Isn't She Lovely (Redemption 0.5)(49)

And? And?

“Well, it totally sucks,” I say, feeling like a little boy, even though I’m pretty sure I’m justified in being upset about this.

She nods, takes a drink, and then starts on her other shoelace. “How’d you find out?”

Here we go. “I um … I saw her with Michael’s dad. Right after I saw my friend with Olivia, actually.”

I thought it’d suck to say it out loud, but although it still sounds as farcical as it did in my head, I realize that some of the sting is gone.

She does look up then, her eyes meeting mine. “You walked in on your girlfriend with your best friend, and then saw your mom sleeping with your best friend’s dad? And you’re sure this wasn’t a dream? Or a hallucination?”

Despite the fact that her words are flippant, her eyes are concerned, and I belatedly become aware that her hand is on mine, her thumb rubbing against my knuckles. I glance down at her small hand on my larger one.

It looks right.

It feels right.

“It wasn’t a hallucination,” I say, trying to give a half smile. “It was definitely my mother kissing another dude. And it wasn’t just a peck, if you know what I mean.”

She kicks off both boots and scoots back on the couch, facing me. “Oh, I do know what you mean. In fact, I received a kiss like that just a few days ago. Weird thing, though—the guy quit talking to me after.”

I widen my eyes in mock surprise. “Weird thing happened to me too! Similar experience, except the girl darted away from the kiss like a terrified little rabbit.”

Her eyes fall to her glass and she stabs at the ice cubes with one skeleton fingernail. “A rabbit, no. Terrified, yes.”

Ah, shit. She was scared of me?

“Why?” I ask, keeping my voice as soft and nonconfrontational as possible.

She doesn’t answer for a few seconds, and when she does, it’s not to address my question. “Your whole experience with Olivia and your mom … is that why you went all weird when you saw me and David together?”

I tilt my head back. “I don’t see the connection.”

Her eyes narrow slightly. “I think you do.”

I hate when girls do this, and I struggle to follow her train of thought. It doesn’t take me long.

“You think I was pissed that David was here because I thought you were cheating on me?”

She shrugs. “You tell me.”

No. “No,” I say. “That’s not it. I mean yeah, I did think you guys were, um … on the verge of something. But I wasn’t mad because I was jealous. How could I be when we’re not really together?”

“Exactly,” she says, her eyes boring into mine.

“Exactly,” I repeat back.

What the f*ck is going on here? I swear to God, talking to her when she’s all gothed out is a trip down a f*cking rabbit hole.

“So we agree,” I say. “I’m not jealous.”

“Okay,” she says simply.

“But are you and David … um … together?”

She gives me a look. “You’re not the only one who’s been cheated on, hotshot. You really think I’d go back to him?”

“But his hand …”

“Was creeping, yes. And I was actually relieved for about a half second when you came home because I thought you’d help protect me.”

Terrified. Protect. Her choice of words to describe physical contact with guys is odd.

But of course it would be. Her senior year … the roofie … her piece-of-trash ex-boyfriend.

I haven’t pressed her about that night. Not because I don’t care. On the contrary, I probably care too much. And she clearly doesn’t want to talk about it with me. But now I feel like the world’s biggest dick for letting it sit there between us unaddressed. Because I know—somehow I know—that that night has everything to do with why she is the way she is. And why she seemed mostly unfazed by David’s infidelity. And maybe even why she seems scared to death about whatever’s between us.

Only I don’t have a f*cking clue how to bring it up. I guess I could just ask her what happened, but I want her to want to tell me on her own. I want her to make the first move.

Forcing myself not to beg her for answers, I lean my head back on the couch and close my eyes. Trying to be content for now that she doesn’t seem to hate me. That we’re at peace for the first time in weeks, neither of us dodging the other’s company.

It hits me then that I’ve missed this. Missed Stephanie. And that I’m going to miss her even more when she moves back into the dorms in a week, after my parents’ Hamptons party.

Of all the things I’m expecting then, it isn’t the feel of Stephanie’s cool fingers on my forearm. I keep my eyes closed, thinking maybe I’m imagining it, but then the pressure becomes firmer as she scrapes her nails lightly down my forearm.

“I like this part of you,” she says, her voice husky. “This part of your arm. Weird, huh? But it’s one of the first things I noticed.”

I don’t open my eyes yet, still confused about whether we’re supposed to be keeping things light. Keeping things distant. “Is it all that sexy arm hair?” I ask.

“That,” she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. “But mostly the contrast between the blond hair and the tan skin and the corded muscle. It’s very …”