Great Big Beautiful Life(77)

“I’m sorry,” he says, and in this context, I’m so confused that all I can do is shout back, “What?”

“I’m sorry!” he yells.

I shake my head and explain what I really meant when I said what: “What the fuck were you thinking coming out in this?” I grab his jacket as I step back into the house, pulling him with me. It takes both of us to get the door shut and latched, and then I round on him again.

“You could’ve been killed!” I rage.

“You weren’t answering your phone!” he says. “Margaret couldn’t get a hold of you either. What was I supposed to do?”

I stare at him for a second, his face torqued, rivulets racing down the sharp planes of his face, joining the absolute pool at our feet. A couple of weeks ago, I would’ve mistaken the furrow in his brow for cold irritation, but now it couldn’t be more obvious to me.

He was scared. He was worried for me. The same way that, on Sunday night in the car, he’d been worried for me. Not just annoyed, not judging me for how I handle things with my mom, but worried.

And I don’t know what to say to any of it, so I just pitch myself at him. I fling my arms around him, pressing up onto my tiptoes, and within a second or two, his arms come around me too, and we just hold on to each other, the rainwater from his clothes and skin seeping through my second change of clothes of the day.

I don’t care. He’s shivering in my arms, his left hand wrapped around his right wrist at the small of my back. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs again, against my temple.

“Me too.” I shake my head as I tear myself away from him. The flicker of the nearest candles catches the edge of his jaw, but otherwise, his face is caught in the dark. “You were right.”

“No, you were,” he says. “There’s stuff I should explain.”

“Let me find you dry clothes first,” I say, pulling him deeper into the house. He waits in the living room while I duck into the bedroom with the lantern. I find my biggest T-shirt and pair of sweatpants, along with a pair of socks I think Theo must’ve left at my apartment ages ago, because they’re definitely not a women’s size 9. They are, however, the most comfortable socks I’ve ever worn.

“There are towels in the bathroom,” I tell him when I emerge. I tuck the stack of clothes into his elbow and hand him the lantern, but he doesn’t move right away.

Instead he stares at me, the bottom halves of our faces monstrously lit by the lantern, and his somehow just as beautiful as ever.

Then he takes the back of my neck in his free hand and kisses me, deeply, slowly, hungrily, and it’s been too long since his mouth was last against mine, but even then, it wasn’t like this.

It was feverish and desperate, like we were both trying to get as far as we could before reality set in and we had to stop.

Now it’s thorough, a deep stroke of his tongue into my mouth, a purposeful slide of it over mine. Not an accidental release of pent-up lust but an intentional exploration, of each other’s topography, of what feels good, of the sound he makes when I bite his lip, and the way my spine curves inward when he traces mine with the tip of his tongue.

My bones seem to melt, every muscle softening into him, his hair slick between my fingertips and the chill of his skin waking up every nerve from my collarbone to my thighs.

And then it’s over, with one last sweet brush of his lips on mine and a quick tightening of his hand before he releases it and walks into the bathroom.

I stand there not only thrumming but also trying and failing to wipe the ridiculous smile from my face.





24




Just when I think I might be able to get the toothy grin under control, the bathroom door swings back open and Hayden steps out in my clothes. I dissolve into giggles, and his white smile flashes in the dark as he stalks toward me.

“I’m glad this amuses you,” he says.

The shirt fits him all right, but the pants are capri length and tight. He looks completely absurd, and also incredibly sexy.

“Who knew you were hiding all of that behind those fancy full-length pants of yours,” I tease as he comes closer, lantern swinging in his hand.

“Is this punishment?” he deadpans. “Is it my penance for not calling sooner?”

“Don’t think of it as your punishment,” I say. “Think of it as my reward.”

Another flicker of smile, or something very like it. I reach for him and he lets me pull him toward me, ring my arms around his waist, and look up into his face.

He brushes my wet bangs from my eyes, tucking my hair behind my ear. “Why didn’t you answer?”

“My phone died,” I say. “I would’ve. I promise.”

He lowers the lantern onto the coffee table beside us and cups my face in his hands, kissing me again, once. “I’m so sorry.”

“Hayden, no,” I say, but before I can go on, he tugs me toward the couch.

“I want to tell you something,” he says.

“Okay…” Is this where he confesses something terrible? That he actually does have a girlfriend? Or that somehow this has all been to sabotage me?

My usually overactive imagination refuses to bite. I really do trust him. Still, that doesn’t totally eliminate the worry growing in my belly at his heady silence.