Weather Girl(77)
“I’ve never told anyone. Not anyone I was dating. Not anyone who—who mattered.” I glance down at his hand, watching his fingers move back and forth in this calming, hypnotic motion. “My dad left because he couldn’t handle my mother. So for someone to care about me, for someone to stay—I thought I had to be the overly cheerful person I am on TV. Or else I’d become my mother, and that’s what I’ve been trying so hard to avoid. I told you that’s what my ex thought, that I was too sunshine. And maybe I have been, but I don’t want to do that anymore.” Not with you is the implication. I hope he hears it, because I’m not sure if I have the courage to say it.
“Thank you for telling me,” he says, bringing his free hand to my other knee, his eyes never drifting from mine. “I’ve been to therapy, too. When I first moved to Seattle. There was so much with Elodie I’d never properly dealt with, and I was going pretty consistently for a few years. I’m . . . really glad we can talk about that.”
“Me too.” I motion with my head back in the direction of the house as something glows inside my chest. “The way she was in there—that’s not the mother I grew up with. Or maybe it was, some of the time, and the other times were so tough that it’s hard to remember everything else. I want to forgive her. I want things to be different between us. I had this vision, when I was younger, that I’d have the kind of mother I could go to brunch with every Sunday, and we’d dish about everything going on in our lives. Maybe that sounds ridiculous. And then I imagined getting married, and having a mother who’d want to be part of the wedding planning, almost to the point where it got annoying. I would have loved to be annoyed by her because she was insisting on a sit-down meal over a buffet. But even when I was engaged, none of that happened. She didn’t have an interest in any of it.”
“It’s the worst when family isn’t there for you the way they’re supposed to be,” he says. “When Liv got pregnant, it felt like I’d shattered some unspoken bond of trust. You will not knock someone up. You will not fuck up your future.”
“But you didn’t.”
“It took a while for me to get there.” He’s quiet for a moment, scratching at his stubbled jaw. Pensive. “And I hope tonight is just the start for you and your mom. You don’t deserve anything less than that.”
“Thank you.” If my words are a whisper, it’s only because I’m trying not to cry. “What I’m realizing,” I continue, “is that I like myself the most when I’m around you. And I think it’s because I’m the most honest version of myself. I don’t have to try as hard, and I don’t have to hide. I can just . . . be.”
He turns in his swing, bracketing my legs with his and reaching for my hands again. “I—I don’t know what to say. I’m honored. Truly,” he says. “Letting you get close is the best thing I’ve done in a long time, and it means the world that you brought me here. And none of what you said changes anything. It doesn’t change how I feel about you.”
“And how is it you feel about me, exactly?”
A wry grin. “I think you know, weather girl.” Those six words might as well be composed of hearts instead of letters. It feels like it’s been ages since I heard the nickname, and I’d forgotten how much I love it. What I love even more: the way he pulls me in for a slow, soft kiss as the sun sets over my not-quite-childhood playground.
26
FORECAST:
EXCESSIVE HEAT WARNING. Be sure to stay hydrated
RUSSELL HAS THE house to himself tonight, a fact that makes me rest my hand on his leg during the drive back to Seattle, thumb skimming from hip to knee and back again.
At the playground, I wanted to bundle myself up in him and savor his wonderful Russell sweetness. Now that we’re locked in a small space together, I’m greedier. Every time he exhales, I want to stretch it into a moan. When he coaxes the steering wheel into a turn, I imagine his fingers beneath my skirt.
And yet every ounce of desire is underscored with something else: a sense of comfort I’ve never known in a relationship. Safety. I’ve always been so afraid of pushing people away, afraid I’d reveal too much of myself, expose a piece that wasn’t summer-bright, and they wouldn’t like who I was underneath.
Except . . . Russell’s seen those parts. And he’s not running.
We start kissing the moment he parks the Subaru in his driveway, a desperate clash of tongues and teeth. I twist in my seat, pressing myself closer as his hands plunge into my hair. This sensible family vehicle wasn’t meant for this, I’m certain of it.
“You have a lot of dexterity there,” he says as I grip the lapels of his jacket.
“Oh, I can do a lot of things with this hand now.” And just to prove I can, I palm the front of his jeans, where he’s already hard for me.
“Ari.” He wraps my name in a fantastic groan that sends a pulse of need straight to my core. “We should get inside. I can’t do nearly enough of what I want to do to you in this position.”
“Funny. Because I kind of like you in this position.”
He smirks before shifting me back to the passenger seat and opening his door. “Out with you.”
“Ooh, I like it when you’re bossy, too.”