Smart Girl (12 page)

“Yes.
Lucifer
is part of the Anderson Collection, but this is—I’ve never seen
Number 3
in person before.” As if remembering himself, he turns to Tosh and me. “Do you know why he numbered his paintings rather than name them?”

My dad is incapable of sharing information straight out. He always frames it in the form of a question.
Miko, can you tell me why those flowers are blooming, but the others are not? Kitoshi, do you know what Lichtenstein based his prints on? Koko, what can you tell me about the Bolsheviks’ rise to power?
It used to drive me insane as a child, but now I understand him in a way I didn’t then. A lifetime of him drilling me for math tests and high SAT scores means that I know he can’t step out of his role as an educator any more than I can stop redesigning every room in my head the minute I walk into it. He believes you’re much more likely to retain information if you have to work it out in your head before you grasp it, so asking a question like this is just how he operates.

“I’m not sure,” I answer with a shrug.

“Because he didn’t want the viewer to have any preconceived notions about the work,” my mother murmurs, following the drips and splatters of paint with her eyes. “A title might tell you how to feel about it. A number forces you to draw your own conclusion—decide on your own what it’s supposed to be.”

My father beams at her.

“Teacher’s pet,” I squeeze out through a round of fake coughing.

Charlie gestures down the hall. “Come on, Miko. Let’s get you a drink. I’d hate to think you might choke to death when I’ve got a perfectly good bottle of two-dollar wine right here.”

As I follow Charlie down the hall past more priceless paintings and family pictures, my nervousness grows with every step I take. I saw Liam eight hours ago, and I should not feel this excited about seeing him again when we just hung out. But today is special. Today is a holiday. Today he’ll meet my parents. Today he’ll see me in this adorable red velvet vintage dress from the sixties, with its white Peter Pan collar and its short skirt. Today’s outfit says
pretty
,
flirty
,
romantic
. I saved this recent flea market find for months just so he could see me wear it for the first time.

The house is packed with people, but it’s easy enough to make out my group of friends lounging on various surfaces of the sectional in the far corner of the large room. After grabbing a glass of very expensive wine from Charlie, I take a moment to lust after all of Max’s desserts. The little signs tell me she made bananas foster banana pudding, her famous chocolate coconut cream pie, and something that looks like homemade Oreos. Nobody has started in on them yet, so I whisper a vow to return soon and head over to my friends. Max and Taylor are sitting on the floor with Casidee around a coffee table. Malin is lying on the sofa like a fatted calf. I make my way over to them and laugh in surprise when I see what they’re doing.

“A puzzle?” I ask in shock.

Max is adorable in skinny jeans and a cozy-looking bronze-colored sweater that brings out the gold in her eyes when she rolls them at me. “Apparently the Taylor family does one every Thanksgiving. I am trying to be supportive.”

“You’ve been
trying
to put that corner together for half an hour and failing miserably.” Taylor kisses her cheek without removing his hands from the pieces he’s working on. “Good thing you’re cute.”

I plop down on the end of the sofa next to Malin’s head. “And what’s wrong with you, Briar Rose?”

“I went out with friends last night.” Her bloodshot eyes peel open slowly to look at me. “Mistakes were made.”

I scan the room again, but there’s still no sign of the blond Viking god.

“Ahh, you poor lamb. Can I get you something?” I take a sip of the excellent pinot noir. “Maybe some tuna casserole or three-day-old baby food or gefilte fish that’s been left out in the afternoon sun?”

Malin covers her hand with her mouth and uses the other one to sock me. “You are so rude!”

I put my wine on the table next to me before the little harridan forces me to spill it all over Vivian’s designer sofa. Malin’s blonde hair is spread out all over the sofa cushion, so I gather part of it in my hands to work on a French braid.

“It serves you right,” I say, twisting the hair into place. “Getting drunk is so childish.”

Casidee looks up from her section of the puzzle. “You were drunk twice last month!”

