You Deserve Each Other(53)

“My half,” I repeat, sitting up straighter. I feel him beneath me and it’s been so long; anything we’ve done in the last few months doesn’t count. The last time we had sex, the space between us was dead air, unbroken by any emotion whatsoever—not love, not attraction, not tension. Right now, two out of three ain’t bad. My body wants to trickle into liquid and spill forth all over him, but I venture to say, “Half of what?”

“Of what went wrong.”

I swallow. It feels like someone’s scratched my throat with talons. “We were never right to begin with.”

He arches a brow. “No?”

“No. Changeling Naomi is the same person as First Date Naomi, just with all the shiny new penny rubbed off. We got too used to the best version of each other, so neither of us ever got to relax and show our normal selves. We’ve been hiding.”

He stares up at me from the floor. He’s slack-jawed but his muscles are strung tight. When he finally speaks, what he says catches me off-guard. “Who texted your phone?”

Before I can answer, he gently places a hand over my mouth. His skin is warm and smells like my conditioner. It’s been a long time since he’s slipped his fingers through my hair long enough for the scent to wear off on him. It’s been a lifetime since we’ve smelled or tasted like each other. Been hungry for each other.

“Tell me, please?” His voice is velvety and compelling. Dangerous. “Be honest and you can have whatever you want.”

He lets his hand fall from my mouth. I’m reeling. I think he might be laying a trap. Either that or I’m paranoid after laying so many traps of my own. Traps are all I see now.

“No one texted me. Who would? The only ones who text me are you and Brandy, and Brandy’s busy with orientation at her new job.”

“Can I see your phone, then?”

I bristle. “No. It’s private.”

“Even from me? I’d let you see mine.”

I don’t believe that for a minute. “So? I wouldn’t ask to see yours. Your phone is none of my business.”

“I am your business.” He sits up, bringing our faces closer together. I slide off his lap immediately and insert a healthy amount of room between us. “Or I’m supposed to be.”

“You don’t trust me,” I say.

“You don’t trust me, either.”

We watch each other. We’ve been watching each other so long, whenever I shift my glance I see a faint shadow of his silhouette thrown over every surface, like one of those black-and-white optical image tricks that you continue to see imprinted on blank spaces even after looking away. The sky has grown dark without our awareness. Through the living room window I can see a dash of stars, so much brighter here than anywhere else in the world. We’re in our own bubble out here in the country.

This house is a place outside of time. It’s so easy to spin around each other and lose track of hours, days, weeks. How long have we been here? It’s got to be years.

I strain to remember how I wound up sharing intimate space with this other human being. I think I remember a zing in my bloodstream, a click of magnets. Laughter. Hope. The beginnings are so sparkly, so effortless. You can imagine the other person to be whoever you want. In all the gaps of your knowledge about them, you can paint in whatever qualities you like as placeholders. You can paint the other person into a dream impossible for them to live up to.

We met at a charity triathlon and struck up a conversation when he stumbled and I helped steady him. We met while volunteering at a homeless shelter. We met at a bank, depositing millions of dollars into our respective accounts. Braiding lanyards with at-risk youths.

He’s right, I don’t trust him.

He’s kneeling at the other end of the rope bridge, hacking away at my lifeline with his knife. It’s going to collapse before I can safely passage over. His eyes gleam as he watches me panic. He can’t wait to see me fall.

Nicholas rises to his feet and checks the window, surprise flitting across his face when he sees that it’s already dark outside. I think he’s realizing we’re in a place outside of time, too. He shrugs back into his coat.

“Are you going out?” I ask, shadowing him. “There’s a freeze warning tonight. With as heavy as it’s been raining, I should get ahead of this and go salt Mom and Dad’s driveway now.”

Suppressing the urge to roll my eyes is like trying to hold in a sneeze. How could I have forgotten this particular habit of the golden son? Anytime there’s a freeze warning out and there’s been precipitation, Nicholas goes over to his parents’ house and salts the driveway. When it snows, he shovels their driveway. They could easily hire someone for this task, but darling Nicky takes up the mantle because he’s Such A Good Son and craves their approval like it’s cocaine.

“We should do our driveway, too,” I say. By we, I mean him. It’s freaking cold out there and I’m in my daytime PJs.

“Our driveway won’t get as bad as theirs, since it’s not paved.” He slides his gloves on and flexes his fingers, admiring the quality of leather. “I’ve got snow tires and four-wheel drive.”

“I’ve got …” My monster car flashes in my mind’s eye. I’m afraid to have another go at it, but my only other transportation is an ancient bicycle Leon left behind. “What if I want to go somewhere?”