Pen Pal(24)

Which means that three, he’s as into this unexpected situation between us as I am.

I don’t know if there’s a word for this emotion I’m feeling. Maybe because it’s a jumble of so many different things at once. But I do know for certain that whatever it is he did to his father, he did it to protect his mother.

Then I remember what he said to me in the bar.

“I didn’t like my father.”

Didn’t, past tense. Which suggests his father is no longer in the land of the living.

And right then, I discover something about myself I never knew before.

“Hey.”

He glances back at me, his gaze wary and his jaw clenched.

Staring straight into his eyes, I say, “The past is dead. So whatever happened, whatever you’ve done, just know that I’ll never ask you to explain yourself to me. I’ll also never judge you for something you did to keep someone else from getting hurt. No matter how bad that something was. Life is messy, and we all have our reasons for doing what we do. I don’t care about anything you did before we met.”

His lips part. He stares at me in disbelief and something else I can’t identify.

It could be hope.

“But from now on, I do care what you do. If we keep seeing each other, I expect total honesty. Got it?”

Looking stunned, he nods.

“Good. Now dry yourself off, Fight Club, because I’m starving.” I wind my arms around his shoulders, lift up onto my toes, and give him a soft kiss. Against his mouth, I whisper, “Your little bunny worked up an appetite from getting fucked so well by her big bad lion.”

He grabs me and hugs me so hard, I lose my breath. I feel his body tremble against mine, little shivers in his muscles that are in sync with his ragged breathing.

For some strange reason, at that moment the verse Dante sent in his last letter crosses my mind.

But already my desire and my will

were being turned like a wheel, all at one speed, by the Love that moves the sun and the other stars.





The words echo in my head before disappearing when Aidan kisses me.





14





We eat breakfast at his place, then he follows me back home in his truck.

When we get to the house, he insists on going inside and checking everything out before letting me in. “Better safe than sorry,” he says, leaning in the open driver’s side window of my car. “Keys?”

I hand them to him. “I don’t know if I locked it, though. I ran out in a pretty big hurry.”

He nods, then straightens and walks up the path to the front door.

Watching him standing there trying the handle, I suffer a moment of cognitive dissonance.

Only last month, it would have been Michael standing in his place. My charming, outgoing husband with his starched white dress shirts, polished black oxfords, and slacks with the crisp leg seams. He was meticulous about his grooming, never leaving the house without a hair out of place or the faintest shadow of a beard on his jaw.

And forget about tattoos. The sight of needles made Michael queasy. Every single year when he went to get his flu shot, he nearly passed out in the doctor’s office.

Aidan is almost his exact opposite. I doubt I could’ve picked someone more different than Michael if I tried.

Aidan turns then and looks back at me, waiting anxiously in my car. He lifts his chin and disappears through the front door, leaving it open behind him.

Ten minutes later, he appears in the doorway and gestures for me to come in.

Apprehensive, I hurry up the path in my bare feet. At least it’s not pouring down rain today, but I’m still shivering from cold.

The sky overhead is the same dull gray of Michael’s coffin.

“Anything?” I ask when I reach Aidan.

“All clear. Come inside.”

I walk into the foyer, hugging my arms around myself. I’m wearing Aidan’s big black sweatshirt, the arms rolled halfway up so they’re even with my wrists. A pair of my shoes are under the console table. I shove my feet into them, not bothering to tie the laces.

Aidan says, “Everything was locked. No signs of a break in. I checked upstairs, too.”

I’m relieved but also feel silly, seeing how I ran from the house as if I were being chased by demons. My overactive imagination is getting the best of me.

“Great. Thank you.”

“No problem.”

“Why are you smiling like that?”

“Oh, nothing. I just think you’re really good at drawing, that’s all.”

I don’t know what he means for a moment. When it hits me, I roll my eyes. “You were in my office.”

“Had to check the windows.”

“You checked a few other things too, I guess.”

He reaches out and tugs on the sleeve of his sweatshirt, pulling me toward him. Then he wraps me in his arms and grins down at me. “I think that pet rabbit the little boy has is really cute.”

I smile. “Yeah, I bet you do.”

“So you’re an artist?”

“Illustrator. Children’s books mostly, though I do the occasional calendar and magazine piece.”

He leans down and gently presses his lips to mine. “You’re crazy fucking talented, Kayla.”