“Exactly.” I pull the hair tie off my wrist and secure the end of the long blonde braid. “Do you really want me as your role model?”

“Too late,” Tosh says, sitting down on the other side of the sofa. “When I’m finally grown up, you’re exactly who I’m going to emulate. Right down to the colorful nail polish.”

Malin moves slowly into a sitting position. The thirty percent of her hair that’s braided flops awkwardly in her face, but she’s apparently too sick to care.

“Nail polish can look really sexy on a man,” she tells Tosh.

I assume she’s just trying to make conversation, but it comes out as a groan. He winces along with the rest of us at how miserable she sounds.

I glance around the room again but still don’t see who I’m looking for.

“Why don’t you have your brother make you one of his hangover concoctions?” I ask. “As I recall it worked really well for you after last year’s wine-pong tourney.”

Malin falls back against the sofa with a world-weary sigh.

“I can’t. He isn’t here.”

Disappointment crashes through me.

“Oh?” is all I can manage.

Max doesn’t look up from her puzzle pieces. “He decided to go spend the day with his mom at the last minute.”

I try to sound casual. “I thought he switched back and forth? I thought this year he was supposed to be here?”

My hands feel clammy, and my stomach flips over.

How many weeks did I hold on to this stupid dress in anticipation of this day? Or worse, how long did I spend convincing my family to come here for Thanksgiving? At the time I said it would be fun to try a new locale, but the truth was I’d wanted to know what it was like to spend a holiday around him, even if it was only for dessert. My heart shrivels up in desolation.

She shrugs absentmindedly. “I guess he changed his mind.”

“Oh,” I push out of my mouth for the second time.

Tosh is looking at me with barely concealed . . . not pity, exactly, but something really close. When I attempt to look away from him, Max is staring at me curiously. I really have to get better at not showing every single emotion on my face! I smile brightly and jump up from the sofa, not really sure of my destination, just sure that I need to move before the jig is well and truly up.

“You going to get Mom and Dad?” Tosh prompts me. “So everyone can finally meet them?”

Gods bless him for giving me a destination!

“Yes! It’s about time we make this meet and greet official. Casidee!” I snap my fingers in her direction. “You brought my robe and all the ingredients for ritual sacrifice?” My voice sounds a little strained, not at all the proper delivery for one of my better jokes, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

“The chicken is in a pen out back,” she tells me, deadpan. “Once you’ve bathed in the goat’s milk, we can begin.”

Everyone laughs at her comment, and under normal circumstances I would have too. Instead I use it as an opportunity to escape to the bathroom.

I step inside the powder room and look at myself in the mirror. I spent way too much time choosing my look today, and now it just feels ridiculous. Would he really go to this much effort to avoid me? He might not always give me the answer I’m hoping for, but he’s always been honest with me until now. Changing plans last minute seems childish and for some reason dishonest. And now I’m questioning his intentions again and second-guessing myself.

I hate that I keep swinging back and forth through emotions so quickly. This morning I was thrilled, and now I feel sick to my stomach. I’m not even sure what I’m supposed to do in this scenario. Call him on it? Pretend indifference? What I really want to do is chew him out, just like that Amazon I saw on New Year’s did.

I turn the faucet on and wash my hands just to have something to do. When the cold water hits my skin, another thought occurs to me. I keep running New Year’s around in my head, and with each passing second my conviction grows. I dry my hands, pull my phone out of my sweater pocket, and then bring up our latest text exchange. What if he is avoiding me and I’m going to make a fool of myself? What if he’s not and he needs a friend? I stare at myself in the mirror. The woman staring back looks flushed with emotion and totally unsure of herself. I guess it comes down to what’s more important. Would I rather try to keep up some pretense of detachment on behalf of my pride, or would I rather check on my friend?

When put like that, the answer is obvious. When it comes to the people I care about, pride could not be lower on my list of priorities.

I press the button to call his phone.

