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Lance laughs. “No. Violet’s my team captain’s wife. She’s nuts, and she has zero filter. She’s fun to be around, but a little crazy.”
“Oh.” I’m annoyed by my relief. “Can I get you something to drink? A glass of water?”
“Uh, yeah, sure. That’d be good.” He looks around my kitchen. “This is a nice place.”
“It’s old school, but I like it.”
“It’s comfortable. It must’ve been a nice place to grow up.” He leans on the counter and rearranges the apples in my fruit bowl. “My house is huge. Sometimes I don’t like it. Like, there’s too much space just for me. I try to fill it up with people, but that makes it worse a lot of the time.”
“What do you mean?” I pass him a glass.
His fingers graze mine when he takes it. I can’t tell if it’s intentional or I just want it to be.
“There isn’t balance, I guess. Like, it feels empty when it’s just me, but then when all the people are there, things get out of hand and I make bad decisions.” He straightens and chugs the contents of the glass before setting it down on the counter. “It’s like how I know I should know you, and I keep trying to find you in here.” He taps his temple. “But I was probably wasted as shit, and everything’s a big black hole.”
“There isn’t really anything to remember.” The lie tastes bitter.
His expression is intense as he regards me. “You don’t seem like the kind of girl who’d end up at my place. There’s gotta be a story behind how you got there.”
“Randy and Miller were there. Why don’t you ask them about it?”
“They don’t have the clearest memories, either.”
I give him a small smile and lie again. “Neither do I.”
He purses his lips and shakes his head. “Sorry. I should probably go. It’s late, and I’m making you uncomfortable.”
When I don’t say anything, he pushes away from the counter. “Thanks for taking care of me.”
“You’re welcome.” I walk him to the door.
Halfway down the hall he turns around. “When I get back from my away series, can I see you again? Like, can I come here instead of the clinic?”
“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”
That stops him short. “What? Why not?”
Oh, God. He’s just so much…everything. I can’t be around him without thinking things I shouldn’t. “It’s just… I just… It’s unprofessional.”
“Is it because I got hard?”
My thighs clench, along with every single muscle from the waist down. It’s because I liked that you got hard. My clasped hands are suddenly very interesting.
“Sorry. That was crass. I like it better here than at the clinic.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“So it is because I got hard? I thought you said that happens all the time.”
I stumble over my words, unable to find anything that isn’t inappropriate. “It does. Sometimes. And that’s not the reason…” I make a hand gesture.
“Is it because of what happened last year? With your friend? At my house? I told you I was sorry about that, too.”
I can tell he doesn’t remember anything about that night, which is almost gratifying, because it means Kristi wasn’t a memorable lay.
“It’s really not about that. Kristi and I were never good friends anyway.”
“Then I don’t understand why you can’t treat me here again.”
“I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“You’ve already said that.” He’s agitated now, chewing on his bottom lip as he shifts from foot to foot.
“I shouldn’t have done the home treatment. It blurs lines.”
“Okay. You can treat me at the clinic if it makes you feel more comfortable. I like you touching me.”
Those words and his tone are going to haunt me tonight. I know it already.
I can’t tell if he means it the way I’ve taken it: suggestively. “What about the team therapist? Shouldn’t you use him?”
His expression is as pleading and panicked as his tone. “I don’t want to go to someone else. Please, Poppy.”
He’s so hard to say no to, especially with how worried he seems. I don’t know why he’s so intent on it being me, but I want to erase his anxiety.
“No more home visits.”
“Okay. No more home visits.” He blows out a quick, relieved breath and flashes me a grin. “I’m gonna go now, before you change yer mind.”
That Scottish accent kills me.
He shoves his feet into his shoes and opens the door. “Bye, Poppy. Thanks again for taking care of me.”
I can’t make eye contact, so I look at his forehead. “Bye, Lance. You’re welcome.”
When the door closes, I sag against the wall.
I don’t know how I’m going to manage this. Part of me wants him to know the truth: that he was my first kiss. That I never forgot it. With a decade of life and experiences, of boyfriends and plenty of new first kisses, I should be long past romanticizing Lance in my head. But I’ve been searching for the spark I felt when he kissed me since then, and I’ve never been able to find it.
