Thick & Thin (Thin Love, #3)(51)
“Wine?” I asked him and he nodded, walking away from my mother and the elusive smile my father had never shared with me.
“It’s funny, baby, I’ve been here over a dozen times and it seems like every time I come around you’ve managed to add to the…”
“Mess?”
He laughed, turning from his perusal of my latest acquisition—a hand drawn sketch of the street performers in Jackson’s Square that I’d bought from one of the artists there—before he kissed my forehead. “I was going to say…um…chaos. It’s…eclectic. That’s it. That’s a good word for your style. Eclectic.”
“That’s a nice way of saying I have no style.”
“It’s different, a little wild, like you are sometimes.” He walked away from me, holding his glass loosely in his hands as he stood in front of the cluster of art I’d cluttered around the entryway wall, his gaze taking in all that detail and the hodgepodge of scenes and colors.
I liked my place. There was nothing pretentious, nothing contrived about how I lived. Plaster flaked around the exposed brick walls, it peeled and cracked, but reminded me that this place was old. I was one of a dozen inhabitants over the decades and our shared histories added to the charm. Thick, wool and jute rugs covered the main sitting area in the living room and under the small butcher’s table that served as an island in the modest kitchen. There were pillows and throws, all in vibrant jewel tones, and large medallion tapestries that covered three of the walls.
I didn’t mention to Ethan that everything in this eclectic place was staged strategically. And, it hadn’t been done alone. Ransom may have never lived here, but his influence was everywhere. There were scarves he’d bought me from Morocco and Peru that lined the windows and covered the lamps in my bedroom. There were baskets I used as end tables that Ransom had found in one of the Cuban markets one Saturday he’d spent wandering Miami.
“It looks like a gypsy caravan in here, nani. I like it,” Ransom had said during that first visit. That had been nearly two years ago, the last time Ransom had been here; things had changed since. There was more color, less light and I liked it that way. It made me feel like I was in my own world, away from whatever waited for me outside those double pane French doors in the front of the condo.
The first time he visited from Miami, Ransom had stayed the week. The regular season had just ended and the Dolphins hadn’t played well enough for any conference games. He’d taken the first flight from Miami to New Orleans and landed at my door with one bag and an eager smile. We’d spent nearly that entire week inside these walls, mostly naked, forgetting that when the time came, he’d have to go back to Miami. He had contract obligations to fill and he’d do that alone.
The last night we’d lay on my queen-sized mattress with all those thin throws and blankets the color of a Moroccan sunset, spooned against each other, eyes opened, staring at nothing, thinking about everything, still and quiet. His body was a shadow behind me then, the fierce outline that fit around me like a coat—warm and comfortable, and I hadn’t wanted to move or speak or remind him that he’d have to leave. That the distance would remain between us as long as he played in the league. The danger was too great and my heart could not take the worry that consumed me. But that didn’t mean I could stay away from him. It didn’t mean that I could let him go even a little.
“If I beg…” He’d stopped speaking when I moved my head, seeming to know my answer before I gave it. He’d asked that before and I thought of reminding him, but Ransom knew me. He knew my mind wasn’t easily changed once it was set. He hadn’t pulled away from me. He had, in fact, moved closer, held his arm against my waist tighter. “I’d beg, Aly. ‘Til the grave, I’d beg you to come back to me.”
The light hairs on his arms had stood on end when I moved my fingernails over them and the soft quiet we’d laid in fractured only a little when I shifted around to face him. I hadn’t expected to see the small drops of tears clinging to his lashes or the shadows deepening under his eyes.
“I can’t…the game, the distance between us even when I am right by your side there,” I’d tried, sliding closer, holding his face still as I watched him. Ransom’s lips were like wine—sweet, supple and they felt hot against mine, so tempting, so welcomed. “It kills me. Every game, cheri, I die a little bit with each one.”
“Aly… Please, makamae, I can’t…I just can’t…” He moved my hands from his face then, slipping his fingers at the base of my skull, between the mess of bed hair there. But Ransom didn’t speak. He only took, mouth to mouth, those strong, demanding hands holding me still as he kissed me in frantic, eager kisses. He touched me and held me like he thought I’d disappear and each kiss, each touch, felt like a goodbye hanging in the background waiting to be spoken. “End game,” he finally said, coming up for air. “My end game.”
“This new?” Ethan asked, pointing to a ruby-jeweled chandelier that hung from the ceiling over the bar. His eyes searched, taking in each strand of red and crystal string and the gold-rimmed tassels that circled each.
“Yeah,” I said, glancing up at the piece with the shadow of Ransom’s memory lingering in the back of my mind. “Keira found it at the renaissance festival in Hammond last year. One of the vendors sells lights and chandeliers with a Moroccan flare. She put it up in storage and forgot to give it to me until the other day when she went up to the garage looking for a pull away mattress.”