It rings several times, and when it eventually goes to voice mail, I hesitate before forcing myself to say what I called to say.

“Hey, I just wanted to check on you and make sure everything was OK.” I push my hair out of my face. “Sorry if this message makes me sound like a stalker. I promise not to put your bunny in a pot or anything. Um, call if you need something, OK?”

As I make my way back down the hallway, my phone’s empty screen mocks me. Zero new texts and no new emails. What if he doesn’t write me back? What if he—

The phone buzzes in my hand, and I have to tap out my password three times before I get it right.

Hardly the most stalker-like voice mail I’ve ever received.

I smile with relief at his playful message, then realize he didn’t actually address the reason I called in the first place.

Is everything OK?

The typing icon pops up, but it takes him several minutes to respond. The short length of his text makes me wonder if he debated the answer or just wrote and rewrote his response several times.

She’s having a bad day.

My heart breaks for him. How sad that he’s the only one around to pick up the pieces. How sad that he’s spending yet another holiday like this.

How can I help? Do you need anything?

I stare at the screen, willing him to answer for so long that I finally start to wonder if maybe that wasn’t the right thing to ask. Liam doesn’t ask for help, and he doesn’t strike me as the kind of man who
needs
anything or anyone. My suspicions are confirmed when I get his terse reply.

Have a nice Thanksgiving.

I have to force myself to put the phone back into my pocket without responding. Even a stalker like me knows better than to keep pushing him when he’s obviously not interested in discussing it further. With another worried sigh I head back to find my parents.

Chapter
NINE

I’m sure I’ve done stupider things.

I went bungee jumping once at a county fair strapped into a dirty harness and trusted my safety to a carney still coming off last night’s bender. Last year I convinced Landon that we should start our own company, though at the time I had very little belief that we could actually succeed and no money at all in my savings account. I only knew that my friend needed
something
to go right for her, so I walked away from the security of a big salary and let my blind faith and her enthusiasm propel us forward. And just last month when that same friend said we should try aerial yoga, I went along—certain parts of my abs are still sore from that mistake. The point is I’ve done stupid things. None of those feel stupider than carrying this box up Liam’s front walk and ringing the bell.

When I got home tonight and my parents were finally in bed, I knew I had to do something. I hated just sitting at home not knowing what was going on with him. I hated the fact that nobody was taking care of him, in particular his mother, who’d been assigned the role but was unable to fulfill it. I can’t imagine how saddening that must be, particularly on a holiday when most moms—my own included—were busy fussing over everyone.

And so I snuck out of the house and found a grocery store that was still open, not even sure if he’d be here when I arrived. I figured if he wasn’t, I’d just drive home and eat my purchase by myself, and if he was, well, I’d wing it.

The door opens, revealing his disheveled form in silhouette against the light behind him. His hair is pulled back in a low bun and his slacks and button-down shirt are wrinkled. I wonder if he’d been dressed to come to Charlie and Viv’s or if he tried to dress up for her regardless of whether or not she’d notice. I bite back a sad little noise in my throat. I don’t want him confusing sympathy with pity. Just then I catch the strains of jazz playing in the background.

I hold my box up higher with a bright smile on my face.

“I thought you could use something to eat.”

I glance meaningfully at the tumbler of dark liquid in his hand.

A hundred emotions run across his face, and he seems to be struggling with what to say. How much of that alcohol has he had already?

“God, you’re beautiful.” It comes out gruffly, like an admission of guilt.

He reaches out for the box in my hands, and I give it over with another smile.

“I just thought that maybe you’d . . .” My words trail off and I frown when he immediately sets the box on a console table by the door along with his drink. When he turns back around, the look on his face is fierce. I know exactly what that look means.

“I don’t want you to think I came over here for this again.”

I jump a little when his fingertips slide under the hem of my dress to reach my skin.

“I don’t,” he whispers, kissing along my neck.

