Darker Water (7 page)

“I just mean it’s so…” Perfect. Beautiful.
“Spacious.”

After a quick, male tour—meaning he told me
where the bed, the beer, and the bathroom were—he showed me the
dresser that needed my help.

Shaking the drawer pull, he said, “It doesn’t
do the forward and backward thing. Not sure why.”

It took me about three minutes and four
finishing nails to fix. “You’ve got to be the least handy man I’ve
ever met.”

“And that’s why I need you, Lane. Well,
that’s
one
of the reasons I need you. The others are because
I really enjoy staring at your breasts and after you finish
laughing, you get this breathiness in your voice that’s a big
turn-on, and I can’t stop imagining how your—”

I held up my hammer. “Stop before I
accidentally hurt you.”

Almost every day, I would find Carson in what
I now, sadly, referred to as ‘our corner’ of the café. I would
slide into the chair opposite him and pick up the cup of coffee in
front of me. Since he didn’t want me to get the wrong idea, he
never bought it for me. Instead he insisted he’d bought both of
them for himself but just this once, I could have it. Then we’d sit
and drink and talk comfortably for a really long time, except for
all the moments that were uncomfortable because the images of us
wrapped around each other never seemed to leave my mind for longer
than a few minutes.

After my first sip of coffee, I smacked my
lips together. “Hmm…”

“Hmm, what?” he asked.

“It’s almost perfect. I like a
lot
of
cream.”

“Stop teasing, Lane.”

I gasped. “I meant the—” He knew exactly what
I meant.

He still hadn’t mastered the exact
proportions of cream to sugar to coffee, but he was getting pretty
damn close. Somehow that seemed more significant than I would’ve
imagined it would be. A sign of the amount of time we were spending
together or the amount of effort he was putting in to getting to
know me.

Coffee was not a symbol of intimacy, for
god’s sake. Get a grip. Grow up. Stop emoting all over
yourself
.
Damn it, I was still a love struck fool, even when
I wasn’t in love.

When the realization it was happening slugged
me in the gut, I jumped up. I couldn’t control it. I couldn’t be
around him and still be who I wanted to be. It was stupid to think
I could. Stupid to think I wouldn’t screw this up.

“I need to go.”

“What’s wrong?” he asked, dumbfounded by my
obvious loss of sanity.

“It’s… I was feeling very girlie for a second
there.” Was that a big enough hint? Enough to scare him off?
“Emotionally girlie.”

“Girlie.” He nodded slowly. “Would it stop
you from ever feeling girlie again if I told you the only reason
I’m still hanging out with you is because I want to put my tongue
in your”—his eyes darted to the two little girls sitting with their
mom two tables away—“belly button?”

“Yes, but I’d also know you were lying.”

Only one corner of his mouth curled. “There
may be a couple other reasons, but I promise, none of them are
anything to get girlie over.” He stood, gathering his stuff. “You
stay, I’ll go.” His voice dropped to a whisper when he got close
enough. “Was that the first time?”

“That I felt girlie about you? I think
so.”

“Good. I like you, Lane. But that needs to be
the first and last time you get girlie on me, because that would
fuck everything up. Know what I mean?”

I nodded. “Do you ever think us spending time
with each other is one big, drawn out lapse of good judgment?”

“All the fucking time,” he muttered, his lips
grazing my forehead before he walked away. “By the way, you’re in
charge of making your own coffee from now on. Evidently it touches
on some weird emotional erogenous zone for you.”

I smiled for about a second before panic set
in. Carson had stopped in front of Eric, Hillary’s boyfriend, who
was standing in front of the door. His eyes were about two sizes
larger than normal.

“Hey. Can I—?” Carson glanced towards me,
then to Eric, then back to me. When he smirked, I stopped
breathing, knowing whatever he said next would be horribly
inappropriate. “Do you think I slept with his wife?” he asked me,
but it was loud enough for Eric to hear.

“Oh my god, who says stuff like that?” I
stepped forward just as Eric stopped gaping and started
laughing.

“Apparently,
he
does,” Eric said. “Of
course, I wouldn’t have found it so amusing if it were true. Or if
I was married.” When he pointed backwards, I knew I was in
trouble—any second now Hillary would walk through that door and
want to be introduced to Carson. “Are you two…?”

