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I take a fortifying breath.
“Don’t,” he says sharply. He leans across the table, looking panicked. “You don’t need to tell me. Forget I asked.”
I shake my head, picking up a breadstick and twirling the tip of it in marinara sauce. “No—it’s okay. It’s her birthday on the twelfth and I was going to tell you anyway. I’ll be going home tomorrow... to visit her grave,” I manage in a clear voice.
Despite that feat, I can’t keep my eyes from springing leaks.
“Damn.” I bring a napkin to my face to catch the stray tears, and then I hide behind it, because no amount of stern inner monologue will stop them.
In the silence, I notice the music—some Ke$ha song—and all the chatter of the place. It makes me irrationally angry, but I can tell the anger is really just a cover for the awful loss I feel—this week in particular.
A fresh slough of tears leaks out, and I swallow. I dab my eyes with the napkin and breathe deeply, and I feel something warm and hard settle against me.
Something heavy goes around my back, and before I have a second to get my bearings, Kellan’s pulls me up against his left side. I can feel his mouth against my hair as he says, “Fuck—I’m sorry.”
I shake my head, reeling a little at his sudden appearance on my side of the booth. At how good his arm feels wrapped around me.
I force myself to pull the napkin down, despite being embarrassed. “It’s not your fault.” I take a deep, long breath, and let myself get lost in the blue of his eyes as I tell him the fact that is, for some reason, so painful.
“She would be sixteen this week.” More tears make his solemn face shimmer. I dash them off. “I’m sorry.” I dab the napkin to my eyes again and take a few deep breaths. “I didn’t really plan to talk about it. Definitely not here.”
I laugh a little, even though it isn’t funny. Then our waitress is setting our drinks on the table. I look away, toward the wall, because I know how blotchy my face gets when I cry—and I’m embarrassed that I lost it out in public.
Kellan’s hand is stroking my shoulder, and that makes me feel more embarrassed. That I took our business-sex relationship and made it awkward and heavy with this talk of Olive.
Even saying her name silently makes me need to take a few more deep breaths. Kellan just keeps rubbing my arm. Like he’s my boyfriend.
Not your boyfriend, idiot!
I straighten up a little, offering him a chance to move his arm out from around me—in case he feels as awkward as I do. But he doesn’t. When
I get the nerve to look at him again, his eyes are gentle on my face.
“She was deaf just like my other sister. I guess I told you. That’s the whole tattoo thing.”
His hand, over my shoulder, clasps lightly. “So kind of like... be positive or something?”
“Or something. You know, like don’t let negativity in, I guess. Olive was the most innocent person I’ve ever known, and not just because she died when she was five. She was just... so sweet and funny.” I shake my head and draw another deep breath. “We should talk about something else.”
“Only if you want to.”
“Thank you.” I shrink my shoulders in a little.
He pulls me closer to him, and I can feel his cheek against my hair. I feel his mouth move. “You embarrassed, Whatley?”
“Are you laughing at me?”
“Not laughing,” he says. “Smiling. Wes Anderson-style.”
I laugh. “You think my embarrassment is a racist, rich person movie about daddy issues?”
His eyes widen comically. “Touché, Cleo. Not an Anderson fan? That surprises me.”
I roll my eyes. “I am a Wes Anderson fan. I’m offended that you felt so sure about it, but I am. I think his critics can go fuck a porcupine.”
Kellan smirk-smiles.
“That’s your thing,” I say. “The patented Kellan Walsh smirk-smile. What’s up with that?”