A tiny whimper slips out of my mouth when his fingers slide down my back along with the zipper on my dress. I need to focus.

“You’re upset.”

Those same confident fingers slide back and forth against the rainbow of ink that runs along my side. He always seems to go back to that spot on my skin, though he’s never once asked what the tattoos mean. “And?”

I’m trying to stay on topic, but I keep getting lost in the sensation of his hands. My answer comes out breathy. “I just wanted to help.”

A slow, lazy grin spreads from one side of his face to the other. “Oh, believe me—this is extremely helpful.”

It’s hours later before I remember the Trojan horse sitting on the console table and force Liam to accompany me to the kitchen. He pulls on pajama pants and a T-shirt, and his overly long hair looks almost as chaotic as mine does. I find his blue cashmere sweater lying over the chair in his room and throw it on. It’s about a hundred times too big for me, but it feels like heaven and smells like him.

“You go there.” I point to the line of stools sitting next to a marble-top center island and then hurry to grab the box and my bag from the entryway where I left them. When I come back into the kitchen, he laughs.

He points to the can of whipped cream in my hand. “Now we’re talking.”

“Exactly. We’re
talking
. But first we’re going to enjoy this.” I remove the pumpkin pie from the container with the flourish of a magician. “What size piece would you like? Tall, grande, or venti?”

I vaguely remember the layout of the kitchen from when he made me breakfast. I pull a knife from the drawer but need some guidance from him before I can find the plates on the overhead shelf. I look to him for an answer he still hasn’t given me on the size of his slice.

“I really want to make a joke right now about your use of the word
piece
and exactly what kind of piece I’d like—”

I roll my eyes.

“But you won’t because that’s rude.”

His lips twitch.

“Right. I’d hate to be rude.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I’m going to choose venti.”

I slice into the pie.

“Thank goodness! I’m going to choose venti too, and this way I don’t feel alone in my gluttony.”

I put two gigantic pieces of pie on each of our plates and carry them around the island to take a seat next to him. After sliding a plate towards him, I shake up the can of whipped cream. I add a stream of the white topping down one side of the pie in a straight line.

“I think you can tell a lot about a person based on how they add their whipped cream,” I say.

“Ahh, one of the great tenets of life.”

I wish I had something heavier to throw at him than just my glare.

“Don’t be a wiseacre.”

He laughs.

“Wiseacre? Are you secretly a hundred-year-old man?”

The look I turn on him is solemn. “Sadly, you are not the first person to wonder that. Now back to the pie. I like to cover mine completely in this sort of uniform formation.” I add one row after another, covering every square inch of my slice. “This way I can be absolutely certain of my pie to Reddi-wip ratio.”

I set the can in between us and take a bite. I can’t help dancing a little in my seat; it’s the perfect combination of flavors, and I’ve waited all day to get it. I grin at the amused expression on his face.

“Come on.” I nod at the can. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

He picks up the can and shakes it for good measure. He adds a perfect dollop to his slice directly in the center. I’ve eaten blueberries bigger than that circle of whipped cream. My eyes fly to his.

“You can’t be serious!”

His shrug is playful. “I don’t really like whipped cream.”

I have to take an extra-large bite of my pie to cope with this discovery. “Good gods,” I despair around a bite of pumpkin filling. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”

He takes a bite of his own pie sans whipped topping. “Deal breaker?”

He’s nearly a foot taller than me and a giant wall of solid muscle, but he’s still playful enough to come to the kitchen in the middle of the night to eat a piece of pie the size of his face.

“Normally yes,” I sigh dramatically. “But I’ve never seen anyone look so handsome while eating a midnight snack, so I’m going to let it slide.”

He grins and takes another bite. He seems laid back, almost peaceful—a totally different person than the one who answered the door a couple of hours ago. I’m ridiculously happy that I played any role in that at all.

“So what happened today? Is everything OK with your mom?”

He pauses with the fork halfway between him and his plate.

