Turning off the Camaro, he faces me. “I’m the cookies you love, but don’t want to love. That’s why you keep them behind the cereal. The cereal is a good choice, full of fiber and all that bullshit you look at on the label. I’m the snack full of preservatives, fake colors,” he says, nodding towards his tattoos, “and cooked in some cancer-filled oils. I’ll be the death of you one day. You know it. You just can’t quite say no when it’s in front of you.”
“Okay,” I chuckle, waving my hands in the air, “while that is a very thought-provoking analogy there, Waylor’s Cookies, you’re wrong.”
“I don’t think so.” He hops out and races to my side. The door is opened, letting in the warm afternoon breeze. Lending me a hand, he helps me out and closes the door behind me. “Again, you look very pretty today.”
“Is the cookie conversation over?”
“Yes.” He pulls me into his chest, wrapping his arms around my back.
I snuggle into the soft fabric of his shirt, breathing him in and shoving off the ice cream discussion to be analyzed later.
“You know,” he says, his chest moving with each breath, “I could never be like your brothers.”
“How do you mean?”
“How do I not mean?” His voice sounds hollow, almost third-person, and it glues me in place. “They’re so laidback. Like they have nothing to do, nothing to worry about. Like they pick their battles, not the other way around.”
“We all pick our battles, don’t we?”
“Not where I’m from,” he admits. “Sometimes battles pick us. Sometimes our lives don’t come with trust funds and fairy godmothers.”
Pushing off, I look at him. “I can’t help I have a trust fund. Just like you can’t help you don’t.”
“I know,” he says, brushing a strand of hair out of my face. “I’m just saying today was really eye-opening for me.”
My spirits sink like a weight as I watch him search for his next words. There are a million I could come back at him with, but I don’t. I’m too afraid to.
“There will be a day when someone like Lincoln or Ford catches your eye, a quality lemon sorbet,” he grins sadly, “and you’ll wonder what the hell you’re doing with the butter pecan.”
“I wonder what I’m doing with you every day,” I say, trying to get playful Dom back and failing. “But every day, there’s no one else I want to listen to telling me about leg kicks or air conditioner units or bringing me Chinese at eleven at night when I just make an off-handed comment that I could really go for some General Tso’s.”
His eyes lock with mine. “I gotta go.” He kisses my forehead and starts around the car.
“You don’t want to come in?”
“I gotta watch Ryder for a while today,” he says as he reaches the driver’s side door. “Nate has to work and Chrissy bailed or something. I don’t know. I don’t want in the middle of their shit.”
I wait for him to invite me to come over. I’ve helped watch Ryder before. After a few solid, uncomfortable seconds, it’s obvious no invitation is coming.
If I gave in to my emotions, I’d start crying. Being in limbo is the worst feeling in the world and that’s where we are—in limbo. We’ve never been an official item, yet . . . we have. I don’t even know if we are that unlabeled item now.
Demanding things from Dominic gets you one thing—the opposite of what you want. So I can’t just ask him what he’s thinking or feeling. Even if I did, by the look in his eye, I’m not sure he even knows.
“Okay,” I say, heading to my door. “I’ll talk to you later.”
He waits until I get the door open and the security system off. Tossing my purse on the settee inside, I turn to face him through the doorway.
“Thanks for going with me today.”
He bows his head for a moment. “This is going to sound really weird, and I don’t want you to think about it too much, but . . . thanks for introducing me to your family.”
I flip him a half-smile that’s immediately returned. “I thought you didn’t like my brothers.”
With a wink that makes me laugh, he climbs in the car. “I don’t.”
I watch him zip out of the driveway, listening to the long bark of his tires, and wish I were in there with him.
Dominic