I do not respond. I can't. I make it to my bedroom and slump face-down on the bed, groaning into the pillow like a man who has lost complete control of his life. Because I have.
I think about her for a very long time, in every which way, and in the end I can't leave her without responding.
Me
You're too much trouble.
Lily
Only for old people like you
I can't help but smile, which is how I know I'm too far gone. When I notice I'm holding the phone against my chest like an utter fool, I school my face, curse myself thoroughly, and throw it across the bed.
Rome isout of town for a week for some project with a new client. He'd mentioned it at the diner and I thought: fine, that's nothing, Rome being gone changes nothing.
Rome being gone means the pub booth has one fewer set of eyes on me. That turns out to change quite a lot.
Lily sits next to me, close enough that her arm settles against mine on the table like it belongs there, and I let it happen because a starving man doesn't turn down crumbs.
Poppy and Ramsey are across from us with Erin besidePoppy, conversation moving fast because the group's been scattered for a while. I'm a functioning adult at a table with people I like. Everything is completely normal.
Lily shifts to reach for the bowl of chips in the center, her shoulder pressing into mine until she shifts again and it isn't her shoulder anymore. The soft curve of her breast drags against my arm and my brain short-circuits. Just stops. I thank every god out there that Rome isn't here because I'd be a dead man if he saw what that two-second contact just did to me.
She says nothing about it when she settles back, casual, easy, like she didn't just ruin me. Twelve minutes later she rests her elbow on my forearm, just puts it there like I'm furniture, and keeps listening to something Ramsey is saying about a contract gone sideways while I sit here trying not to move so she doesn't move.
I don't move my arm or comment, just keep very still and watch Ramsey's mouth form words I'm not absorbing. She leans in slightly and says, ”You don't have to do that."
"Do what?" I inhale the scent of her shampoo. She's moved her hair across her other shoulder, and the sight of her exposed neck isn't helping.
"Pretend I'm not here."
I pick up my beer. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Okay." She settles back. "Neither do I."
She stays there with her elbow on my forearm and her shoulder warm against mine.
I excuse myself to the bathroom nine minutes later. I stand at the sink and run cold water over my wrists and neck, having a very serious conversation with myself in themirror about boundaries and self-control and the fact that she is Rome's sister and this is a terrible idea and I need to get it together.
It doesn't help. When I get back she's shifted just enough that we aren't touching, and she doesn't meet my eye when I sit down. That's worse than if she had.
Ramsey catches my eye from across the table with an obnoxious smirk. I ignore him and spend the rest of the conversation willing my hands not to reach out and push her hair behind her back.
She's been herefor two hours. Dad is in the workshop, happy as anything with his cast off and a piece of walnut that needs attention. Lily is on the living room floor with her laptop and a cup of tea, cross-legged, working on Dad's papers while I sit on the couch with the television on low, pretending to watch it.
This has become a thing. The comfortable version of absolute torture.
At some point, she closes her laptop and stretches her arms over her head, and I find something on the television to focus on very hard. She picks up her things, and once the zipper on her bag is in place and she goes quiet, I know trouble is waiting.
"I want to ask you something."
She doesn't sound like herself, so I turn.
"Sure."
"Do you have a regular schedule? Like, set days you're on shift?"
She's fidgeting with the zipper on her laptop bag instead of meeting my eye.