“No, Eric!” I shouted. “No. He…um…he’s a
guy…” I’d deliberately not told Hillary anything about Carson
because I knew what her reaction would’ve been. I didn’t want to
deal with it, now or ever. “He’s a guy who was just leaving.
Where’s Hillary?”

“Hillary, your roommate?” Carson asked. “That
means you’re Hillary’s…”

“Boyfriend,” Eric said.

“Right. And Lane’s photographer friend. So
the”—he imitated the wide-eyed silent stare Eric had done—“makes
sense then. But I swear, anything bad Lane told you about me is
completely accurate.”

“She didn’t actually tell me—”

“You were leaving, right?” I asked Carson.
“Right?”

He looked so amused, he probably wanted to
stay, which was exactly why I wanted him to leave. I pushed him
towards the exit on the other end of the café.

“Bye, Carson.” I shoved him in the chest.

He grabbed one of my hands and pulled me
towards him until his lips grazed my ear. “I think little Lane is
hiding things—meaning me—from her friends. How badly would he freak
out if I kissed your beautiful little mouth right now?”

“Not nearly as badly as
I
would,” I
whispered back.

“As if I needed more temptation.”

“Please, Carson. Just go.”

After one more, slow inhalation and a slow
exhalation that came with a quiet groan of disappointment, he
stepped back. “Thanks for the coffee…” He smiled wickedly as I
pushed him out the door. “What was your name again?” he mimicked.
“It’s so awkward when you call someone by the wrong name, isn’t
it?” Lucky for him, I didn’t have enough time to hurt him.

Less than a half second later, Hillary came
in, her smile quickly morphing into a mask of confusion, her gaze
darting back and forth from Eric to me to the door Carson had just
walked out of.

“What did I miss?” Hillary said slowly. I
shook my head, silently begging Eric not to say anything. Hillary
would throw a party if she thought I was dating again.

“Laney’s date.”

“Traitor,” I grumbled. “He’s not my
date.”

“I thought you were done with love and
relationships,” Hillary said.

“I am. He’s a friend.”

“
Sure
he is.”

“We’re not dating, Hillary.”

“Okay.”

“We’re not. We just hang out and drink lots
of coffee.”

Hillary turned towards Eric. “Why’d you think
it was a date, honey?”

“Because when a guy who seemed pretty cool
and was—not that I noticed—really attractive, looked like he
would’ve sold a kidney to kiss a very cool, single woman who is—not
that I’ve ever noticed—really attractive, it usually involves more
than just drinking lots of coffee.” Curse Eric and his honesty.
“But if Laney says he’s just a friend, I guess he’s just a
friend.”

“He is.”

“You don’t actually believe her, do you?”
Hillary asked him.

“I’m telling the truth!”

“Uh huh,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I’m
going to ignore the fact that people don’t usually hide
relationships with people they are just friends with, especially
from their so-called
best
friend.” She held up her hand when
I opened my mouth to explain. “I said I’m going to ignore it.
Because I know you’ve been through a lot of crap this year. I’m
just glad you’re done with that whole ‘all men are frogs’
thing.”

Eric looked hurt. “You thought all men—”

“Not you, baby.” Hillary wrapped her arm
around his waist. “You’re a prince…who only ribbits
occasionally.”

As we laughed, Eric grumbled, pulling away
and heading for the counter. “I need something to drink. I’m
parched from all the ribbitting.”

Hillary came over and hooked her arm through
mine. “I want to get to know this friend you’re not dating. Let’s
all go out sometime. Me, Eric, you, and your
friend
.”

“I swear, we’re not dating, Hillary. He just
wants to sleep with me. That’s it. He has no interest in dating me
at all.”

“Then he’s a moron.”

“No, he’s not. He doesn’t date. Just like I
don’t date.”

“Are you guys sleeping together?”

“No! We’re just two people who hang out and
have no desire to date each other or anyone else.”

She studied me for a second, looking for any
sign I was lying, I guess. “Bummer. In addition to wanting you to
break out of this man-hating phase you’re in, I like having another
couple to do stuff with. Like say…go out for drinks after the
opening of that new gallery on Third.”

“I wish.” Aside from it being humungous, the
gallery would focus exclusively on art using recycled or repurposed
materials. “You need an impossible-to-get invitation to go to the
opening.”

