Hide Me Page 17

  She wavers for a second, then nods. “Okay. Come on in.”

  The apartment still looks the same, maybe just a little more cluttered. I wonder if she kept that anthropology job she tried to get for me. It still makes me feel like an asshole to remember how I blew her off when she went through all that trouble for me. “Place looks good.”

  “It’s still the same shithole.” Her sigh is long and suffering, and she crosses her thin arms over her chest. “You wanted to tell me something?”

  “I did. I do.” I sit at the dining room table, the one where I served her what was supposed to be the first romantic meal of this long, amazing summer. “Come sit?”

  She slides into a chair across from me stiffly and her stare is so point-blank, I feel jittery.

  “Your tan faded. You haven’t been on the waves much?” I ask. She frowns and doesn’t give me a single inch. “All right. I get it. So, you know the wedding is coming up?”

  She nods and suddenly takes an extreme interest in the place mat on the table.

  “My mom is dying for you to come. I mean, she’s saying all that crap about how she respects your right to do what you need to, but it’s killing her. I want this day to be amazing for her, and I know the reason you’re not coming is because I’ll be there. But she wants you there, Whit.” I pause and clear my throat. “I want you there.”

  I reach over to grab her hands, but she pulls them back. I curl them back toward me. “That day, with your parents? I was wrong. I thought I could force you to change your whole damn life when I wasn’t even willing to change one single thing about mine. I want to apologize for doing what I did. It was completely out of line, and no matter how good my stupid intentions were, I should have respected your decisions.”

  She looks up at me, her big eyes wide and surprised. “I…uh…I accept your apology?”

  “Is it a question?” I try to make my laugh easy, but it comes out shaky.

  “No. I do.” She pauses, licks her lips, and adds, “And, even though I was pissed, it got the ball rolling, and I’ve been talking to my parents. I’m not saying what you did was right, but I should know better than to waste opportunities. Wakefield would have been disappointed in me. You remind me…of my brother in a lot of ways. So, you did help.” This time her sigh is one of pure exhaustion. “But I don’t think going to the wedding is a good idea.”

  I nod, but my blood is coursing hot and fast with adrenaline. I had zero expectations when I came to see her, but now I feel like things may be better than I thought. That I might have more of a chance than I originally expected. And then I consider that I’m pushing this all too hard, too fast. I need to back off quick.

  “Okay. I respect that.” I get up to go, and Whit stands too, but before I can leave, my mother’s words clang around in my skull. Her warning about how she and my dad let go too easily. How they didn’t hold when things got tough.

  I walk the few feet over to her and take her by the shoulders. She looks too shocked to even wriggle out of my hold. “But I’m going to have to argue the point. I am right this time. Again.” She opens her mouth to argue, but I rush on. “You’re important to me. This may be too quick. It may be too stupid. You may be back with Mr. Booty-Call Douchenozzle Fuckhead.” The tiniest of smiles inches on her mouth. “But I have a little time. And I’m going to use it to convince you to go to this wedding. With me. Because Wakefield would want you to go.”

  The glimmer of a smile fades and she shakes her head. “You’re seriously using my dead soldier brother to guilt me into doing what you want?”

  My face cracks into the first genuine smile I’ve worn pretty much since she kicked me out. “Yeah. I am. You know why? It’s what Wakefield would want.” She narrows her sweet brown eyes at me. “It is. He’d want his sister to get out of her shithole apartment and come to some dipshit hippie wedding where they read poetic, sappy vows and serve tofu. Because he’d know that his sister would be surrounded by people she loves. People who love her. C’mon. Say you’ll come.”

  This time the glimmer of a smile reaches her eyes. “I’ll think about it.” She shakes her head. “Think. About. It. This isn’t a yes or a no.”

  “Great. Not a yes or a no. Got it.” I walk to the door but pause before I walk out. “Just, when you get your dress, tell me the color so I can match my tie, all right?”

  She holds onto the door for a minute, we lean close, and the kiss and more that I want to give her crackles in the air between us. “Good-bye, Deo.”

  She tries to make her voice cool and cruel, but I catch the hint of passion and happiness that slides under her words. Slowly, slowly I’m getting my life on track. And I’m about to woo Whit this week like she’s never been wooed before.

