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“What does that have to do with anything?” I slowly sit down, feeling foolish standing here, getting all amped up.
“A lot, actually,” Mom retorts. “When I met your father, I’d had relationships. I was world-wise to a point. I knew what I felt for your dad was real and not just…”
“Just what?” I snap when she cuts herself off. “What, Mom?”
“When you’re young, your first crush hits you hard. It makes you see the whole world differently, but then it wears off. You wake up and realize perhaps you weren’t as perceptive as you initially thought.”
“So you think I’m blinded by a crush?” I say.
“I think you need to beverycareful,” Mom counters. “You’ve always been a withdrawn, sensible person. This is out of character for you. You’re in danger of being swept away by your emotions. You can hate me for saying that if you like, but I think we both know it’s true.”
There’s nothing I can say to this. Objectively, I know she’s right. I know what I’m feeling makes no sense. I guess it just hits me so hard because, deep down, I assumed she’d instinctively side with me. The age thing aside, what I feel is so similar to what happened with her and Dad.
“You make some good points,” I mutter, “about previous relationships and not having experience. I get that, but I feel so sure, Mom. I feel so—”
The doorbell cuts me off. Mom frowns. “Are you expecting visitors?” Ever since Dad passed, anything out of the ordinary causes Mom to become defensive and anxious. An unexpected visitor is up there on the list.
“No,” I say. “Maybe it’s a salesperson or something. I’ll go check.”
Or maybe, I’m secretly hoping, it’s Fletcher. He’s come to reconnect after all the drama earlier. With each step toward the door, I feel my sex rubbing against my underwear. I’ve showered since the steaminess, but I can still feel the impression on my body.
Opening the door, I’m greeted by a courier holding a large bouquet of flowers, even bigger than the last ones. There’s another note with these. From James.How about a second chance?
“Are they fromhim?” Mom asks.
The way she sayshimalmost has me snapping again. If these were from Fletcher, I’d be joyfully punching the air.
“No,” I say. “They’re from his son.”
Mom frownsagain, deeper this time, almost comically so. She has a very expressive face. One thing I remember most vividly from my early childhood is the exaggerated faces she’d make at me. “Is there any reason his son is sending you so many flowers?”
“I don’t understand it,” I reply. “It doesn’t make sense. We had one bad date. I don’t know why he won’t just leave me alone. I’m going to call Lexi.”
“Why?”
“I’m getting James’ cell number. He has to know this isn’t okay.”
I go upstairs, grab my phone, and call my friend. She seems curious about why I want James’ number, but then she gives it to me. When I get ready to make the call, there’s a pit in my belly trying to stop me from doing it. It’s the same pit that opened on the date the countless times I tried to interrupt his douchebaggery.
I almost don’t presscall, but I have to.
CHAPTERFOURTEEN
Fletcher
I sit in the living room, staring at the TV, at the World War II documentary, not paying attention. James sits in the chair. It’s difficult to even look at my son after earlier. At least, I tell myself, he doesn’t want Samantha, my perfect painter. Even if he does, it’s not in the same way as I do.
His cell phone starts to ring. He answers and clears his throat. “S-Samantha?” he says.
I sit up. I can’t help it. I’ve been thinking about what we did and her taste all day. I’ve been thinking about her reaction, like she was angry with me for trying to push her too fast, and my virgin had every right to be.
“Yeah,” James says. “No, a PI. Because I wanted to be romantic. No. What? Just give me a second chance. Because… because…” He sighs, slamming his phone on the coffee table. “Fuck.”
“What was that about a PI?” I ask, sitting forward.
James runs a hand through his hair, groaning. “Did Samantha say anything about me earlier when you gave her a ride?”
This is exactly the sort of messed-up conversation I wanted to avoid having. “No,” I say truthfully. Hopefully, he doesn’t ask me anything else. Hopefully, he doesn’t ask if I kissed her, touched her, and want to do it all again.
