The Cornerstone (35 page)

Will sensed the shift, pulling away from my neck. “You keep asking that as if you don’t know. I might not have arrived on time, but I promised you I was coming back.”

“I’m not going to change,” I said. “And I’m not going to choose.”

“Shannon, I’ve never asked you to change.” He sat back on his knees, smoothing his hands down his legs. “You’re the only one who thinks you have to choose.”

That wasn’t how I remembered it. I remembered my universe torn apart at the seams, and I remembered failing at the one thing I cared about most.

I caught a glimpse of the living room. “You better get started cleaning this up,” I said. “I don’t want lime juice stains on my rugs.”

His eyes met mine in challenge, and that spark of something—oh, the line between love and hate had never been so fine—that I still held for him urged me to give up the fight. He saw it too.

“The Douchelord was a placeholder. A seat-filler. I don’t blame you for a minute of it, but I need to know it’s over. If it’s not, I’m going to find him and I’m going to end it for you.”

“It’s precious that you’re so hot for Gerard.” I nodded, shifting to my feet and heading down the hallway. “Not that it’s any of your business, but he’s back on the market. I wouldn’t put any energy into chasing him, though. I don’t think you’re his type. He likes them young.”

Will flopped to the side and dragged a hand over his face. “Yeah, I’m gonna kill him.”

My heart was
pounding pounding pounding
when I closed the door behind me, and all these emotions were crawling their way to the surface. But I didn’t want to fight them anymore.

My clothes hit the floor while I changed into a cozy set of flannel pajamas. I scrubbed the makeup from my face and tied my hair back, all while telling myself that I could handle boys—even commando boys—better than anyone.

The door clanged behind me when I emerged from my bedroom, but Will didn’t move. He was flat on his back with a hand pressed to his shoulder and his eyes closed. “I’m watching
Orange is the New Black
. You probably won’t like it but you’re welcome to join me as long as you can promise you won’t wrestle me to the ground again.”

“Will you be throwing anything?” he called.

“Haven’t decided yet,” I responded. I tossed a bag of popcorn in the microwave and poured some wine. “Aren’t commandos supposed to be able to handle a few flying objects?”

Will popped to his feet when the microwave sounded, and he followed me into the den, his gaze skeptical. “I’ve never had a lime thrown at me before.”

I pointed at the far end of the leather sofa while I queued up the series to the last episode I watched. “You can sit there.”

“And where are you sitting?” he asked.

“Over here.” I wedged into the opposite end, tight against the armrest.

“I’d rather be on your side,” he said. “With you. And the popcorn.”

I hugged the bowl to my chest. “Get your own.”

“You beat the shit out of me with citrus and called me a dirty hooker. The least you can do is share your popcorn.”

I set the bowl on the cushion between us, cranked up the volume, and turned my attention to the show. It took Will a little time to stop sending me loaded glances and pay attention to the episode, but it wasn’t long before he was laughing with me. He asked me to pause and catch him up on the story lines, and joined my running commentary about the characters.

“Is this what people mean when they say ‘Netflix and chill’?” he asked, and I almost dropped my wine in the process. There were odd bits of pop culture that Will missed out on while he was deployed.

“No,” I said. “No, that’s something else. Something different.”

“Either way,” he murmured, “this is surprisingly good.”

We watched the last half of the season, and when I announced that I needed my beauty rest, he gave me a sad smile, patted my head, and retreated to the guest room without a word.

When I plugged in my phone for the night, I was surprised to see a recent text from him.

Will:
What are you doing?

Shannon:
Getting into bed. Why?

Will:
At least tell me what you said to Douchelord

Shannon:
None of your fucking business

Will:
You threw two dozen limes at me tonight

Shannon:
…and your point?

Will:
Have I not earned the information?

Shannon:
I told you. He’s back on the market. That’s more than enough intel

Will:
You’re there. I’m in here. One of us is in the wrong place.

Shannon:
You sound like you’re 13 and trolling on pinterest

Shannon:
Your text game has suffered

I closed the text window, and opened a new one to Andy and Lauren.

Shannon:
sorry ladies. Have to skip lunch tomorrow…errr it’s today now. Headed to Swampscott for an open house. Have a mimosa for me. Or six.

I often bowed out of our weekend lunches for property shopping. They wouldn’t think anything of it as I’d skipped most outings in recent months, and I wouldn’t have to look Lauren in the eye and conceal the fact her brother was in my apartment, recovering from a fruiting attack. It wasn’t the same as concealing the fact I’d hooked up with the very same brother for months, or that I’d omitted huge portions of the truth when she inquired about my travels. She’d be pissed at me about the weekends, but she’d strangle us both if she found out he was in town and avoiding her.

Staring at my phone, I debated firing off some hostile texts to Gerard. I didn’t believe in kicking corpses and I didn’t have the time or patience for vengeance, but someone needed to throw a flag on the play he ran tonight.

“Such a dick weasel,” I said, studying his name in my contact list. Deleting him was the smarter option. The last thing I needed was Mr. Pemberton whispering about my old, dried-up prune of a pussy all over town. “But I can send a case of herbal erectile dysfunction pills to your office.”

The door burst open, and Will—wearing only boxers and a t-shirt—leaned on the handle. “What the hell are you doing in here? Who are you talking to?”

I was still amused by the idea of Gerard getting a shipment of boner stimulants in his swanky office, and couldn’t shut down the giggles. “There’s nothing wrong with talking to myself. It was an important conversation.”

