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Lily
By some divine miracle, I convince the girls to stay in my apartment while I go meet Rudy outside. The door is always locked from the outside, so all they have to do is pull it closed when they leave. The last thing I want is for a whole stampede of women to follow me down the stairs to wave me off like proud parents sending their eldest kid to prom.
Still, when I step outside, I feel their eyes on my back. I’d bet if I looked up, there would be faces pressed against the front windows.
My attention isn’t on the windows, though. It’s on Rudy.
There’s something uniquely powerful about a good-looking man in a well-tailored tux. Fabric of the deepest black is cut close to every hard line of his body, with a crisp white shirt clinging to his chest. I watch him straighten up from where he’d been leaning against the black car behind him, a different one than he had on our date—this one a sleek Audi that looks like money. Tugging at his cuffs, Rudy straightens his jacket while his eyes run from the black strappy heels on my feet all the way up my body.
His gaze lingers on the pendant necklace that rests just above the straight-cut neckline of my black dress. Then he meets my eyes, and there’s something in his expression that I can’t read. He extends a hand toward me, and I’ve slipped my palm against his before I even realize I’ve lifted my arm.
“You look incredible.” His voice is half an octave lower than usual, sending a hot thrill to pierce my stomach.
“Jared will eat his words,” I reply.
Rudy shakes his head. “I’m finding myself not caring about my cousin at all right now.”
I blush as Rudy tugs me closer, his other hand moving to the small of my back. The touch is intimate, possessive, and I can almost hear the squeals coming from the upstairs window. Somehow, I resist the urge to look.
Rudy opens the door for me and waits until all the velvet fabric has been tucked inside the car, then he moves to the other side of the Audi. He gets behind the wheel as I strap on my seatbelt, his eyes lingering once more on my dress, my shoulders, my face.
Then, shaking his head as if to clear his thoughts, he puts the car in gear.
“Are we picking up Agnes?” I ask as he turns the car around to head down Cove Boulevard on our way to the freeway.
He makes a noise at the back of his throat. “She’s driving over with Cheswick. My grandmother doesn’t like to rely on anyone else for a ride. She’ll probably stay long enough to sneer at her sister, then walk out.”
I grin, turning my face to the window so Rudy won’t see. I can’t deny it: I like Agnes.
“I like my grandmother,” Rudy says, as if he could read my thoughts. “I mean, I love her, obviously, but I like her too. Once you get past the bulldog exterior—”
“She’s just soft and gooey inside?”
Rudy laughs. “Don’t know that I’d go that far.” He chuckles again. “And I certainly wouldn’t say that to her face, but she’s loyal and tough and she taught me how to take care of myself.”
“She raised you?” I remember him telling me that on our last date—and then my muscles seize, because I’m going on a second date with a man and I’m ten weeks pregnant. What the hell am I doing?
This time, Rudy doesn’t read my thoughts and doesn’t seem to notice the tension hardening every muscle in my body. He just drives the vehicle past the town limits and merges onto the freeway, every movement confident and in control. “She did,” he finally says. “My mother had me young—really young—and I never knew my father. Grandma adopted me when I was born.”
“And your mom?”
His hands clench for a moment. “She died in childbirth.” Then, as if it takes a great effort, he relaxes.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
He shrugs. “Your father died when you were young too, right?”
“Seventeen years old,” I say. “But I’m grateful I had those years. Must be hard to not have any memories.”
“I had a good childhood. My grandmother was everything I needed.”
I nod, even though he’s staring at the road in front of us. The night is as velvety as my dress, and even with the streetlights illuminating the freeway, it feels like a cocoon shrouding our car. I find myself running my finger over the pendant necklace, over and back along the tear-shaped diamond border.
It was only six months after my father died that I went on my first trip. I went to Peru by myself, visited Machu Picchu, and felt a bit of my grief eke out through my pores at the sight of the ancient Incan citadel. I felt awe—real awe—and it was the first good feeling I’d had since cancer had ripped my father away from me.
Sometimes I wonder if I’ve been running ever since, hunting for that feeling of calm.
“Does Mr. Cheswick live with Agnes?” I find myself asking, just to pull myself out of my own memories.