  Because Mom and Cohen and Wakefield are all irritatingly, totally right. Life is too short to waste on bullshit. And I’ve spent way too much time letting go when all I want to do is hold on with all my strength.

  Chapter Seventeen

  WHIT

  I fan myself with the thick piece of recycled cardstock, hoping maybe the answers will float right off of the paper if I do it long enough.

  “And you swear you have no idea what this is for?” I spin in the swivel chair and ask Rocko. He looks at me over the thick tortoiseshell frames.

  “Darlin’, I swear to Gaia, if I knew, I’d tell you, just so you’d shut the hell up. No idea what it is or who it’s from.” He looks back down at the VOID-stamp tattoo he is doing to cover up the name “Dwayne” on his current client’s hip.

  “So, do you think I should go? I mean, do you think it’s safe?” When I got to work this afternoon, there was an envelope on my desk with my name on it. All that was inside was a brown card with an address printed on it and a time, ten p.m. Who in their right mind would think that’s even close to enough information to be considered a proper invite?

  Rocko shrugs. “I don’t know, Whit. Do you want me to go with you? Check it out first? Just tell me what you want me to do and I’ll do it.”

  “But it’s probably from Deo, right? This isn’t his handwriting, but it’s all recycled paper and all vague like he always is… Maybe it’s Marigold? The wedding’s tomorrow. Is she planning some secret bachelorette party she doesn’t think I’ll go to if she tells me about it?”

  I flick at the corner of the card and ponder this some more.

  Rocko doesn’t look up from the classy piece of artwork he’s doing, even though it’s so simple he could do it with the tattoo gun between his teeth. I’ve been talking about this card for the last six hours. He’s clearly annoyed.

  “Do you want me to check with her?” he finally asks.

  “No, that’s okay,” I tell him. “But, do you mind if I leave a little early? Scope it out?”

  “Oh, sweetie, I would’ve let you leave hours ago,” Rocko says before clearing his throat. “I mean, course not. I can handle things around here. Call if you need.”

  I pull up to 1100 Clove Street, and check the address card once more. It’s a two-story furniture store.

  I shouldn’t even be here. This is just plain stupid. Like, there should be an audience full of people rolling their eyes at me right now, saying, “You stupid bitch, you deserve what you have coming. You know you shouldn’t be there alone. At night.”

  But, despite all the obvious dangers, I put my car in park, grab my iPhone, and walk slowly to the door. If someone has decided to lure me to a furniture store to kill me, this is a pretty nice one to go down in, I guess. The mattress in the window is on special for six grand, so, there’re worse ways to go, I guess.

  I push on the door and it’s unlocked, naturally, because killers don’t want you to have to screw around with a locked door before they slice and dice.

  “I was afraid you wouldn’t show up,” Deo says. He steps out from behind a massive fountain carved from a tree trunk. “I’m glad you did, though.”

  “Deo?” I say it like it’s a question, even though it’s obviously not. I’m just con
fused. I don’t understand this. Why I’m here. With him. “What’s going on?”

  “Look, I wanted to hang out, I wanted to see you. But, I don’t have a place of my own. Yet. I’m working on it.” He pushes his messy hair out of his face nervously. “And it’s not like I could just invite myself over to your place. So, I came up with this masterful plan instead.”

  “Where are we, Deo? I mean, a furniture store?” I turn in a slow circle and take in the cavernous space. As far as furniture stores go, it’s nice, with lots of unique, quirky pieces, and handmade, clean-lined items.

  He shrugs and throws me an irresistible grin that I use every scrap of willpower I have in me to resist. “Well, yeah. It’s got everything we need here. And it’s Cohen’s family’s place, so it’s cool and everything. I didn’t break in, if that’s what you’re wondering. Mr. Rodriguez gave me the keys, so it’s all legit.”

  “I just… I don’t really see what we have to talk about.” I rock back on my heels and forward on the balls of my feet and avoid all eye contact.

  Deo’s sigh is so long and sad. It sounds like he’s deflating.

