Lying and subterfuge are tedious and time consuming. I don’t possess the requisite energy or desire to keep track of lies. That is why I always go with the truth––no matter how painful, ugly, or savage.
Without missing a beat she throws her skinny arms around my waist and hugs me tightly. My arms hover over her shoulder, unsure where to land. I don’t know why I’m surprised at her open display of affection. I remember all too well how much I craved it when I was her age. Shit, I still do.
I would do anything to get some attention at her age, which means I was often obnoxious, which also means I usually received none. It was a vicious cycle. One I don’t want Audrey falling into. My arms fold around her, my hands running up and down her back as she presses closer.
“Let’s get you home.”
“I love you, too. In case you didn’t know,” she blurts out, her voice muffled by my clothes.
“I know.”
“Are you gonna tell Mom and Dad?”
I give her the old suspicious eyeball. “Not this time. This is your one get out of jail free card and you just used it.”
She nods. Keeping my arm around her, we make our way to the parking lot.
Chapter Seventeen
“Want to go to the gym with me?”
I rip my eyes off a very good episode of The Affair and level the man that has just spoken with a disbelieving expression. He’s standing in the doorway of my bedroom in track pants and a hoody. Ugh, he even manages to make a hoody look sexy. Who does that?
I’ve been avoiding him. There, I said it. The first step in recovery is admitting you have a problem. I’ve been avoiding him for this exact reason––I can’t be around him without conjuring up the lewdest, filthiest images. The shit I want to do to him is illegal in approximately 50 states. I’m not sure about Massachusetts and North Dakota and I can’t Google it in fear that should something happen to me, someone would find it on my browser history.
It’s not his fault that I’ve acquired the worst case of puppy lust since the creation of puppy lust. He’s a witless victim. In mind only, as of now. If I keep hanging around him, he’ll be a victim for realz.
I tuck the French fries I was diligently shoving into my mouth a second ago into the side of my cheek. “This may come as a shock to you, but all this awesomeness––” I motion to said awesome body, “is au naturel. I do not work out.”
That said, I resume chewing.
“I’m going to Chelsea Piers to do some rock climbing. You should come.” He lifts his arms and stretches from side to side, which causes his t-shirt to ride up, exposing his ridiculous abs and happy trail. I stop chewing.
“I’m busy,” I say, my eyes glued to that bloody trail of happiness. The one I’d happily trace with my tongue if it wasn’t grossly inappropriate.
“You don’t look busy.”
“Well, I am…busy…eating.”
“I think you should come with me.”
I look up and find a knowing smile on his face. The hell is he smiling at? My eyes narrow. “No, I don’t think I want to,” I respond and shove another French fry in my mouth for good measure.
“Yeah, you do. I’ll feed you. I’ll take you to Sarabeth’s for brunch after.”
“Tempting, but––no.”
“Unless you’re scared to brake a nail.”
After a full two minutes of silence, I find my voice. “Did you just say scared?”
Twenty minutes later, hands on hips, I’m staring up a forty-six foot wall, cursing my pesky mouth. It’s a ninety degree angle of death. This place must be a freaking graveyard. It must be.
“Where are the bodies buried?”
“Excuse me?” says Shaggy of the Scooby Doo gang, also known as the safety instructor. He looks confused. And clearly feigning stupidity because, let’s face it, what’s he going to do once the harness breaks and someone plummets forty-six feet to the ground? Nuf said.
“How many people have died here?” I annunciate carefully and loudly.
“Uh, none.” His eyes fill with worry. They flicker in Fancy’s direction, searching for a lifeline. News flash: there ‘aint one. Fancy is much too concerned with checking his harness for his K2 ascent.
“Our odds are shit,” I say to Ethan. The lack of response prompts me to glance his way. Where I find him very busy ignoring me. “According to the Law of Averages––and Malcom Gladwell––had someone fallen to their death recently, we would be okay. However, if what Shaggy here says is true, then the next person to climb could very well be the first fatality.”
“We happen to have a perfect safety record,” interjects the safety instructor who sounds a bit put out.
After pinning Shaggy with a weighty glare, I dismiss him. Still prepping, Fancy has yet to come up for air once. “Ethan.”