“WHERE’S LOVER BOY?” Kate leans against the kitchen counter, watching while I whip up a complicated, elegant meal of Kraft mac ‘n’ cheese.
Rolling my eyes, I nod back toward my room. My plans to drop Nick at home with the other three were dashed when he point-blank refused—the others had barely clumsily clambered out of my car when my phone dinged with a demand not to leave without him. He was being so freaking cute, all pouty and wide-eyed, I couldn’t, nor did I want to, say no. “Showering.”
“Without you?” The cheeky comment ends in a yelp as I flick hot pasta water in her direction.
The joke isn’t completely unfounded—the man did offer. Several times. Profusely. But the lingering scent of rum and cigarettes isn’t exactly an aphrodisiac, nor is the fact I spent the last hour rubbing his back while he hunched over the toilet bowl, so I scampered from the room yelling promises of food over my shoulder.
Plus, even if he wasn’t drunk, sexy shower antics—which I’m pretty sure was the only thing on his mind—are completely off the cards. The girls are both home, and while Luna has no qualms about her sexual escapades bleeding through the walls, Kate and I have a pact about never doing that to each other. And, not that I’m holding out hopes for some big romantic hoopla, I don’t really want my first time with Nick to be eavesdropped on by my roommates—there’s enough pressure and anxiety there as it is.
It didn’t occur to me until tonight that I’ve never seen Nick drunk. Drinking, yes. Tipsy, maybe. But precariously wobbling, perpetually flushed, and slurring words of nonsense? Nope. Watching him fumble about and hearing sweet words constantly whispered in my ear and feeling soft hands coasting all over my skin… well, it made me wonder whether Nick gets truly plastered all that often. Because if he does, it’s a wonder he’s garnered that reputation of his—Drunk Nick is a big freaking softie.
A rambler too, and I can’t decide which I like more.
“God, you’ve gotta stop grinning like that,” Kate groans, dramatically banging her forehead against the door of the upper cabinet closest to her. “I can’t be mad at him for crashing girl’s night when you’re grinning like that.”
Honestly, I didn’t even realize I was grinning, not until I consciously will my lips to flatten and find it to be a surprisingly hard task. Crooking a brow, I query a silent, ‘better?’
Kate grunts at my lackluster attempt, a tad hypocritical considering she’s not exactly scowling either. There’s a definite upturn to her full mouth, a hint of a pleased crinkle in the dark skin around her eyes. “You look really happy, Mils.”
“I am.” For the first time in a long time, I really am.
“But are you sure you’re okay with the whole casual, sneaking around thing?”
“Considering it was my idea, yup.” My last relationship was a shitshow and the one before that…well, I’m not in at hurry to jump into a new one, not any time soon. “I like it like this.”
“You like him.”
“He’s hard not to like.”
“Say that again in the morning when I’m sober enough to remember it.”
Kate and I turn as Nick lazily saunters into the room. Eyes still a little glazed and smile still adorably dopey, he’s changed into the sweats and t-shirt he quickly took to leaving here. “Just in case,” he’d told me with a relaxed shrug, and I had to pretend I wasn’t hyperventilating out of nerves and girlish excitement.
I sigh at his wet hair soaking the neckline of his top, shrieking when it suddenly soaks me too as Nick wraps himself around me like the world’s friendliest bear. “You’re dripping all over me.”
Humor rumbles in his chest as he dips his head, purposely brushing wet curls against my cheek. “I think that’s my line.”
The exaggerated sound of Kate retching fills the kitchen, echoed by Nick’s laughter in a cacophony of erratic noise that does something weird to my chest. It draws Luna out of hiding too; she skids into the room, a blur of blonde hair and resentment at the thought of being left out.
“Well, this is all very domestic,” she croons haughtily at the sight of Nick and I tangled together. Sidling up to Kate, she bumps her hip, and the two exchange a conspiring look that I hate with every fiber of my being, before she cocks her head at me. “You couldn’t have brought Jackson back with you?”
I adopt a deadpan look, gesturing to the man clinging to me. Nick’s inability to stifle his drunken affectionate tendencies is explanation enough but I can’t resist adding teasingly, “You two could do with a night apart.”
“Hey, Pot,” Luna taunts mockingly. “It’s Kettle. You’re black.”
Skin heating, I roll my eyes at the comment. Nick’s chuff of mirth tickles my cheek before he releases me, stalking towards the girls and not giving them a chance to evade before shaking his head like a wet dog, dispersing droplets of cold water all over them. Kate shrieks, protecting her hair with one hand while the other shoves him away, and Luna cackles, snatching up a dishtowel and whipping it at him. The trio dissolves into a racket of sibling-like bickering and half-hearted vitriol but I can’t make out a word of it over the volume of my racing thoughts.
This is not a picture I ever became accustomed to when Dylan was in my life. He never joked around with my friends, never made an effort to get along with them. A pang of something acrid thuds in my chest when I consider how a guy I’m only partially, barely, connected to tries harder than my long-term boyfriend ever did, and with that comes a whole horde of other comparisons. Dylan’s performative affection, only deigning to show it when others were around to witness, or when it was what he wanted. Not one single instance can I recall when I was around a drunk Dylan and I didn’t feel…not always scared, but always anxious. He freaked out if I so much as made eye contact with a man, and toward the end, he was even picking out my clothes.
