“Have you been going through my things again?” I snatch the book and the whistle up and cram them into the bottom drawer, which is usually locked. “How dare you?”
“How dare I?” Increduli
ty widens his eyes. “I didn’t have to go through anything. That was on your pillow when I brought you in here. I just moved it out of the way so I could fall asleep.”
Maybe he didn’t recognize it. I know it’s a feeble hope, but it’s the only one I have. He quickly disabuses me of any possibility that he doesn’t remember those items. Doesn’t recognize their significance.
“I’m surprised you kept them.” Grip hitches his bag onto his shoulder and steadily watches me.
“Well you kept the watch,” I say defensively before I realize this only pulls me deeper into a conversation I’m too addled to have.
Grip’s lips thin, and his jaw clenches.
“I kept the watch because that night at the carnival was one of the best nights of my life, Bristol. That night with you meant a lot to me.” Grip crosses his arms over the muscled width of his chest. “But you already knew that. So, why did you keep a worthless whistle from that night? Why is the book of poems I mailed to you beside your bed?”
Anxiety prickles my scalp and heats my skin. I’m exposed, and my habit is to hide.
“No reason. I wouldn’t throw that away,” I mumble. “That would just be rude.”
“Not only did you not throw it away,” Grip says, walking to stand in front of me. “You highlighted. You folded down pages. You circled. You starred.”
“You did go through my things.” I glare feebly up at him. “I knew it.”
He tips his head toward the drawer where I stowed the book and whistle.
“You’ve obviously handled that book, read it over and over. I’m asking you why, Bris.” His voice drops and his eyes soften. “I’ve told you what that watch and what that night meant to me. Can you tell me what that night meant to you? What it still means to you?”
My defenses slam over my heart like a gate. He’s much too close. Much too dangerous to someone like me who would not know how to stop loving him when he hurts me. When he cheats on me, lies to me. And he would. How could he not? I refuse to be my mother.
“It was a long time ago.” I caress the buttons of his chambray shirt I’m wearing, fixing my eyes on my trembling fingers. “Don’t read too much into a drawer full of old memories.”
When I glance up at him, his face has cemented into a mask. His eyes are like iced coffee.
“Forget it.” He turns abruptly and leaves the room, tossing the last words over his shoulder. “Never mind.”
His proximity was causing my anxiety, but seeing him walk away only increases it. I sense that if he leaves this house, if he walks out that door, that’s it. I’ll lose him forever. He’s already fired me, so we won’t have work. We can’t be in the same room for five minutes without fighting anymore, so we can’t be friends. And I’ve made sure we’ll never be lovers.
And why the hell not?
It’s a rebel cry from my heart. That stupid thing pounding with angry fists against my ribs, demanding attention. Demanding him. Commanding me to find a way to make him stay. I’m not sure what I could say at this point as he crosses my living room with swift strides that take him closer and closer to the front door, but I have to say something, even if it’s the wrong thing.
“I guess Qwest is waiting for you, huh?”
Yep, the wrong thing.
He’s at the front door but turns to face me, irritation and disappointment on his face.
“It wasn’t cool, Bristol, you talking about Qwest that way last night with Jimmi. She’s been nothing but nice to you.”
He’s right, but him defending her only agitates me more.
“Well, it’s the truth.” I assume my face is resting bitch, but I can’t fix it. “She is clingy. The girl doesn’t know how to sit unless she’s on your lap.”
He stiffens, eyes hard and lips set in a flat line when he crosses his arms over his chest. “You sound jealous.”
“Of her?” I bark out a disdainful laugh. “I don’t think so.”
“At least Qwest doesn’t have to be high or drunk to tell me how she feels.”