Mockingbird (A Stepbrother Romance #2)(27)

"You can't sell books on Sunday here?"

"You can't sell anything on Sunday here. Everybody's at church."

"You're not."

"Not my thing."

"Oh. Me either." He takes a swig. "Blackberry schnapps was a bad idea."

"Are you old enough to drink?"

"Legally? No. Practically? I've got years of experience, baby. When we lived in France I drank wine with dinner every night."

I perk up at that. "You lived in France?"

"Yeah. Also the Czech Republic, Spain, England, Japan for a while, Australia. Only continent I've ever been to is Africa."

"You mean not been to."

"Yeah, that."

"What about Antarctica?"

"That's not a continent."

"Yes it is!"

He laughs. "Right. I guess. Still doesn't count."

"You came here hoping to see me?"

"Yeah."

He turns to look at me and I feel a chill, suck in a breath, and feel a stirring in my stomach. He looks so sad. I just want to grab him and throw my arms around him and make it better. There's a lifetime's worth of sadness in his young eyes. He leans over and then pulls back, sways a little in his seat and takes another drink.

"I think you've had enough."

"Not yet," he sighs, and lowers the bottle to rest between his legs.

"My father says I can't, um, see you."

"See me?"

"Like, socially. I can't date you."

"Oh. My mother said the same thing."

He takes another drink, gulping down the booze so fast I expect it all to come right back up. I feel a temptation to snatch it out of his hand.

"I should… I…" he looks at me with great pain in his eyes and slumps forward. It's like he's trying to tell me something but it keeps sticking in his throat. Then he looks at me again, like that. It makes my heart flutter.

"You’re really beautiful. I should go."

Before I can answer he gets up and starts walking, and drops the bottle in one of the big garbage cans. I get up and start to follow, then stop. This isn't going to go anywhere. I don't want to make my mother upset, I don't want to get him in trouble with his own family. It was just a kiss.

I should just let it go.

The truth is, it doesn't matter. I'll be leaving town in a couple of months anyway. I'm just not sure where I'm going.

Sitting here on a park bench isn't going to help. I'd really, really like to hang out with Charity in the bookstore right now, but I'm alone. I turn and look over my shoulder. Apollo walks down the street with his hands in his pockets, staring at the ground, weaving a little as he walks. He almost looks like he's going to fall down. I should go and do…something. I know what'll happen if I do that. I won't be able to keep my hands off him. Last night he was just sexy, now he's sad, but in a way that makes me long to fix it. Part compassion, part lust.

I can think of a few things that can make him feel better, which makes me feel a little odd. I usually didn't think of that at all. I mean I do, just not… it's not on my radar. I've never been one of those oh, I must have a boyfriend people. I see people around me and friends getting so torqued up over something that's not going to last anyway, what's the…

"Point," I add, out loud.

I sound like my Mom.

It doesn't matter now, though. There's not much else I can do except go home.

By the time I've trudged back to the car, Apollo is gone, or at least out of sight. The empty Main Street is eerie. I want out of here. It feels like something is going to jump out of the shadows at any second. I feel a little safer in the car, and let out a long sigh. So tired. I feel like I've been swimming with lead weights on my back all day, and there is a terrible ache in my gut, like I'm doing something wrong.

It doesn't fade any as I drive home, sullenly key in my passcode to get through the gate (the gate guards don't work on Sundays) and drive up to the house. I sit in the car in the garage for a few minutes, trying to decide if I should just go confront my mother or what, and if I do, what I could say. There has to be some way of getting my feelings across without insulting her.

I'm not angry with her… except I am angry with her. I'm angry with her for being angry with me. I'm angry with me for being angry with her.

Fuck this, I need some ice cream.

Fortunately, the freezer is well stocked. We have a personal shopper, even. After perusing my choices I take a scoop of Rocky Road, a scoop of Chocolate, a generous scoop of Neapolitan with all the flavors, and trudge upstairs. No sign of Mom in her office. I'm not even sure she's home. She probably needs time to cool off. My mother can hold a grudge, I know this from long experience. If I start off apologizing to her later, maybe we can have a real heart to heart about this. I just want her to listen to me, not put words in my mouth.

The ice cream doesn't do as much as I'd hoped. It mostly makes me sleepy. I polish off most of the first scoop quickly, then savor the rest, licking it off the spoon.

I'm lying back and finishing off the last few spoonfuls when I hear a commotion in Mom's bedroom. I finish the last of it, drop the bowl on my desk and creep over, hoping my approaching footsteps won't rouse a tirade. Then I spot the suitcase on her bed and knock on the door.