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The tender flesh of his lips grazes the edge of my own, and a bolt of lightning rockets down my spine so intensely, I feel the jolt all the way in the tips of my toes. Ryan pulls back, and there’s a look in his eye—an intense sense of spatial and electrophysical awareness—that is so beyond the scope of what I’m able to confront right now, it’s not even funny.
My throat tightens and my stomach pulses. How can such a simple mismovement make me feel…like this?
I have to get some distance, and I have to get it now. I don’t know what kind of oxymoron voodoo it is when the most straitlaced man you’ve ever met makes you feel this loose, but I need to go put a cork in my vagina, stat.
“Here, Mom,” I say, snagging the fresh bouquet of flowers from her hand without warning. Her head jerks up and away from Sal in surprise, but I pretend like I don’t see it—like I’m not acting weird at all. “Let me put these in some water.” I tilt my head to the table in the other room and slowly back away. “Why don’t you guys take a seat in the dining room, and I’ll start bringing the food out?”
“I sure can’t wait to get a taste of that meatloaf of yours, Stell,” Sal says and reaches out to take my mom’s arm into his. It brings her focus back to him and away from me, and for that, I’m truly grateful. Slowly, they walk toward the dining room together, and I head for the kitchen. Unfortunately, the growing distance between us isn’t enough to drown out their voices completely. “Let me guess, you made it extra thick, didn’t ya?”
My mom giggles. “Of course, I did. You know I love my meat thick.”
I blink three times as I’m stepping around the L-shaped counter and freeze. What in the ever-loving-fuck did I just hear?
No. I don’t want to know. I really don’t want to know.
Continuing to the cabinet to grab a couple vases, I shake my head to clear it. I take down two tall crystal containers and start filling them with water, but when a throat clears behind me as I’m finishing, I realize I’m not alone.
Ryan has followed me.
“What can I do to help?” he asks, setting the bottles of wine on the counter gently, their glass bases making only a soft clink on my mom’s granite.
I shake my head. I’m trying to seal things back up down below, and him being in my direct vicinity with his veiny forearms and smirky smile isn’t going to help me. “It’s fine. You can sit down.”
“Carly, don’t be ridiculous. Let me help you,” he insists, and my ovaries rev their little engines. Evidently, helpful, thoughtful men are their favorite. “Pretty sure we both need a break from those two anyway.”
I grin at that. Who knew the old people brigade in the front room could be such a mental marathon for type A and type B personalities alike?
I reach into the drawer to hand him a corkscrew, and he accepts it graciously, putting it into action on the chilled bottle of white first. Which is good, because if tonight keeps going the way it started, I’m going to need a drink.
“So, I’m not the only one who is going to need a therapist after staying at Sunny Creek?”
“Definitely not. You don’t even want to know the shit I’ve seen since I’ve been staying with Sal.” He chuckles, pops the corks from the two bottles, and when he meets my eyes in question, I point to the cabinet to the left of his head.
“Wineglasses are in there.”
He nods and grabs a couple, pouring me a glass of white and handing it to me without prompting. I accept it, and he keeps venting. “Pure acts of lunacy excluded—and trust me, there have been plenty of those—even the simplest of things keep us on the brink of domestic war at all times. Like, the lights.” He groans quietly. “I swear to God, Carly, he turns off the lights in rooms I’m still in. I almost broke my neck in the shower because he walked by while I was using it, noticed the light from under the door, and couldn’t stop himself from flipping it off without even checking to see if I was in there!”
I have to cover my mouth to keep in a snort, his story and the way he tells it painting a vivid mental picture.
“Have you ever tried to finish a shower in complete darkness?” he asks, though I’m almost certain it’s a rhetorical means to emphasize his rant. “There are no windows in that room! I couldn’t even see my hand in front of my face.”
I smile and nod, taking a gulp of my wine and then forcing it down my throat a little too quickly. It threatens to choke me, but I catch myself before it does. “I know what you mean. My mom isn’t crazy about the lights, but I swear, she must have had Apple special make her iPhone with a higher upper limit on the volume. Every night, she plays the same three Bee Gees songs at full volume, no matter what else we’ve got going on. Conversation, TV—it doesn’t matter. You better yell it over Barry, Robin, and Maurice.”
