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Her lips part again as she watches me suck it from my thumb. Watching the effect that small move has on her, my eyes narrow, and the look I give her now is intended to ask,Did you do what I think you did in my bedroom?
When I take a seat in front of the TV, I’m not thinking about the football at all. I’m thinking about the one thing I absolutely should not be thinking about.
* * *
By the time the smell of my mother’s to-die-for lasagna is drifting into the den, the heavens have opened. Rain is bouncing so hard outside, it blows under the canopy that shelters the outdoor dining table.
I help Millie bring things in from the deck and set the indoor table. I bring two plastic chairs from outside and dry them down before placing them inside. Another thing I’ve tried to replace that my folks won’t have.
As the rest of us take our seats – the kids being designated the plastic chairs – Millie and Becky help Mom serve up plates of mammoth pasta portions. I watch Becky move around, completely at ease, almost as if she’s genuinely enjoying being here, as simple and suburban as it is. Once again, I feel ridiculous for being so nervous about her reaction to my slightly crazy family and the modest home I grew up in.
Last up, Becky puts two plates of garlic bread in the middle of the table. I pull out the chair next to me for her to sit. The tight packing of chairs around the table means her leg is pressed against mine. I set about getting us both a slice of garlic bread, pretending I’m completely unaware of the contact.
We eat and talk in that same position. It feels… natural. Right somehow.
Terrifying.
‘It’s a treat to have you all around the table,’ Mom says after placing her knife and fork together on her now empty plate. ‘It’s just a shame Jake couldn’t be here.’
I refrain from saying he’s probably perfectly content banging some English chick and living the high life in London.
‘Say, Becky, whereabouts in England are you from?’ my dad asks.
‘A place called Kent.’ When my dad looks blank, she adds, ‘It’s not too far from London.’
‘Well, when you’re home, you should look up our Jake.’
I swallow the gulp of wine in my mouth, trying not to choke, and I glance from my dad to Becky and back again. Not once had it occurred to me that she might not stay in New York. Not really. It hadn’t dawned on me that her home is still in England, thousands of miles and an ocean away. I wait for her to say she won’t be going home. That she’ll stay here forever.
But she doesn’t.
‘I’ll do that,’ she says, smiling meekly and undeniably avoiding looking at me. Irrational sickness churns low in my stomach. I’ve known her five minutes. We’re friends. Yet, I can’t stand the thought of my life without her in it.
If ever I needed confirmation that I wouldn’t want to mess up our friendship and lose her through a one-night stand, this would be it. Damn it, I even feel guilty for getting off over her earlier. I rub a hand roughly across my dry mouth, then pick up my wine, and drain the glass. What does it matter? She could leave the city any time, then I won’t have her friendship, and we never even had one night of tearing off each other’s clothes, of screwing so hard and for so long, there’s only sweat keeping our flesh apart.
I reach for the bottle of wine on the table and refill my glass, immediately taking a mouthful.
I catch Millie staring at me from across the table. My sister has always been able to read me. Right now, she can probably see the nonsensical panic that is infiltrating every cell in my body.
Am I panicking because Becky could leave? Or am I panicking because I realize that I don’t want her to leave my life?
‘How long do you think you’ll stay here, Becky?’ Eddie asks, completely numb to the shift in the air around the table, oblivious to how much I would like this conversation to end.
Yet I look at Becky beside me, because if she is going to answer this question, I want to know the answer. Her face is unreadable as she meets my gaze.
I silently will her to say indefinitely.Say it.
Her attention falls to the base of her wineglass as her fingers slide it back and forth on the table linen. ‘I left the UK in a bit of a hurry and with a few things to take care of back there.’
I feel my jaw lock. Angry at myself for caring so much. It’s irrational. I’m not an irrational guy. My hand grips my wineglass, too tightly. Whether it’s intentional or not, Becky’s thigh presses a little harder against mine, making me look at her.
‘But I have no plans to go anywhere any time soon.’
She’ll never know how much those words affect me. I can’t honestly believe it myself.
The conversation shifts. Everyone wants to know more about Becky, especially where she trained to be a chef. And although she answers, Becky seems less comfortable when she’s the center of attention. I listen to her responses but don’t have anything to offer. I’m too preoccupied with what is happening in my own head.
I use clearing the table as an excuse to take a breather. Not from my family, or Becky, but from my own damn thoughts.