“Do you?” Hillary asked with feigned
surprise. “Well then, aren’t I lucky that Eric just happened to get
four
of them?”

“Seriously?” Hillary knew I couldn’t wait to
see it, and it wasn’t open to the public for another two weeks.
Since you had to be really well known to show there, I didn’t
bother dreaming about that. But aside from seeing the gallery
itself, getting even one of those buyers to look at my stuff could
catapult my entire career. I grabbed her by the arms. “Oh my god,
Hills, I’ll be the best third wheel you’ve ever had.”

“But I have four tickets, and I really wanted
to go with another couple. Even if they aren’t actually a
couple.”

“If you weren’t smiling right now, I’d be so
pissed at you.” I sighed.

“Please?” She put her hands together and
begged. “Even if you aren’t dating him, you’re spending time with
him, right? Then as your best friend and the person you were hiding
him from, it’s imperative I make sure whatever you’re giving him is
appropriate.”

“Time. That’s all I’m giving him.”

“Great. Then give him some time on Wednesday
night.”

“I’ll mention it to him but there’s probably
a two-percent chance he’ll go. Or less.”

The ticket was mine with or without Carson,
but eventually I’d have to introduce him to Hillary. Plus, I might
need someone to keep me calm at the gallery.

The next time I saw him was Saturday, for
what Carson referred to as his ‘Getting Handy’ class, but which was
actually a chance for him to make a huge mess in my shop while I
tried to get some work done. He did his part while I spent the
entire time distracted by how to bring up the gallery opening.

I stared at him across the worktable, trying
to work out what to say.

“Why do I get the feeling you’re about to
tell me something terrible?” He didn’t look up from the project he
was varnishing. He’d given up on brushes and neatness and was now
happily finger painting.

“It’s not terrible, but…”

“It’s not good, either.”

“I need to ask you for something that…might
be construed as being against our…Code of Conduct. But I don’t mean
it like that. It’s just…” I slumped back into my chair in disgust.
It was just a gallery opening. “Never mind. Forget I said
anything.”

“Okay.”

I felt a sudden wave of courage hit me and
sat up straight. “What would you say if I asked you—” Courage gone.
Mouth snapped shut.

He looked up slowly. “I’d probably say yes if
the word ‘sex’ was in the last part of that sentence, but if there
was mention of other men, hookers, or animals of any kind, I’d say
no. And then I’d ask if I could watch.” He paused for a second,
studying me. “What are you afraid of?”

I thought of all sorts of words: ‘rejection,’
‘humiliation,’ ‘men,’ ‘love.’ But all I could do was shrug. A
stupid question had suddenly turned into a need for emotional
catharsis.

He leaned towards me. “Lane, everyone has
damage. The trick is learning how to deal with it. When that
doesn’t work, you need to figure out how to push it down really
deep so you can forget about it. To help you with that, I brought a
couple pieces of fruit for my favorite teacher…along with a nice
bottle of tequila and some salt.” A bag I hadn’t noticed was near
his feet. Amusing since, for whatever reason, he didn’t drink in
public.

“Yeah, that would probably help.”

“Or…you could just say it. I’m not sure you
know this, but I have a lot of money and come from a family some
people have heard of. Having a lot of money and coming from a
family some people have heard of means that some of those people
ask me for shit. Occasionally I say yes, but more often I say no
because people ask for very strange things. But no matter how
bizarre the request, I’ve never ordered someone’s head chopped off
for asking. Not even once.

“So I’m pretty sure, no matter what you’re
about to say, you’ll still be alive five minutes from now.”

“My roommate Hillary dangled a ticket for a
gallery opening in front of me and I really, really want to
go.”

He let out a breath. “I thought you were
going to ask me to make an honest woman out of you. Although”—he
cocked his head—“that would mean I’d get to make a
dis
honest
woman out of you first. But I don’t get why that was so hard to
say.”

“Because she has four tickets. One for her,
one for her boyfriend, one for me, and...” I waited for him to
acknowledge he understood. It didn’t take long. But he didn’t look
angry, just a bit wary. “Obviously, I’m not seeing anyone, but
after she found out about you, she, of course, assumed we’re dating
and she wants to go to this thing on, like, a double date.”