Necessary Restorations (The Walsh Series) (A) (16 page)

I didn’t want to talk about her having sex with some shabby guy. Some loser who didn’t understand her, who couldn’t handle her idiosyncrasies. But I couldn’t stop.

“Why not?” I asked.

Tiel tore her attention from the narrow stage, but didn’t respond immediately. “I go for the passion, and that’s not an easy find. Being with someone is a lot more than inserting one thing into another.”

“There’s nothing wrong with a little insertion,” I muttered.

Tiel shook her head and smiled. “Nothing at all. Sometimes insertion is good, but it’s the harder pieces that don’t come together.”

“Without the harder pieces,” I said, “the insertion won’t be especially satisfying.”

I gestured to the bartender with my empty glass. The last thing I needed right now was another drink, but if this conversation was any indication, I was long past making wise choices.

“You know that’s not what I’m talking about,” she said.

Of course I knew. Just like I knew the punk-ass bitch she was banging in July wasn’t good enough for her.

She watched me while I checked my phone and sipped my drink, and eventually turned her attention back to the stage when I didn’t respond.

I didn’t trust myself to say anything. She was dragging me back to the land of the living, one strange concert at a time. She was holding my whole fucking universe together with her convoluted dissection of my existence and more sofa snuggling than I’d ever dreamed of, and I couldn’t fuck any of that up with my jealousy.

My waning interest in
friends.

My industrial-strength blue balls.

So I didn’t mention how much I hated thinking about any man touching her. I didn’t point out that anyone who left her with a ‘fine’ memory of sex hadn’t earned the privilege of knowing her intimately. I didn’t tell her she deserved someone who treasured her.

I didn’t say anything because I couldn’t offer her much better.

16:21 TIEL:
HEY. U want 2 c some tunes 2nite? Done w grading now

Sam’s schedule was packed this week, and I hadn’t seen him since we parted ways on Lansdowne Street in the early hours of Sunday morning. I dragged him out to see Reel Big Fish and Less Than Jake at The House of Blues, and after the concert, we kissed against the Fenway Park gates.

It was much like being back in junior high. Tons of kissing, tons of awkwardness, and massive apprehension about when—the real question was
if
—we’d get to the other bases.

Though it shouldn’t have, it surprised me. I wanted more than he did, and I had to keep reminding myself that. He liked our little routine, and though I wasn’t sure when—we did spend a good chunk of time together—I was certain he was getting some action on the side. I couldn’t substantiate that with anything more than an odd sense, and I made more than enough critical comments about his sex life. If I was wrong, he would have corrected me by now.

Shaking my head, I tapped Ellie’s number and hoped she wasn’t in rehearsal. Thankfully, she answered on the second ring. “Explain to me why I should hang out with the preppy player who loves all this ambiguity.”

“I take it this fascinating experiment is still going on,” she said. “And maybe you shouldn’t?”

“But he’s so adorable and funny and the swoons. So many swoons.” I knew there were two Sams: the womanizer with the smooth, panty-dropping smile that mowed down everyone in his path, and the sweet, beautiful boy who thought so much more than he spoke. I saw both, and when I looked closely, I could convince myself that they were one and the same.

“But he’s an asshole . . . ?”

I could almost see her face twisting into a confused grimace, and I laughed. “He’s not.”

“Okay. Explain these straight girl problems to me,” she said. “Us lesbians are far less complicated.”

“Do you have a few minutes?”

“Yeah, we’re still riding Wilma,” she chuckled. “This girl gives as good as she gets.”

I sighed. “Do you think the band could get a new bus for the next leg of the tour, or maybe give Wilma a new name?”

“That’s unlikely,” she said. “We’re rather fond of Wilma. We get on our old lady every chance we get.”

“That was funny for the first three months of the tour,” I laughed. “I don’t know what he wants, and I don’t think he knows either. We hang out all the time, and he’s always talking about my boobs and that’s great, but it’s so freaking confusing when it stops with snuggletime. And for all I know, he’s got a rotating cast of slampieces and he’s just using me for the soft stuff.”

“Mmhmm, that is a conundrum,” she said. “You can tell him what you want.”

“Yeah, I do not see that working out well.”

“That’s dumb.” I started to interrupt, but Ellie continued. “No. Seriously. That’s dumb. Put on your big girl panties and act like a boss. Tell him you want the snuggletime to become snugglefucking, and if that’s too much for his delicate man-psyche, tell him to piss off.”

“Ell, I don’t want to tell him to piss off. He’s cute and a total freak but in the most precious ways. He always gets me coffee, even if it’s ten o’clock at night, and he hasn’t judged me for that in weeks. He carries a cloth handkerchief and uses obscure words—”

“Don’t besmirch the use of obscure words, even in jest,” she said. “That’s perspicacity, young lady.”

“And he sneezes more than anyone I’ve ever met, and has some seriously gorgeous tattoos. He knows how to have a really good time, even when he’s the most overdressed guy at Sligo’s Pub and orders his gin with diced cucumbers.”

