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“And your dad?”
“Don’t know who he is. Neither does Eileen. But honestly, that’s never bothered me.”
One minute of silence drags on, two.
“You better not be looking at me with sad eyes, Vaughn, or you’re going to get bitch slapped and I’m just the bitch to do it.” I look over and find him with his head propped up, a crooked smile and half moon eyes twinkling. “What about your father?”
His face lights up. “He’s great. The best. We’re very close. He’s one of the reasons I went to law school. He’s a federal judge.”
That makes me smile. God knows why, but it makes me feel better knowing that his dad was there for him when his mom was sick.
“Did he remarry?”
“No…he was only forty-five when she passed.” His gaze cuts to the fire. “I guess some people only get one chance at love.”
“Love?”
At the query his gaze returns to me, the emptiness that filled it a moment ago replaced with curiosity. “Yeah, love. You know, romantic love, soul mate kind of love.”
I can’t. I can’t even. The snort cannot be contained. “Soul mate love?”
“What? You don’t believe in soul mates?”
“Are you serious?” His nonreply prods me to continue. “If you believe in that, then I’ve got some horrible news for you. Brace yourself, the Easter bunny isn’t real, either.”
Surprise, shock, doubt. Each one takes a turn on his face.
“You don’t believe two people can fall in love and stay in love? What about all that grand gesture stuff?” He’s searching for clues that I’m messing with him, which he is not going to find because I am as serious as a tax audit.
“Yeah. That’s why we need movies and books and music. Because real life is as bleak as shit. And as far as falling in love, you can thank some powerful chemicals for that. The rest of it is a made up thing––like Christmas––to get us to spend money on holidays. It’s purely a commercial construct.”
“But you’ve been in love?”
“Of course, I have. I was in love with Damien Gatti in the fourth grade. He told everyone he caught me picking my nose, which was pure fiction by the way. In the seventh grade it was Billy Hansen. He never looked my way once––actively avoided me on a number of occasions. Turns out, he was looking in Jon Renavitch’s direction. In the tenth grade it was Steve Boran. He was in love with me. He was also in love with the entire cheerleading squad. Need I go on? You’re personally experiencing the repercussions of my last altercation with love.”
I’ve baffled him. He’s baffled.
“What about Cal and Cam?”
Tucking my hands under my face, I give his query good thought. “Random act of God. Black Swan event. Even a broken clock gets it right once in a while. Call it what you want.”
His brow furrows. In his eyes, I can see that now familiar streak of stubbornness asserting itself. “My parents were crazy about each other.”
“And your father never remarried. What’s love done for him?”
“But they had it. When it was good it was great.”
“This from the man that avoids relationships like the plague.” I fluff my pillow and get comfortable.
“Maybe it’s about finding the right person,” he says staring into the fire, gold tracing the sharp line of his jaw, of his straight nose. He almost looks sad as he says it.
“And maybe unicorns run wild in Yellowstone National Park. Careful, counselor. Someone might mistake you for a romantic.”
“And if I am?” His attention returns to me. Although he’s smiling, there’s no humor in his eyes. Or his voice for that matter. And as tired as I am, I can still see he’s hiding something.
“Whatever helps you sleep at night.” Adjusting my pillow, I get comfortable. The dry heat is making me drowsy, my eyelids fluttering shut. “Fancy…”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for coming home early,” I mumble somewhat coherently, sleep seconds from claiming me.
“Sweet dreams, Jones.”
Turns out, my dreams were all about him. And there was nothing sweet about them.
Chapter Fourteen
If my life was my anything like my favorite romantic comedy of all time, When Harry Met Sally, this would be the part where the super cute montage would play. Cue the running in Central Park together. Cue us sharing an ice cream Sunday at Serendipity and him wiping whip cream off the side of my mouth with his index finger, then sucking on it. Cue us going to see The Book of Mormon and chuckling as we exit. And I would be wearing hats. Because naturally all cute montages require hats, even though I never wear hats in real life. Breaking news: none of that nice shit happens. You know what does however? Bickering––lots of it.
“Try it,” he says––or rather, taunts.
“I don’t wanna try it. Just looking at it makes me want to hurl.”