His eyes swept the room, and he shook his head before switching off the lamp. He stopped beside the bed, his fingertips tapping the duvet, and sighed. “You’re the weirdest one in your family, right? Tell me it doesn’t get any worse than this.”

My body was committed to the giggles now, much like jumping off a diving board. All the ridiculousness of this week catalyzed into laughter, and soon I was hugging my sides while my eyes watered. “Not even close,” I stammered.

Will muttered something under his breath and climbed into bed beside me. His arms wrapped around me, strong and warm and safe, and I didn’t push him away. How could I? How could I find the strength to protest when my heart required
this
, when I’d spent the week stewing in my anger but wanting nothing more than
this,
when I’d spent months numbing myself to the memories of
this
.

I kept going back to that first night we were together, before the wedding, and how he could take me away from everything in my mind. I needed it then; I wanted it now.

Even if my head was busy mounting a bulletproof offensive.

“Now, listen to me,” he said. “I’m here for you—”

“I don’t want to talk right now,” I said, hiccupping as the giggles subsided. “Just keep your shorts on, don’t try to slip it in, and don’t make it weird.”

Will brushed my hair over my shoulder and kissed my jaw. “Sure you don’t want to tell me what you said to the Douchelord?”

“Why should I start giving you what you want now?” I asked. His thumbs worked the knots in my neck, and he had my eyes crossing in bliss.

“Because somewhere in your feisty little gremlin heart, you care about me,” he said. “And I’m not letting go until you remember that. I’ve told you before: I’m not giving up.”

*

Will was busy
flipping pancakes in the kitchen when I dragged myself out of bed the next morning. He handed me a plate and turned back to the stove without discussion. We’d slept together, perfectly civil and clothed, and it’d felt like my universe was sliding into its rightful orbit again.

Not that I was sharing that sentiment with Will. Not yet.

When I took a bite, I realized these pancakes were filled with raspberries. I couldn’t remember ever telling him that I preferred raspberry, or ordering pancakes with him. I stared at the wedge on my fork, confused. People didn’t just toss raspberries into pancakes. Blueberries had that market on lock.

“Hey,” I called. “About—”

“You mentioned it in Montauk,” he yelled into the dining room. “Eat.”

I promised myself it was just pancakes, nothing bigger or more symbolic, and only staged a small revolt when Will invited himself on my open house hunt.

“How does this work?” he asked as I merged onto the highway, heading north.

“What? Open houses? Or me tolerating your existence?”

Will turned his head, glaring at me. “The open house,” he said. “You just walk around and decide whether you like it? Or have you already decided that you’re buying? Is there a bidding war, and if so, I’m very interested in watching you eviscerate people.”

“No bidding wars. Not unless it’s an auction, and we aren’t going to any of those today,” I said, waving at the quaint homes along the coastal road. “Most of the time, I hear about properties before they come on the market. There are a lot of pocket listings—when an agent has an agreement with the seller but the property isn’t listed—and there are also a number of investors who buy and hold. None of this is public, and those are usually the ones I want. But today, we’re seeing a home that has been on the market for over a year and will happily sell below the asking price.”

I pulled up at a graying Colonial that didn’t look like it could limp through another winter. The location was magnificent; I could hear waves crashing against Swampscott’s rocky shoreline from the driveway, and the Galloupes Point neighborhood was hot without falling prey to the trendy trap. If this home was waiting for a buyer after all this time, either the seller was inflexible or it was a sneeze away from falling off this cliff and into the ocean. Or both.

“Don’t break anything,” I said to Will as we approached the door. “No commando tactics, please.”

“Your call,” he murmured, his hands raised. “I was going to run some breaching drills, but hell, if you don’t want me knocking down doors, I won’t.”

The agent spotted us and turned on his sales smile as he marched in our direction. “It would be best if you didn’t,” I whispered.

“Good morning,” the agent called. “You’re really in for a treat with this property. It was built in 1921, one of the first homes on the Point, all original floors and fixtures, and can you say ocean views? This neighborhood is always in demand, and it’s wonderful for growing families, too.” He smiled at us purposefully, and I reached into my tote for a business card. “What are we looking for today?”

He was wearing a shiny badge engraved with his name and agency, and I gave him a patient smile with my card. “My client here,” I gestured to Will, “is looking for something to restore. He’s a big fan of sustainable preservation, isn’t that right?”

“Huge fan,” he agreed. “The biggest fan.”

“He’s also looking for a place to wrestle whales and break rocks with his bare hands, so naturally,” I said, gesturing to the beach, “this listing came to mind.”

“Please, feel free to explore the home,” the agent said, flustered. He handed Will a folder filled with glossy images of the home from all the right angles.

The first floor was as I expected: worn, dated, dark. As the agent promised, the views were incredible, and I found myself walking through the kitchen and onto the grassy patio that bordered the ocean. The home sat on a parcel of land that curved out into the sea like a hook, and it created a safe harbor from the choppy Atlantic.

“Those are killer waves,” Will said from behind me. His chest was close enough to my back that I felt his presence, his warmth, but not his touch. “And I bet—” He pointed over my shoulder, to the craggy stone projecting into the sea, “—you’d find some shipwrecks out there.”

If I leaned back, I’d be in his arms and…I couldn’t decide whether I wanted that. “Why?”

“There’s a sandbar out there.” He gestured to the ocean, but I couldn’t discern anything but waves. “It’s probably only visible at the lowest tide. And that outcropping? The rocks? They extend about a quarter mile from the shore. No sailing vessels are getting into this cove in one piece.”

“I’ll be sure to add that to the marketing materials,” I said. “I’m sure those are real selling points.”