Fluffy(41)

“And?”

“And they got mad.”

“And...?” This time, the word is drawn out in that way people say it when they’re really listening. He’s caught up in my story, half participant, half observer. I’m connecting him to behind-the-scenes events when all he has is the center stage. What’s in front of the backdrop is all Will’s memory has.

“One of them called me a name. It starts with c.”

Will growls.

“He told me I would regret it. He looked at his own hand and curled it into a fist.”

Will’s eyes go wide with astonishment, a small, incredulous laugh slipping out of him. But it’s a low sound, protective, and it’s invoking something dormant in me, a feeling that I can’t fight even if I try.

Leaning closer to me, as if entering my space to keep me safe, Will asks, “He threatened you?”

“It was implied.”

“Did you do anything about it?”

“Like what? Punch a two-hundred-pound freshman football player in the face?”

“No, like tell a teacher.”

“Tell her what? That he looked at his fist? Of course not. Really good bullies know how to skirt the line. He was gifted. If Harmony Hills had a gifted and talented class for bullying, Ramini would have been the teacher’s pet. Osgood could have been an extra on The Sopranos. And Fletch looked like the high school equivalent of a bouncer.”

“So it was Ramini? He could be a jerk sometimes.”

“He could be a jerk all the time, to some of us. But I'm not telling you which one it was.”

“It was Ramini, Osgood, or Fletch, though.”

I shrug.

“I–” Will deflates slightly, a hopelessly confused look on his face. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?”

“I know I didn’t do it, but it feels like someone should tell that sensitive fourteen-year-old girl 'I’m sorry.'”

“I didn’t bring this up to have a pity party.” I stand, thoroughly reeling, turning to leave.

“Mallory,” he says, grabbing my arm, making me stay. He has no idea what he is doing to my pulse. “I don’t think you’re doing that.”

“I know I’m not.”

“I want to make sure you know I know you’re not.”

We freeze. I’m wearing a short-sleeved wrap shirt, and his fingers curl around my elbow, the touch firm but respectful. His palm is soft, the kind of skin men have when they don’t use their hands to work for a living. He has long fingers, elegant and tapered. I should know. I’m staring at his hand.

Breathing together becomes an end in itself, our chests rising and falling as if choreographed. I’m looking at his hand and he’s looking at me. My face can feel it, the intensity palpable, the ache of my past self turning quickly into a very different ache in lower parts of my body. The woman I am becoming is deeply appreciative of this extraordinarily handsome man standing before me, breathing with me.

And touching me.

“The minute I came home, the past came rushing forward, like it had been waiting this whole time, impatient and fidgety. Waiting for its turn,” Will says as his fingers open and drop, one by one, from my arm. As the brush of his thumb removes our connection, I feel hollow.

I didn’t know how full I felt just from that touch.

“Were you running away from the past?”

“No. Running toward my future. The past wasn’t fast enough to catch up.”

“You sound like most of our graduating class.”

“That’s because most of us left. But you didn’t.”

“No.” I look him in the eye and have no reaction. I’ve cultivated this response. He’s not original in his topic. Most people wonder why the class valedictorian stayed so close to home. Brown was only ninety minutes away. My job with the Tollesons was here. My apartment, my friends–the continuity in my life is strong.

Tilting his head just so, for a brief second Will’s eyes flicker with questions I can tell he thinks he doesn’t have a right to ask. Not yet, those eyes say.

But soon.

What do you do when you can’t read another person as well as you want to?

You divert.

“Wait a minute.” I bite my lower lip and activate the movie reel of memory in my mind. “That day on the porn set, here at your parents’ house.”

“What about it?” His head shake tells me my distraction technique is working a little too well.

“I have a question.”

“I have lots of questions about that day, too.” Crossing his arms, Will cocks one eyebrow, winces, and goes into interrogative mode.

“Let me ask mine first.”

“Shoot.”

“You told me to leave with my anal beads.” I hold up one finger and hastily add, “That were most definitely not mine.”

“I did.”

“That means you know what anal beads are.”

“You didn’t?” Oh, his body language.

“I thought it was a dog's chew toy,” I admit.

“Sex toys for dogs? You think there are kinky dogs out there? The whole pet-pampering industry has gone way over the edge, but I don’t think it’s gone that far, Mal. What’s next? Fifty Shades of Rover?” He cracks the knuckles on his left hand, starting with the index finger and working his way down.