But then the urge fluttered away, as quickly as it had appeared. That was her mother talking. Not her. If he wanted to…do that, he could. It didn’t hurt you—or so she’d half overheard on some radio program she shouldn’t have been listening to on the bus. And it didn’t make you violent, the way drinking could.
Which was more than a bonus, in her book. Let it make him goofy and hungry for junk food. She had cookies in the cupboard, if he desperately needed to eat them all in a big rush.
Of course, none of these thoughts helped her slide back the patio door. Only Van’s gaze did that, when he seemed suddenly sensible of her presence and turned his head, to stare at her through the glass.
God, why did he have to be so handsome? Because she recognized now that he was—incredibly, impossibly handsome. He hid it well beneath the tattoos and the hair dye and the mildly illegal behavior, but it shone out of him anyway.
Those eyes, that mouth, the way he carried himself. So still and calm, as though nothing in the world could move him to aggression. It made her feel still and calm inside. It made her reach for the door handle and slide out into the night.
“Evie,” he said, just like before. Only this time it had a note of regret in it, and as she approached, the hand that held the little smoking stub dropped below the line of the fence.
Like maybe he wanted her to see, but just for a second. Any more, and perhaps she wouldn’t be able to take it.
Only then he said, “You’re early.” Which completely reframed the entire scenario. It made her think of the first and second time they’d encountered each other, and how much of his relaxedness was to do with his personality.
Maybe he needed a little help to be this laid back. The way her mother needed help to not bang on windows and freak out over throw cushions, shortly before passing out on the chaise lounge.
“I didn’t know we had a set time to meet,” she said, then immediately wanted to take it back. It sounded too jagged, too like an accusation—and even worse, it implied something about their relationship.
It implied their actually was a relationship. They met-up. They did things together like swap iPods, even though she had no iPod to give. She had nothing to give him, nothing at all.
“I’ll put it out,” he said, and though she tried to tell him that she hadn’t meant it in a nasty sort of way, she could see it was too late. They’d reverted right back to their default state—horrid drug addict and scared virgin.
Lord, how she longed to be something other than a scared virgin.
“Don’t. Don’t. It’s okay. I trust you.” She swallowed. Tried to rephrase the words into something that made sense. “I mean, I trust that you wouldn’t do anything bad.”
Somehow that sounded even worse than her first attempt. And he had one eyebrow raised too, so she knew she’d made a god-awful mess.
“I don’t know how to say what I’m actually trying to say,” she said, and though that seemed like the absolute pinnacle of idiocy, he visibly relaxed on hearing it. His eyebrow went back down again, and when she continued rambling his shoulders dropped. “I just know that the music was really…it was really amazing. It’s probably the coolest thing anyone’s ever done for me, so I’m not going to suspect you of being enthralled to Satan or coked out on goofballs.”
“I don’t think that’s a real thing.”
“No, I don’t either. But I feel phrases like that will give you some measure of what you’re dealing with here. I am a person who knows almost nothing about anything.”
“Don’t you think it’s dangerous?”
“What’s dangerous?”
“To know almost nothing about anything but trust me all the same.”
She studied his great, still face. His steady gaze, the way the corners of his mouth seemed to turn just a touch inward.
“Well, I suppose I could go on like this. Never risk anything. Never put my faith in anyone.”
A line of pain appeared, right down the middle of his face.
“I take it back,” he said, as he glanced away at nothing. “Don’t ever be like that.”
She reached forward for the bolt on the gate. Drew it back, then swung the whole thing open for him.
“You want to come in?”
He looked as though he did, but for a moment he hesitated. The smoking thing was still between his fingers, she could tell, and he seemed caught between putting it out and asking her permission and a million other things she couldn’t name.
She had to say to him, instead, “Just come in. We can sit on the porch.”
But even such a tiny thing proved somehow difficult. The steps were too small for him, for a start. His legs looked like immense triangles, once he’d sat down and folded them almost in two.