and drank more than she needed to maintain. I think normally her haze helps her deal with Dad, but when she drinks too much, they argue because she doesn’t stay quiet. Dad doesn’t like it when Mom’s not quiet. Sometimes I hate him.

“
I think my parents are busy.” I try to make light. “And when they’re done fighting, there’s usually some time where they’re making up. They won’t notice.” I bite my lip and head toward the stairs. “Besides, you’re two years older, and my dad practically worships your father. I think we’re okay.”

He sighs. “I’m coming.”

Weston and I have been dating for almost a year. We became a ‘we’ not long after the barbeque, and partly because our parents worked so closely together. We were just together a lot. But it took Weston a long time to hold my hand, and even longer to kiss me.

I cried all night after our first kiss, feeling guilty. And then my guilt made me angry. There was no reason I shouldn’t kiss whomever I wanted. Tobin had hung up on me angry more than a month before.

Weston follows me into my room and I close the door.

I just need some distraction. I need for Weston to light up those butterflies inside me, or to make me forget where I am. When I turn around he looks wary.

“
I shouldn’t be in here, Delia.”

Always the gentleman. This is what girls are supposed to like. We’re supposed to swoon over the boys who are always trying to do the right thing. And for the right reasons, even. Instead I kiss him. The next kiss, I kiss him deeper and pull him onto the bed.

Weston and I have never gone all the way. Part of me wonders if guilt will rip me from the inside like it did after our first kiss.

The thing with Weston is that once he lets loose a bit, it feels like he sort of forgets me. And in minutes of being on my bed, that’s where we’re at. His mouth is hard on mine, and his hands feel desperate against me. I stare at the ceiling as his mouth trails down my neck and across my exposed collarbone.

I’m still not feeling it. Maybe if I close my eyes. Relax into him more. But I close my eyes and Tobin’s there.
Of course he is
. Being with Tobin was never something I could or would have been detached from. He’d kiss my mouth so softly, and then instead of devouring me, it’s like he wanted to touch his lips everywhere. To savor each moment of being close.

***

Tobin traced my palms running butterflies up my arms, stealing my breath. His lips touched me next—sliding along the trail his fingers did. He always breathed in at my wrists, to take in whatever scent I wore. His hands squeezed mine as he laced our fingers together, and his lips touched the soft skin in the crook of my elbow, working their way up my bicep, across my collarbone and then up my neck.

Tobin took his time, until I forced him to do otherwise.

“
A woman is a beautiful thing, Delia. I just wanna appreciate you a little bit.” The corner of his mouth pulled up in a half-smirk.

“
How many times have you used that line?” I laughed. I knew Tobin wasn’t exactly new at this.

His eyes locked with mine.

“
Be serious, Delia. You’re not like anyone else. Never have been.”

“
Fine, just don’t be such a tease,” I joked.

He teased me, or
appreciated
me—kissing up my neck, and I’d part my lips, just waiting to taste him again, but he moved way. Soft kisses trailed across my chest, between my breasts and down my stomach. His fingers traced invisible lines everywhere—under my belly button and down the outer edges of my thighs, the inner sides of my thighs…Each second counted for something, just like every single time.

***

“
You still with me, Delia?” Weston’s pulled away, but our bodies still touch as he leans down and kisses me softly.

“
What?” I ask.

He grins wider. “That look on your face—like you were in a different place.” He leans up on an elbow. “That’s how you make me feel, Delia. I love you.”

I smile up at him, not because I feel my smile, but because I know I should. Have I always felt this half-nothing toward him?

“
Delia?” He runs a hand through my hair.

“
Yeah. I love you, too. Just tired.” I sigh and let my body sink deeper into my mattress. What’s wrong with me? I was the one who invited him in here.

“
I wish I could stay, but—”

“
But probably best that you take your own room. We wouldn’t want to ruin appearances.” Also, I want to be alone.

He scowls. “What’s going on? Is that what this place does to you?”

Weston could be my father in this second, and I open my mouth to scream that this is where I grew up, and he should show some respect, but I know better. Its all part of pretending everything is perfect—something I’ve learned from Mom. “Just tired.” I’m pathetic.

“
All right. I’ll leave you. I wouldn’t want you to be dealing with puffy eyes in the morning.” His thumbs brush across my cheeks.

I open my mouth again to tell him that I’m here for a funeral, and it’s perfectly acceptable for me to have puffy eyes, but I don’t. Why am I so bitter, and how did everything get so mixed up?

“
Goodnight. Thank you.” But I just want him to go. To let me be alone.

His fingers brush up and down my arm a few times, and he slides his hand through my hair as I close my eyes. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispers.