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“One of my mother’s many male friends was an attorney, too, and he knew just how to nickel-and-dime me to death with Cameron. I ran out of money, and with the winery in debt, I couldn’t even promise him I’d pay him when we won ownership. I had to back off.”
“Who was your mother’s attorney?” I ask, steeling myself for the answer I am sure I will receive.
And as expected, she says, “Nathan Marks,” her lashes, thankfully, lowering with my father’s name on her lips. “Do you knowhim?” she asks, looking at me.
“Yes,” I say, telling her every truth I can at this point. “I do. And your mother chose her friends wisely. He would have been a formidable opponent.”
“She got naked with my uncle. She didn’t choose wisely. She just chose often.” She downs the drink. “I can’t believe this, but the whiskey effect is wearing off. Maybe I wasn’t really feeling it after all.”
I fill her glass. “Try again.”
“What if it hits me all of a sudden, and I wipe out on you?”
“I promise you that we won’t fuck,” I say, placing her hand on the glass. “Because I want you to remember every time we fuck.”
Her teeth scrape her bottom lip. “You’re really quite memorable,Mr. Rogers.” She downs the drink. “I think my mother watched that program. I’m really glad that you don’t wear button-up sweaters and sing like the real Mr. Rogers on the show.”
“Last I heard, I was the real Mr. Rogers.”
“Right,” she whispers, giving a tiny laugh. “You are, but without a button-up sweater. Or is it button-down sweater?”
“I vow to never, ever wear a button-up or button-down sweater.”
“It might be cute on you.”
“I don’t want to be cute,” I assure her.
“What’s wrong with cute? Women like cute.”
“Only women who have been drinking really expensive, smooth whiskey or picking out a puppy.”
“Or cat. I prefer cats. I really need to get a cat.” Her hand goes to her face. “I was wrong. I’m feeling those drinks now, and I just drank more.” She sets the empty glass on the cushion between us, as if she can’t quite sit up and get it to the table. “What have I done?”
I set the glass on the table, lower myself to the cushion beside her, and roll her to face me. “I’ll catch you if you fall, sweetheart.”
Her hand falls from her face. “Will you? Or will you fall with me?”
I stroke her cheek. “What does that mean, Faith?”
“It means that if we’re both fucked up, then sometimes, two fucked-up people fuck each other up more.”
“We’re all fucked up, remember? Which means that sometimes, two fucked-up people make each other whole again.”
“That’s like a fairytale ending. We don’t believe that.”
“Now we have each other, don’t we?”
“DoI have you, Nick?”
“Yes, Faith, you do.”
She reaches up and strokes my cheek this time. “Ah, Nick. I have to paint you again. You know that, right?” Her lashes lower, and her hand falls from my face. I catch it, but she doesn’t open her eyes. I count seconds. One. Five. Ten. She sighs and seems to fall asleep. I sit there, staring at her, searching every line of her face, and I swear she grows more beautiful by the second. Her full cheeks. Her fuller lips. The confession that says she wants to trust me, even if she doesn’t quite yet.
“I don’t want to leave,” she murmurs, her eyes fluttering and closing again.
“Then don’t,” I say, pleased that the first confession came when she was sober, and this one comes when she’s just drunk enough to make emotional confessions.
She doesn’t respond. She’s dozing off again, and I stand and scoop her up. She curls into me again, her body soft in my arms. “Kasey—”