“Does Sligo’s dice cucumbers now?”

“No,” I said. “Never. But he asks every time.”

“God bless him,” she said. “But listen—big girl panties. End of story. Unless you’ve failed to mention that he has crazy eyes or baby arms or something, because those would be legit no-go situations.”

Sam’s naked back and shoulders flashed through my mind, and though that memory was crystal clear, the memory wasn’t enough. I wanted to feel those chiseled muscles and trace his tattoos, and I wanted him over me, under me, everywhere.

Falling asleep together on the sofa wasn’t cutting it anymore.

“We’re at the venue now, my dear. I gotta get to sound check,” Ellie said. “Let me know how it goes with the prepster.”

We said our goodbyes, and when I ended the call, I saw a new message waiting for me.

16:27 Sam:
Perhaps you could translate that for me as I do not understand alpha-numeric gibberish.

16:45 Tiel:
dude, you act like you’re a 92 year old technophobe sometimes

Within seconds of sending the message, my phone was vibrating with an incoming call.

“Being twenty-eight has no bearing on whether I tolerate the bastardization of the written word via text-speak,” Sam said without introduction. “You know I can’t decipher that shit.”

“You need some tunes, my friend. Meet me upstairs at The Middle East at eight and—”

“What I need,
friend,
is a break from unwashed grad students who think they can get away with plaid-on-plaid, and I can’t choke down much more bottom-shelf gin.”

I liked arguing with him. It was futile and amusing, and it always revealed more of the nerd hiding beneath the pretty face. “You could avoid that problem altogether by drinking more beer.”

“Or,” he said slowly, “
you
could meet
me
at Verdigris in the South End at eight. That is, of course, if you can handle my side of town.”

Smiling, I dragged my fingers through my hair.
Big girl panties,
I reminded myself. “I think the real question is whether you and your side of town can handle me.”

I spent extra time flat-ironing my hair into a sleek, smooth bob, and had to constantly remind myself to keep my hands out of it. Fingering the short, flowy black and white geometric print dress I borrowed from Ellie’s closet instead, I surveyed the industrial space of Verdigris. The gleaming dance floor was packed with bodies and pulsing techno music pounded from every corner.

This wasn’t my crowd. I didn’t know anything about people who went out with the purpose of being seen. I went out because my soul required live music for its survival. Trendy clubs, fancy dresses, artificially generated music—I didn’t see the appeal.

“I didn’t think you were coming.”

Pivoting, I found Sam gazing at me. In dark trousers, a light purple Oxford shirt open at the collar, and suit coat, he was all player tonight.

Sam stepped forward and reached for me, then stopped abruptly and shoved his hands in his pockets. He looked utterly confused—and that was the Sam I knew. He was always caught up in complicating his own thoughts.

He needed to worry less and enjoy life more. I could handle his quirks—the picky eating, the refusal to touch anything he deemed unclean, the subsequent hand sanitizing—but I couldn’t understand how he spent so much time deliberating his every step. He took the expression ‘look before you leap’ to monstrous heights. I knew he’d be happier if he let some of that shit go.

Maybe then snuggletime would turn into snugglefucking.

I could hear the wheels turning in his head when I leaned into his kiss or demanded that he offer his chest as my pillow, and those wheels never turned him in the direction of his hand under my shirt or my ass bent over the bed.

I closed the distance between us and wrapped my arms around his shoulders. “But aren’t you happy to see me now, Freckle Twin?”

I felt his laugh on my temple, and held onto him a little longer. I pressed my face to his neck and inhaled, and as peculiar as it sounded, he smelled like wood.

Perhaps it was more peculiar that I savored that woodiness.

“Of course,” he murmured. “The VIP lounge is down the hallway.”

“Not yet.” Shifting back, I met his eyes. “Who are we going to be tonight?”

He smiled, and it immediately lifted the darkness hovering around his eyes. His sadness wasn’t hard to see, a wound not quite healed. I didn’t know who hurt him or when it happened, but I knew some days were harder than others. He didn’t brood, but carried a heavy load and sometimes it was plain to see. “I haven’t decided yet.”

Leaning close, I asked, “Want to know what I think?” He nodded and his hand skimmed down my back, landing low on my waist. Right where I needed him. There was no point playing coy when all I wanted was more Sam, and right now, I was ready to make some demands. “I think we should have some drinks and some dances. Then we’ll get the hell out of here and I’ll let you get pervy on me at The Middle East. And then we go back to my place and see what happens.”

“You want that?” he whispered.

“Don’t you?”

“Yeah,” he said, his breath rushing out over my cheek. “I do.”

Grabbing his hand, I towed him to the bar. Despite the crush of people vying for the bartender’s attention, Sam caught his eye immediately. We knew this routine well—drinks, music, storytelling—and we laughed through the first two rounds while catching each other up on life since the weekend.

His updates often centered on his work projects, but his siblings made frequent appearances. They were different from my family, and their business was nothing like the restaurant, but I couldn’t understand how he put up with their insane involvement in his life.