  Just when I think he’s all out of breath and confidence, he springs back, a gleam of pure determination in his light brown eyes. “Please, Whit. Just give me a shot. Just tonight. Please?”

  And I can’t say no. Because he’s standing there, wearing that same carefree smile he always has and, even though I’m not close enough to him, I know how his skin feels sand-scrubbed, except on his calloused hands, and how he always smells faintly like the beach and summer and something very Deo, and I just can’t walk away from all the raging temptation that he throws my way.

  “Okay.” I nod cautiously, reminding myself to keep my head around him.

  Deo pumps his fist like he’s just won a giant stuffed teddy bear for his girl at a carnival booth.

  “Okay, so, come over here first.” Deo has a little bounce in his step that I haven’t seen him with before. He leads me through the maze of sectionals and end tables until we get to the massive selection of dining room tables. Deo has pulled a shiny, dark one slightly away from the sea of other tables and blocked three of the four sides off with decorative folding room dividers.

  “Where’d you get all of this?” I ask. The table is covered in a burlap tablecloth and dozens of small, burgundy-colored candles.

  “Honestly? It’s extra from Marigold’s wedding booty. You are coming to the wedding, right?” He pulls out one of the heavy wood chairs for me. I pick up one of the votives and smell it.

  “These smell amazing,” I say, inhaling deeply again.

  “Chai and almond,” Deo identifies. I glance at him out of the corner of my eye and he shrugs. “Marigold is as talented at making good-smelling candles as she is shitty at cooking edible food. These are supposed to be party favors or something. But you didn’t answer me. Are you coming to the wedding?”

  “I think I have to or I may lose my job,” I joke. “But seriously, Rocko and your mom have been great to me since I’ve been here. I couldn’t miss it.” Or you, I think. I’d been wondering if he’d be bringing a date. Marigold had told me it was okay if I did, but I can’t imagine anything tackier than that.

  “Good.” He’s staring at me in the same glazed-over, swoony way he used to before he fell asleep at night. When everything was good and safe and happy and we’d talk until neither one of us could hold our eyes open anymore.

  “So, what’s on the menu?” I ask. “Or are we just talking?” I blink several times to break his stare.

  “Okay, so, I don’t want you to get mad. Again. But I sort of asked your mom what you might like.” Before I can react to what he confessed, Deo jumps up from his chair and takes two large dishes from the curio cabinet next to our table. I can’t help but tense up at the mention of my parents.

  Even though things have been okay between the three of us since Deo brought them to town without asking me, it’s still strange to think of him talking to them. Especially since he and I haven’t really been talking.

  I nod to let him know it’s okay with me. At least I think it is. Pretty much.

  “Your mom said your favorite was pot roast and spaetzli. But I didn’t know how to keep all of that warm. So when I told her it’d be more of a picnic, she said you’d love—”

  “Grilled chicken and pesto sandwiches,” we say at the same time.

  A proud smile stretches across Deo’s face as he places the parchment-wrapped sandwiches on one of the area rugs.

  “Wait, you made all of this?”

  Deo laughs that deep, gritty laugh that draws me in and makes me want to gobble him up.

  “Well, technically we still have to taste it. So you can be the judge of what I actually made, because it might just taste like pine nuts and oil. But yeah, I tried.” He unwraps the sandwiches and uncovers a dish of pasta salad. It smells so similar to the fresh basil pesto my grandma used to make for me, I almost choke up.

  “Wow, you really went all out,” I say, and I have to rein my voice in to keep it from wobbling. Deo takes my bamboo plate and puts half of a sandwich and enough pasta salad to feed a party of twenty. “I see you inherited your portion control from your grandfather.”

  “Too much?” He stops scooping and hands me the plate. I stab a forkful of salad and Deo watches me as I take the first bite. I don’t know what I was expecting, but this is incredible.

  “Deo, you nailed it,” I say around the explosion of flavors that trigger a thousand perfect, happy memories. “It’s perfect, thank you.”

  It tastes like home. Like my childhood. Like every Sunday dinner at Gram and Gramps’ house, when Wakefield and I played out by the lake until Gram had to drag us in kicking and screaming. We thought taking the time to eat would kill us. But, by the time we got cleaned up and sat down at her table, we couldn’t imagine being anywhere else. This meal was all of those good things. And Deo did it all. For me.