“Same thing, different day,” he throws out casually.

I turn to face him fully and do something I’ve wanted to do since the very first night I met him. I reach up and tuck a piece of golden hair behind his ear.

“It wasn’t just a different day,” I say carefully. “It was a holiday. That can’t be easy.”

The kitchen is the only room with the lights on, so when he looks away from me, it’s out into the darkness.

“It was fine. How was your day?”

I try not to sigh. I want to be respectful of his privacy, but it’s not like we haven’t discussed this before. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’m the only one who has discussed this topic with him. I worry that he’s so busy keeping up the pretense of having it all together that he doesn’t have anyone to talk to. I keep thinking if I just carefully bring it up or keep throwing him underhand softballs that maybe he’ll start to talk to me. Maybe that’s the wrong approach, though. Maybe I need to be more direct.

“My day was fine, but I think I’d rather hear about yours.”

He turns his head back in my direction, but his eyes land on the can between us. He grabs it off the counter with a mischievous smile.

“You know what I think?” He holds the can.

I’m already shaking my head. “There’s no telling.”

He reaches for my left hand, and since my body is his willing accomplice, I place my hand on top of his outstretched palm without any kind of coaxing on his part. He adds a dollop of whipped cream to the center of my palm and leans down close enough to warm my fingers with his breath. Then without ever once breaking eye contact with me, he slowly licks it clean.

“I think we can come up with much more interesting uses for this than pie topping.”

In more than one book, the heroine describes her desire in the floweriest of descriptions. She feels like she’s going to internally combust or come out of her skin or get burned up by wanton flames.

My desire isn’t anywhere near as articulate.

My head fills with weird, nonsensical sayings: a flash of the jingle for a local electrician, the opening dance routine for
Kids Incorporated
circa 1991, the Mad Hatter’s gibberish as described by Lewis Carroll, and He-Man yelling about the power of Grayskull. These are the crazy images that fill my head along with a million other things that are so intense and demanding I have to stop myself from attacking him like a howler monkey.

“You—you don’t even like whipped cream,” I stutter inelegantly.

The light in his eyes catches on fire as he shakes the can again.

“I’m thinking it all depends on what you put it on.”

It isn’t until much, much later that I realize he never answered my question at all.

Landon bounces into my office a few days later wearing way too much pink and enthusiasm for a Monday morning. She’s all smiles as she deposits a coffee onto my desk.

“I’m trading caffeine for information,” she says as she plops down into a chair. “Your text messages were cryptic and uninformative. I want—” She halts as if remembering something.

She jumps up and hurries to close the door, then resumes her seat and takes a big swig of her own coffee.

“OK, go!”

I eye her dubiously.

“You first.” I take a sip. “How did everything go with Brody and your parents?”

“I told you this already.” She rolls her eyes playfully, because she knows I’m stalling for time. “My mom would marry him herself if polygamy were legal in the state of Texas.”

“And your dad?”

“They argued the entire time. They covered everything from football to workers’ comp and debated each point ad nauseam.”

“Crud. Really? They didn’t like each other?”

She looks at me like I’m crazy.

“Are you kidding me? They
adore
each other! My father loves a good debate, and Brody thinks he knows everything. It’s a match made in heaven.”

This makes my heart so happy. Not that I ever worried that they wouldn’t all love each other, but Landon’s relationship has gotten serious really quickly, and I know how important her parents’ opinions are to her.

“And he liked them too?”

She scowls at the question. “Girl, stop holding out on me. What happened?”

I glance at my computer screen, where a layout for an upcoming event is still open. I consider asking her a question about it just to throw her off, but she’s like a dog with a bone. She’s not going to be ignored, but I don’t even know where to begin or how to explain all that’s happened in the last week.

“Blessed assurance, are you
blushing
?” she screeches.

I will my face to return to whatever color it was before I started thinking about the last week. Equal parts embarrassment and annoyance make my voice come out too loud.