Nick isn’t stingy with affection. Everything is an excuse to touch me, even before anything more than friendship occurred between us, and so rarely is it… I don’t know, leading? It’s not always a means to an end like it seemed to be for my ex, something he did begrudgingly for the sake of getting into my pants. But Nick… It’s like he showers me with affection simply because he likes the feel of my skin beneath his fingertips, and God, is that dangerous for a touch-starved woman like myself.
Their drunk personas couldn’t be more different. I don’t feel unsafe or uneasy with Nick under the influence. I don’t feel like I’m walking on shards of glass, unable to help from getting ripped to shreds no matter how carefully I tread. He doesn’t change into a person I don’t recognize; he softens and melts into the version of himself he keeps tucked away that makes my heart putty in his hands no matter how many walls I erect around it.
And the comment Nick made earlier, him not wanting me to go into the bar, it didn’t come from the same place that something like that would’ve come from within Dylan. There was no aggression or blame behind it, not toward me. It wasn’t possessive, it was protective, and it took me such a long time to learn the difference that my eyes burned at the recognition.
They’re burning now too, something I don’t notice until the sudden silence creeps into my consciousness. Blinking rapidly, my gaze darts between the people staring at me curiously. “What?”
Luna flicks the dishtowel—the one she was previously snapping at Nick’s ass—in my direction. “You zoned out for a second.”
“Oh.” I shrug as I turn to the stove again, my nose twitching as it suddenly itches. “Sorry. You guys hungry?”
They take their sweet time accepting the subject change. When the quiet starts to make me squirm, I peek over my shoulder and catch them exchanging a round of looks, a silent conversation transpiring that I hate as much as I like—them getting along is great and all but it seems dangerous for them to be in cahoots.
I’m dishing vibrantly orange, cheesy pasta into bowls when eventually, a collective sigh rings out. The girls collect their dinner without a word, but with plenty of prying side-eye, and I’m readying to carry mine and Nick’s to our tiny excuse for a dining room table when a calloused palm smoothes over my shoulder, another curving around me to grab one of the bowls.
“Thank you,” the murmur washes over me along with the faint scent of rum combined with my coconut-scented body wash and something distinctly Nick. Almost instinctively, my head lolls to the side, my cheek rubbing against his knuckles in seek of comfort I don’t want to ask for.
Lips and sweet, drunk, foreign words brush my temple. “Gosto mais de você do que desejo.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
Nick laughs. “Me neither.”
I’m curled up on one of the many ridiculously comfortable sofas scattered around The Paper Trail skimming through a book plucked from the stack beside me—a shipment of Brazilian-authored novels came in and Nick cheekily assigned me the task of sorting them into original and translated since I’m here anyway—when a heavy body flops onto the cushion beside me, disturbing me with a yelp.
“Been looking for you.” Cass eyes me suspiciously. “What’re you doing here?”
I will my expression to remain neutral as I wave the very obvious book in my hand. “Reading.”
Snatching it, Cass holds it up for inspection. “As Três Marias? Since when can you read Portuguese?”
I poke my tongue out at his impish expression. Yeah, fine, I wasn’t reading. I was lazily flipping through the pages, tracing the illustrations and skimming for words I might recognize, coming up embarrassingly empty. I wonder if Nick would teach me some if I asked. When he came over earlier and spotted me flicking through it, softness overtook his expression as he confessed it’s one of his mom’s favorites.
Cass tosses the book back to me, wiggling his dark brows. “Thought you didn’t read anything without a shirtless man on the cover.”
My foot connecting with his stomach earns a grunt. “Did you come here to harass me?” I neglect to ask how he knew I was here for fear it’ll come out with a guilty edge.
I’m unprepared when Cass sobers suddenly, swallowing my unease when he straightens and clears his throat while digging around in his pocket. When he deposits a crumpled white card adorned with flowing cursive spelling mine and my dad’s names, I suck in a breath. “It’s a formality.” Cass eyes me carefully. “Mom said the same rules as Thanksgiving apply.”
AKA I can refuse but Cass has full permission to kidnap me if I do. Not that I would. I do hesitate though.
I don’t know how I forgot about the Morgans’ annual Christmas party. It’s a yearly thing, and I attended dutifully every year for a decade, as did my dad; it was one of the rare things he always carved out time for. I used to spend hours with Lynn hand-making the invitations like this one, damn near going cross-eyed with the concentration it took to perfect the pretty, intricate handwriting, but I still loved it. And I loved the actual party; I can’t imagine a kid who wouldn’t love what was essentially an early Christmas with all their friends and family and presents and food galore. It’s excessive in the best possible way, with everyone dolled up and gorging themselves and getting drunk. Thinking about it sends a tingle of excitement rushing through my blood, but it’s tainted by anxiety. Deja vu washes over me as I weigh up my choices—or lack thereof.
I won’t be able to avoid anyone like I did over Thanksgiving. Everyone will be milling around the house and completely inescapable. Imagining everyone staring at me, whispering, knowing, makes bile bubble up in the back of my throat, causes phantom pangs to erupt in the knee that’s long since healed, incites unwanted memories of the worst months of my life.
But… I can’t not go. I can’t expect my dad not to go when I’m the reason he’s been apart from them for so long. I can’t take the kindness they’re showing me and throw it back in their faces. Again.
Pasting on a brave face, I nudge Cass’ thigh with my foot. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
My brother groans as his head falls back. “Thank fuck. I swear to God, they’re so fucking without you.” A heavy hand lands on my head as he ruffles my hair, affectionate but annoying. “Don’t worry. I’ll save you if it gets too much. And Nick will be there if you need a distraction.”
Oh, Cassie. You have no freaking idea.