  I reach across the table and brush the top of his hand, and he cracks the tiniest of smiles. But he pulls his hand back before I can really hold it. Because maybe he’s trying to protect himself from me stomping all over him, or maybe he just doesn’t want me to touch him at all.

  “How’s work?” Deo asks. Easy. Non-committal questions are apparently the name of the game tonight.

  “Eh, both jobs are going well.” I try to balance the experience of eating this heart-poundingly delicious food that brings back so many swirling memories of catching tadpoles and fireflies with Wakefield, with the most mundane, meaningless conversation Deo and I have ever had.

  “Both?” His forehead wrinkles with confusion, and I realize that my life has bounded ahead without Deo. For some weird reason, that makes me sad. It makes me even sadder to wonder what’s been going on with him. Somehow, the stuff that’s currently so boring was kind of magical and special when it was just ours, during our time completely alone together in my dark room, on my soft bed.

  “Yeah, my job working for Rocko, obviously, and I took that job with my anthropology professor. The one I talked to you about?” I say with a tiny bit more acid than I meant to use. It’s not meant as a dig, but it comes out as one.

  “Oh,” Deo says, and there’s a whole world of regret and embarrassment in that one tiny word. He wipes his mouth with one of the brown recycled paper towels.

  I rush to smooth the tension that’s extinguishing all the happy between us. “How about you? What’s keeping you busy these days?” I don’t want him to feel bad. We’ve already played that game, and it’s exhausting and stupid.

  He still seems to be stuck on the job barb, but he shakes himself out of his daze and gives me a version of that carefree smile. “Same old stuff, different days.” But there’s something hidden in his words.

  “Hmm… Your mom said you’ve been busy with some project?” I venture into the topic of his possible project, even though Marigold had sworn me to secrecy.

  His gold-brown eyes narrow at me, and he points at my dish, re
minding me to eat my gigantic mountain of food. I pick up the sandwich and take another delicious bite, even though I’m already getting too full. When he’s satisfied he answers.

  “Oh, she did, did she? Well, she’s sort of a lunatic, if you hadn’t noticed.” Deo’s laugh is completely self-satisfied.

  “She is,” I admit. “But I can tell by that shit-eating grin that you’re hiding something. What’s up?”

  His hand reaches out, and I hold my breath, praying he’s going to touch me, and internally scolding myself for being so damn eager. But he just runs one finger along the strap of my dress and meets my eyes. His are dancing with mischief, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me. “New dress?” Deo asks coyly.

  I tug at the navy polka-dot fabric of the rockabilly-style dress and hope the burn I feel on my face isn’t noticeable.

  “Yep. Why are you avoiding the question?”

  “Whit, I worship every damn thing about you, you know that. But you really don’t have a leg to stand on when it comes to accusing other people of keeping secrets…” I can tell by the look on his face that he tried to stop the words from tumbling out, but still, they fall.

  I suck in a sharp breath and bite down on my bottom lip.

  “Touché.” I fight to make my voice come out light and unaffected, trying to play it off as if it doesn’t sting like he’s just thrown me into a buzzing hive of angry bees, but it does. And I deserve every bit of venom the words inject.

  All the humor in his face dries up, and he takes my hand and squeezes it hard, moving quickly, before I can attempt to back away. “Sorry, doll. I didn’t mean that.”

  His eyes are sincere and apologetic.

  I really want to know what the hell Deo is hiding, what project has kept him so busy, why his mom refuses to tell me. But I know better than anyone that I can’t make him talk about it, that I can’t make him trust me or open up. And really, why would he trust me? It’s not like I didn’t kick him for loving me enough to care.

  “It’s fine.” I shake my head and force myself to put the brakes on my hypocritical interrogation tactics. I also realize, with a tiny twinge of humiliation, how someone can be digging deep and asking questions because they care so damn much it’s scary. But I bury that thought fast, and move on to more pressing topics. Like Deo’s possible dating life, which I hope is nonexistent, even if I have no right or reason to hope that.