The First Taste(113)

“You got scared. Then I got scared,” he says. “We want to believe we don’t need each other.”

“But you think we do?”

He closes his mouth, letting my question hang. I wait, anticipating his answer until I realize I’m not going to get one. He’s wants me to provide it. Do we need each other? It’s a strong word. Family needs family. Husbands need wives. Little girls need their mothers. “You need someone for yourself? Or for Bell?”

“No, I can do it on my own. In fact, it’d be easier.” He glances at the ceiling. “If I bring anyone into our lives, she has to be so many things, Amelia. Solid, smart, loving. A good example to Bell. Not a woman who just wants the role of mom and wife because it’s available.”

“But there are plenty of women who do,” I point out.

“Yeah. But none of them are right, they never were. Not even Shana.” He rubs my back. “I want to be honest with you. Earlier tonight, I wasn’t going to come. I went to a bar instead. I thought it was best for us both if we ended this. Then, Shana showed up.”

I freeze, inhaling a short breath at the name. As if I wasn’t already struggling hard enough for Andrew. Now, I’ll have to go up against the mother of his child? A woman who’s clearly cast some kind of spell on him? “She’s back?”

“That was why I wanted to talk to you last week. She randomly showed up at Bell’s gymnastics practice.”

My heart drops. The day Bell had gymnastics was the same day I left Andrew at the flea market. I’d thought he was calling to talk about how abruptly I’d run off, and I’d had no excuse, so I hadn’t answered. But it was to tell me about Shana. “I’m sorry.”

“I know,” he says. “I am too.” He checks his watch. “We’ll talk more at the house. I really need to get home to Bell.”

“The house . . .?”

“I’m not leaving you alone tonight.”

“Oh.” I pull back a little. “You don’t have to do that. Reggie won’t be back. I’ve wounded his pride in more ways than one, and from now on, I have a feeling his lawyers will be the ones trying to corner me.”

“You’re coming to my place,” Andrew says, ignoring me. “Tomorrow, I can bring you back here, or . . .” He tucks some of my hair behind my ear and smiles a little—I’m sure he’s thinking about messing up my hair to boost his ego. “Or you can stay.”

I blink up at him. “What about Bell?”

“Her birthday party’s tomorrow, and the house will be crazy, chaos really—there’ll be kids and horny moms and toys everywhere, but . . .”

“But?” I ask, not hiding the hopefulness in my tone.

“I’d like you there in the middle of it.”

I have to keep from screaming “Yes!” My life has changed drastically in the last hour, and what Andrew’s offering feels . . . safe. Stable. But it isn’t my home. “I can’t just show up and stay the night,” I say. “It’ll confuse Bell.”

“I have a guest room. She should be in bed by now, but she won’t be, and she loves company—especially women. If she has questions, we’ll answer them.” He nods toward my bedroom. “Go get some things. I mean it. I’m not leaving without you.”

I open my mouth to protest, but I don’t know what to say. The truth is, I want to go. I’d like to watch Bell turn seven, and maybe some wholesome chaos would even be good for me. It’ll distract me from the reality that I’ve just given up the one thing that has consumed my life for the last few years.

The only thing I gave any real value.

Avec might be gone.

For good.





THIRTY-TWO



As if I haven’t endured enough shock tonight, when I follow Andrew out of my apartment building, he leads me directly to a motorcycle.

“Um.” I make a face. “Andrew?”

He turns back to me. “Yeah, babe?”

“You didn’t mention this . . .”

“Oh. This is Pico’s. Believe me, mine’s a thousand f*cking times better than this hunk of scrap metal. But I was in a hurry to get to you. No time for traffic.”

“That’s sweet,” I say. “But it’s a motorcycle.”

“And?”

I think of my poor, fine hair, which was not made for hats, a shame because I’ve been coveting one from the Marc Jacobs fall line. If I’m not willing to give up a good hairdo for Marc, I’m certainly not going to do it for this. I show him my duffel. “I’ve got my overnight bag, so maybe I should get a cab—”

“To Jersey?” He comes over and chucks me under the chin. “Aw. Don’t be nervous. I got this. You don’t have to do anything.”

He thinks I’m afraid. I play along. “What if I fall off?”

“I take that back. You do have to do one thing: hold on.”

He climbs on the massive thing, handling it like it isn’t hundreds of pounds of metal and leather. Once his helmet’s in place, he starts the bike, his biceps stretching his t-shirt as he grips the handles. With each rumble, the sidewalk trembles, vibrating up between my legs.

My stomach drops. He says something about my bag, but I’m not listening. I get a glimpse of the kind of teenager he must’ve been—reckless, sexy, brooding. I’ve never been much for bikers, what with their grizzly beards, greasy hands, and head-to-toe leather. But with Andrew’s bad boy showing, I’m swooning. I wonder if he’s ever had sex on the bike. If it’s even possible.