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“River,” he says. He’s on fire and my name comes out like a warning.
I’m insatiable. I run my fingers up the sharp stubble of his jaw and a low growl rumbles from deep within his chest. How sweet that he goes about his life humouring this make-believe concept of docile domesticity, when in reality he’s an animal, with primal violent need coursing through his loaded hulking frame.
He slips me off the table, takes one of my hands, and walks us back to the kitchen, picking up his grocery bag along the way. At least one of us has some self-control. I hop onto one of the counters as he unpacks the bag, filled with the items he’s going to use to make our dinner. I’m being spoiled and it makes me waggle my feet like a child with delight. The last item that he pulls out is another twenty-four pack of condoms, and my face blushes darker than my rosy underwear.
“I like that you lit a candle for me,” I say, watching him wipe down a surface with a dampened cloth.
He glances up at me, his eyes bright, and he smiles a little. “I do that a lot,” he says.
He’s so sweet it makes me ache. I can’t believe that I’ve wasted so much time doubting him.
His thoughts must be on a similar path to mine because, as he diverts his eyes to start chopping up tomatoes, he says, “So have you decided.” He waits a beat. “About college.”
I wriggle like a little worm. If it was up to me, I wouldn’t be going to college. Why are all of the smart girls told that they need to do that? In reality, my college outcome will be an embarrassing amount of debt and a low-salary job, only compensated by the fact that my mom will be happy that I’m officially her mini-me. I don’t evenwantthat kind job. All I want is to do something that I enjoy – maybe even to do multiple things that I enjoy – and overall to just be happy. I like that Tate knew what he wanted to do: he wanted to be with his dad, in an emotionally comfortable and financially stable space, working on stuff that comes so naturally to him. He has his friends, he has his father – and if I wasn’t so anxious, maybe he would even have me.
I soften the blow by telling the truth. “It’s never been my decision to make,” I say.
He pauses the knife for a moment, head still bowed, and then he restarts his slicing as if he never stopped. He transfers the tomatoes from the chopping board to a ceramic plate. “Okay.” He breathes audibly, as if he’s trying to stay calm. “And what about after?” he asks.
I blink. “After?”
He picks out a pizza tray from the cupboard near the oven and uncaps a dark green bottle of olive oil. He tips the bottle and drizzles it over the tray, a quiet luxurious glugging sound escaping the neck as he pours the contents. He recaps the bottleand rubs the oil into the surface with his fingers, making his tan skin glossy and slick.
“After college,” he clarifies.
“I’ll get a job,” I reply.
“Where?” His tone is sharper than before, demanding, inflexible.
I take a shaky breath. My mom and I have never actually spoken about that. All I know is that I’m going to be Professor Linton 2.0. “Um, I haven’t really thought about it,” I admit. This telling the truth thing is really addictive.
His muscles roll and he looks over to me, my body stilled on the counter beside him. There are lightning bolts flashing behind his eyes and I feel like he’s trying to telepathically transmit something to me, but I can’t quite reach it. He looks back down at the counter, picking up the box of rolling dough and avoiding my eyes as he prepares the sheet. His voice is quiet when he speaks.
“I’ll only say this the one time, because I don’t want you to get angry with me,” he murmurs. “But there are other options for you. There are… other things that you can do.” He swallows. “And people who want to take care of you.”
I step down onto the floor and his eyes flash to mine. Intensity level: nuclear.
What other things can I do? Andwhoother than my life-giving mother could possibly know what’s best for me? I want to indulge myself in the fantasy but I know that we’re too young to be serious. Adults say that kind of stuff about people like us all the time.
I frown up at him and put my hands on my hips. He slips his forearms between the triangular gaps that they make, locking his hands together behind me, and he presses into my back so that I crush forward into his torso. I can see what he was tryingto transmit to me now.I am right here. I want to take care of you.
I feel lightheaded. This is impossible. I obviously have to listen to my mom, but there is nothing in the world that I want to do less than follow the orders she has given. I try to mask the molten yearning in my stomach by looking down at my toes, even as he pushes us together more roughly. “Is this what you prayed for when you lit a candle for me?” I ask quietly.
He breathes out a laugh and it’s warm on my skin. He dips down so that his mouth is on my neck and he sucks the skin soothingly. “No,” he says, and then I gasp when his teeth rake up my throat. “This is what I prayed for when I lit a candle forme.”
Chapter 25
Present
Mitch stands in front of me in the kitchen, hands on hips, head bowed. It’s Christmas Eve and he just got back from Pine Hills with my mom, so she’s upstairs unpacking the suitcase he lugged to their room whilst I prepare for the Mitch Inquisition part iii. It’s not such a chore when I can see the curl of his biceps through the stretched cotton of his white long-sleeve t-shirt, and he’s wearing the same baby blue jeans that he had on in the photo my mom sent me. Does he only own the one pair?
He’s rooted to the spot in silence for at least a whole minute, steam slowly seeping out of him like a volcano. When he looks up at me his expression is rigid but not aggressive. At least he isn’t Cadillac red anymore.
He holds his hand up, palm facing out. I don’t know if it’s to prematurely subdue or silence me, but I remain both subdued and silenced as I wait for him to rip the bandage.
“It is none of my business, River, and I don’t want to talk about this any more than you do.”
If he’s referring to me getting it on with his son - which I’m pretty sure he is - he may be surprised to know that I actually wouldn’t mind talking to him about it. I mean, I have literally two friends, and his son is now sort of one of them, so I’m overdue a juicy indulgence about the mind-blowing sex I’ve been mercifully granted before my lifetime of sad academic servitude.Plus, Mitch is really attractive, so it wouldn’t gross me out if he thought about me naked. I know I shouldn’t be thinking it, but I am only human. If anything, it’s going to be way more uncomfortable forhimto discuss this than it is for me to discuss it.
