The Next Best Thing (Gideon's Cove #2)(33)

“Right,” I answer. “That’s a good reason.”

“The best.” He smiles at the thought of his son, and, as always, my heart gives an almost painful twist. Ethan is such a good dad, and little is more appealing than a father who so obviously loves his child.

“So come on, tell me. What’s the deal with being named after the obstetrician?” I ask, watching as the river rushes past the reedy banks.

“It’s nothing. Just that Jimmy got the grandfathers’ name, and they hadn’t even bothered to pick one out for me.”

“Sure they did. You just decided to be difficult and come out a boy.”

“Right.”

“So?”

He turns to look at me. “Well, a person could say that I disappointed my parents right from the get-go by being me. They already had a son. They wanted a daughter. They got me, and I wasn’t as good as Jimmy.” He says it as if he’s presenting a paper on the history of dirt—these are the facts, and while they’re true, they’re not all that interesting.

“Oh, Ethan, buddy, no one thinks that!” I protest.

His eyes crinkle in genuine amusement. “Anyone ever told you, Lucy, that you’re awfully naive?” I don’t answer, and Ethan continues. “I’ve pretty much spent my life being Not-Jimmy. He was the heir apparent. He was older, taller, funnier, better-looking, better in the kitchen. He got Dad’s eyes, Mom’s heart, the grandfathers’ name. He got the restaurant, he got the family recipes, he got—well. Whatever I do in my life, it won’t measure up to Jimmy.” He shoots me a sidelong glance. “In my parents’ eyes, anyway.”

My urge is to hug him, but I probably shouldn’t. “Does it bother you?” I ask quietly.

“Not so much anymore. I’m used to it. And my parents lost a child, so I try to cut them some slack. If anything ever happened to Nick, I don’t know what I’d do, and I hope to God never to find out.”

I swallow, not willing to think such thoughts. “You’re just as good as Jimmy, Ethan,” I say sincerely. “You’re different, that’s all.”

He looks at me a beat, and I get the feeling there’s something more he wants to say. But he doesn’t. “Come on, it’s getting cold” is all he offers, and we start walking once more, leaving the river behind, not talking until we reach the Boatworks. We stop at the entrance, which is one of the lovely touches of this building. Instead of an overhang, half a Herreshoff sailboat juts out from the brick. The building’s front doors were taken from a shipwreck and restored. Obviously we each know the code to get into the building, but we just stand there a moment, sheltered by the old wooden boat.

“You want to come up?” I ask. “I made profiteroles. And not just that…they’re served with a warm hazelnut mocha sauce.” He doesn’t answer. “We could play Guitar Hero, maybe?” There’s a desperate note to my voice, and I don’t imagine Ethan misses it. “Sound good, Eth?”

“Sounds great,” he replies with a considerable lack of enthusiasm. “But I don’t think I should come over, Lucy. Thanks, though.”

“Why? You don’t like my desserts anymore?” I ask. “Trying to drop a few, are you?” My joke falls flat…A) Ethan is as lean as a greyhound; and B) I know the real reason and don’t want it to be true. “You don’t have to eat,” I add. “We could watch a movie.” My heart is fluttering like a sick bird in my chest, and I feel dangerously close to tears.

“Lucy,” Ethan begins, looking down the street. “Look. You know I think you’re great and all, but maybe we should put some distance between us.”

“Why?” I squeak.

“Well, you want a new husband. He’s not going to appreciate you having an ex-lover hanging around, being your best friend forever.”

“But, you are my best friend, aren’t you?” I say around the pebble in my throat.

He hesitates, and that hideous bird in my chest goes into death spasm. “Sure. But I don’t want to be a substitute for what’s missing in your life, either.”

“You’re not a substitute!” I protest.

“Whatever you say, Luce.”

“Eth,” I attempt, “aren’t we still friends?”

“Lucy, you asked for some distance. I’m giving it to you.” There’s an edge to his voice now, and that little muscle under his eye ticks again.

“Well, forgive me, then,” I say, my voice brittle. “I thought we were friends. I guess we could be friends when we were sleeping together, but not now, huh?”

“No, Lucy!” he snaps. “You’re moving on, good for you, you should and all that crap. But you can’t have me filling in whenever you get lonely. Not if you’re about to dump me for a husband one of these days.”

“Dump you? We didn’t…we weren’t…” My voice trails off.

“No. We didn’t and we weren’t. So fine. Go out with Charley Spirito. Find a new guy, but leave me out of this.”

“But—”

“Lucy,” he says tightly. “You can’t have everything, okay? So back off.”

“I’m not asking for everything! I just want you to…to be my friend. Like you were.” At his dark look, I hastily amend that statement. “Well, without the sleeping together part. Just for us to be…buddies.”