I mentally picked up the bowling balls and threw them through the plate glass window in the bowling alley in my mind.
Dammit!
After I’d left Leo’s I’d driven home, circled the driveway, headed back into town, dropped by the butcher shop, and asked for the biggest, most beautiful cut they had. The Flintstones-sized rib eye was perfect. I scraped my parsley into a bowl and started pulverizing a perfectly innocent clove of garlic.
Innocent, my foot—let’s see what you’re hiding. I pounded and smashed, added a sprinkle of kosher salt, and mashed it all into a beautiful little paste, which I stirred into the parsley, which was glad to no longer be the object of my . . . anger? Was I angry?
Did that parsley just snort at me? I drowned it in olive oil, squeezing a lemon over the entire mixture until it yelled “Uncle!” then whisked it into oblivion.
All to avoid feeling the . . .
Steak’s done! I forked it onto the cutting board, covering it with foil to let it rest while I looked around the kitchen for something else to massacre. Tomatoes. Oh, look at that—tomatoes. Harvested by hand, from plants nurtured in perfectly tilled soil by perfectly bearded hipsters, in the land of organic milk and asshole honey, where everyone was happy and in tune with the earth, and the entire world narrowed down to slow, sustainable, and the concept du jour—local.
Fuck local. I’d fucked local, and look where it got me. Angry/not angry, listening/not listening for a phone call or text, feeling/not feeling overwhelmed, confused, betrayed, and slightly . . . used?
I grabbed the goddamned tomatoes by their stupid vines, tore the door almost from its hinges, and threw them as hard as I could across the backyard, splashing through the tangle of vines to spatter against the Airstream.
“Nice shot.”
Dammit! The last tomato in my hand became gazpacho. I whirled around to find Leo standing next to the house, and I had to resist two simultaneous urges. To mash the tomato into his face. And to then lick it off.
I chose neither, opting for calm and neutral.
“What are you doing here, Leo?” I asked, throwing the dripping tomato into some bushes and stalking back into the house, knowing he’d follow. As I rinsed and dried off my hands, I was surprised at how much they were shaking. So much for neutral.
I could feel his eyes on me as I moved around the kitchen, and I avoided his gaze, tidying up, restacking plates that didn’t need it.
He didn’t answer my question, so I finally looked up at him, raising my eyebrows. His face was cautious, tinged with something a little like . . . hope? I steeled myself.
“I wanted to talk to you,” he finally answered, watching as I uncovered the steak that had been resting.
I picked up a carving knife and began to slice. “So, talk,” I replied, arranging the steak on a plate and drizzling the parsley and lemon mixture over it. No way was I going first here. I wasn’t playing my hand until I saw what else he might have.
He said, “You ran out of there so fast this afternoon I didn’t have a chance to—”
“I’ve been here for weeks, Leo—weeks! And you never once thought to mention you had a daughter?” I jammed a bite of steak into my mouth and chewed it furiously. “Like, hey, Roxie, here’s some of these strawberries you like—my kid loves them too,” or, “Thanks for showing me this swimming hole; I’ll have to bring Polly up here sometime,” or, “Hey, Roxie, before I fuck you senseless, did I mention the fact that I’ve got a secret daughter?”
I cut the steak so hard that half of it went flying to the floor, and the other half streaked across the platter. I blinked up at Leo, who wore an expression that I imagine someone who’s just been slapped might wear.
“You’re kidding me, right?” he asked softly.
I dug into the remaining half of my steak, sawing back and forth with a vengeance. “Not sure what I’d be kidding about here, Leo. You lied to me.”
“I never lied.”
“You want to talk semantics? A lie of omission is still a lie.” I forked up a big bite of steak and shoved it in.
Leo scrubbed his hands down his face, as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Did you really just Bill Clinton me?”
“Call it what you want. But you and I both know that you chose not to tell me about your daughter, and where I come from”—I paused to swallow—“that makes you a liar.”
“Where I come from, it doesn’t make me a liar. It makes me cautious about who I trust with my family,” he replied evenly, crossing his arms and leaning back against the counter.
Before I had a chance to send over the next volley, he looked straight through me. “And you and I both know that you made it clear from the beginning that you wanted nothing to do with me beyond this summer.”
“I didn’t . . . that’s not . . . you make it sound like . . .” I spluttered, trying to form a sentence.
“You did, it is, and it’s exactly what it sounds like,” he replied.
“You agreed! I asked you, and you agreed! We both went into this knowing exactly what this was, and haven’t we had a grand old time?” I snapped, kicking my chair back into its place and dumping my plate into the sink. “This, right here, is the reason I don’t get involved.”
I glared into the sink, the room now silent except for the drip drip drip from the old faucet. Then a shuffle, and then the hairs on the back of my neck stood straight up. Because he was behind me, and my stupid traitor skin knew enough to be thrilled.
“That night you made me dinner, here, with the beets? What did you tell me?” he asked, his voice low, his mouth only inches away from my ear.
“I told you lots of things,” I hedged, trying like hell to resist the muscle memory that was aching to lean my head back, onto his chest, which I knew was steady and strong.
“You told me love was messy, painful, and emotionally draining.”
I winced to hear my words thrown back at me. But then he went on. “Do you remember that first night I had you, on the porch?”
The memory came so fast the moan was out of my mouth before I could stop it. Leo, strong and beautiful, sliding in and out of me, gazing down at me with something like wonder. I nodded, biting down on my lip to stop from moaning again.
His hands were on either side of me now, his heat all around me. “And I told you it’d been a long time for me?”
I did remember. That first time, it’d been frantic and furious and incredible. Then he’d fucked me again upstairs, this time slow and sure, with more of the same incredible. I nodded again, wondering where this was going.
“My daughter is seven years old,” he whispered, his lips nearly touching my ear.
My brow crinkled. What did that have to do with—oh. Oh now, wait a minute. He couldn’t mean . . . oh. Realization dawning, I spun around, confused but not really that confused anymore.
“You mean that you hadn’t— Not since—Really?” I asked, my hands automatically going to his chest, looking him dead in the eyes. “But that’s . . . You’re so . . . That’s criminal!”
“Criminal?” he asked, the corner of his mouth lifting the tiniest bit.
I smacked his chest for emphasis. “Have you seen yourself? More to the point, have you fucked yourself?”
And that, ladies and gentlemen, brought to mind imagery that would keep me warm on cold winter nights for the rest of my life. Not to mention the heat that flared in his eyes. I felt my own cheeks flame, and I knew I was losing credibility here. “I just mean— hell. I don’t know what I mean.” I patted his chest absently, grounding myself in the feel of him. “I guess the question is, why?”
“Why I hadn’t had sex in so long? Or why I didn’t tell you about Polly?” he asked, his arms still on either side of me. One hand came up easily to my hip, settling there, his thumb stroking the skin exposed.