Fat Chance (31 page)

He scoffs. "Yeah, probably to light the room while they behave like they're still teenagers. What?" he asks, his eyes widening when my mouth falls open.

"They tell you that stuff?" I ask.

"Well, no," he says, laughing at me again. "But they disappear together often enough, I suppose. Didn't Janet and her husband --"

"I don't know!" I interrupt, scandalized. "I prefer not to think of that." Tipping my nose primly into the air, I turn my back and lift a simple amethyst crystal cluster, turning to show him.

"Drew? What about something like this?" he looks up from a carved wooden box, leaving it to come stand beside me, running his fingers over the angles of the crystal.

"My mom would love this!" he exclaims. "They don't use their fireplace, so she's always saying she needs something pretty to put in there, but she never buys anything. I wonder if they have more of these," he mutters, turning around to gaze across the store. Before we check out, Drew has scoured the entire shop, even asking the cashier if they have the crystal clusters in other colors. He purchased them in amethyst, emerald, and rose, in varying sizes, to a dollar amount that made me gasp when the total was read.

Ignoring my searching eyes, he takes my hand, smiling down at me. "Shall we have lunch?" he asks. I nod, and we make out way to the food court.

"What are you in the mood for?" I ask, and he shoots me a look, leading me to a table and arranging his bags on one end.

"I'm in the mood to buy lunch for my lady," he teases, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, and pulling out a chair with a flourish. "What are you in the mood for?"

"Mmm," I murmur, running a fingertip down his chest. "I don't think we can have that here."

"Probably not," he laughs. "Greedy thing, you. What about tacos?"

"That's fine," I laugh, sitting, grinning up at him. "Wanna just split one of those box deals?"

"Works for me. I'll be right back," he says, already turning to go.

I watch him walk away, loving the easy stride of his long legs, the smooth sway of his shoulders. He steps up to the register to order, smiling as he speaks to the young boy taking our order. Drew hands over his credit card, and they talk briefly, laughing together. Our order comes up quickly, and soon enough he's headed back to me, winking as he catches me watching him.

"I'm sorry, miss, have you been staring at me?"

"Why, yes, I have," I say, fluttering my eyelashes and pretending to be a shy young girl.

"You'd better be careful, looking at a man like that," he laughs. "People will think you're some sort of scandalous vixen, and the gossips will get those tongues a-wagging. Then you end up married, just to stop the whispers." He winks at me, looking around as if he has something to hide.

I wave my hands in front of my face, pretending to be an innocent old-fashioned belle. "Why, you darling thing, I just couldn't help myself. I'm just a helpless young woman, captivated by sexiness," I say, completely ruining the effect by dissolving into giggles.

"Yeah, I'll captivate you later," he grumbles, embarrassed, and I can't help laughing. He leans down so I can help him with our drinks, and then he drops the taco box on the table. Pulling out a stack of napkins, he hands one to me and I spread it in front of me, spreading another for him as he sorts through the box.

"Soft for you, crunchy for me," he says, finally lowering himself to sit across from me. He pushes a stack of paper-wrapped soft tacos to the center of the table, neatly lining the crunchy round lumps of his tacos beside his napkin.

"So precise," I say, and he looks up at me, winking.

"Well, I know how I like things, Miss Keaton," he says, blowing me a kiss. My cheeks flame, and I lower my eyes, turning my focus to unwrapping my lunch. He watches me, carefully refolding the soft tortillas around the taco fillings so that they don't fall apart.

"So precise," he says, looking at me expectantly.

"I have learned how I like certain things too, Mr. Kingsley," I say, lowering my voice so that it takes on the low breathy tone he likes to hear in the dark. His eyes widen, his gaze intensifies, and then he grins at me.

"We'll just have to see if you can teach me the proper way then," he teases.

"Well," I murmur, my breath quickening. "We shall have to see about that."

We eat a while in companionable silence, Drew stopping now and then to comment again on the crystals we chose for his parents. I love his enthusiasm; his obvious excitement over what he feels will be meaningful to his mother. Thankfulness washes over me as I realize again how fortunate I am to have been given a second chance to be with him, to meet and be taken into his gracious family.

All too soon, I look up, and over his shoulder is a familiar face that stops my heart. Drew must have noticed a change in my posture, or maybe my horrified expression, because he tenses, lowering the taco he'd been preparing to unwrap.

"Cass?" he asks, reaching over to touch my hand. "Cass, what's up?"

"Rick. That's Rick, there's Rick, over there behind you."

"Okay, don't panic, I'm here, okay? Just breathe, it's no big deal. He's human like the rest of us, remember? And Chelsea says he's been talking to her, don't forget. Just breathe."

I follow his commands, taking a breath in, squeezing it out and taking another. The sense of panic dissipates, and I'm myself again by the time Rick notices us and walks toward our table.

"Hey, Cass," he says, walking up, careful to walk around the side of the table so that he isn't talking over Drew's shoulder. Drew sits back, looking up to take in Rick's stance, assessing his mood.

"Rick," I answer cautiously, hoping he doesn't say anything humiliating, hoping he doesn't try to provoke Drew.

"Um, can we talk?" he asks, passing a nervous glance toward Drew, who looks immediately to me.

I nod, and he clears his throat, taking his drink in hand. "I need a refill," he says. "And there was another store I wanted to check out, so I'll just be back in a bit."

Rick looks to him gratefully, stepping back as Drew stands, carefully coming to his full height. Sitting there, I see it for what it is, a silent conversation between the two of them, as Rick starts out stiff and somewhat defensive, Drew standing tall, quietly unintimidated.

Turning to me, he nods. "I'll meet you back here?" he asks.

"Perfect," I say, hoping my voice doesn't tremble with my nerves. I watch him walk away, and then I look to Rick, waving to the seat Drew has vacated. Pushing a taco across the table to him, I raise my eyebrow.

"Hungry?" I ask, watching indecision flicker in his face. Finally, he nods, taking the taco and unwrapping it, gathering his thoughts while he arranges the tortilla and takes a bite.

"I've been thinking," he says, swallowing nervously.

"Okay," I answer, warily. "Want to share with me?"

Rick smirks, and I wonder if this is going to go downhill. "Well, I suppose since I sought you out, the least I could do is tell you why."

"Okay," I say again, taking a cautious bite of my taco, mainly just to have something to do.

"Did Chelsea tell you that I went to her house?" He puts the taco on the table in front of him, leaning forward and bracing his elbows against the edge of the table. I freeze, unsure of what to say.

"I went there to talk to her about everything," Rick says, saving me from having to answer. "About you."

"And how was that?" I ask, unwilling to give away my thoughts. I won't provoke him right now, just in case he's come to me in an effort to improve things, but I'm not going to pretend we're suddenly bosom buddies again either, because we're not. Until he opens up and tells me what he wants, I'm giving him nothing.

"It was good," he answers, looking at his hands, linking and re-linking his fingers together. "She helped me clear my head some."

"She's good at that," I admit, leaning back and crossing my arms. My senses are in overdrive; the smell of the food court is an intense mix of different foods; there is an intensity of colors and noises. In the midst of this public place, as Rick and I prepare to attempt a normal conversation about such sensitive personal issues, I feel terribly exposed.

"Yeah, she is. I'd forgotten that, I guess. I really was bitter, wasn't I?"

"Maybe a little," I mutter, avoiding his gaze. He doesn't answer, and finally, I'm forced to look up at him. Shocked, I find him grinning.

"After all these years, and you're still careful with me," he says, and for just that moment, the old Rick is back, the big brother that I once felt so close to.

"Well, we've established that your pride requires careful handling," I retort, and he laughs.

"Alright, fine then," he laughs, reaching for my soda. He raises his eyebrow, and at my nod, he takes a long drink.

"So, you talked with Chelsea?" I prompt, watching him. Much as I admire his courage in coming over to talk to me like this, I wish he'd get to the point. I want this over with.

"I did. I asked her what she thinks of the whole thing. Why you set me up like that, at Janet's house."

"What did she tell you?" I ask, curious.

He lifts his taco and takes another bite, and I wonder if he's keeping me waiting like this on purpose. "She told me to talk to you," he says.

"And so here we are," I challenge, balling up the empty wrappers strewn across the table and stuffing them back into the taco box.

"Why did you set me up, in front of the whole family?" he asks, and the hurt in his tone surprises me.

"Would it have made any difference without them? Every single time I've seen you over the years, I've been kind to you until you weren't to me. And several times in the early years, I did attempt to confront you, which only made things worse. I needed to change things, I was tired of being set apart, I was tired of being attacked, and frankly, my therapist recommended that I confront you."

"Therapist? What therapist?" he asks, tilting his head and bringing his eyebrows together.

"I've been seeing a therapist for several months now," I tell him, sorry that I mentioned it.

"Is she any good?" he asks.

"It's a guy, and yeah, I like him fine. He's helped me a lot with stuff. Leftover grief, foster kid issues, work stuff." I refuse to give him any credit for making me suicidal enough to go to a therapist. "He's good," I say.

"That's good," Ricks answers, picking nervously at a fingernail. "I've been thinking of going to someone myself. You know, leftover issues."

I raise my hand to my chest, letting my mouth fall open as if in shock. "You? Leftover issues? No, surely, not you!"

He laughs, throwing back his head, and I find myself watching him, grinning as the old Rick comes out of hiding. "Oh yeah," he roars. "It may shock you to hear this, my girl, but I am a damaged man."

"Oh, you poor darling!" I squeal, laughing, and he throws a stray bit of lettuce at me.

"Seriously, though," he says, sobering. "I know I was a jerk, Cass. And I'm sorry for any part I've had in making life difficult for you. I don't even know what the hell my problem is."

"I think we among the human race call it pride," I say, trying to maintain a serious expression.

"Ahhh, pride," he says, nodding. "I may have an overabundance of that."

"You may have had an under-abundance," I say, leaning forward. "Rick, I wasn't meaning to be a tease, all those years ago. You have to know that."