Truly(78)
“To New York.” She clinked her stein against his. “And to the future. Let’s not fuck it up as badly as we’ve fucked up the past.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
So they did. The afternoon slid away along with the beam of light she sat in, traveling down the bench and then falling to the ground, working its way across the yard. They ate pickles and potato pancakes, finished their pitcher, and swapped stories from back home. The best games they’d seen at Lambeau. Terrible dates. Disastrous proms. He turned around eventually and put his arm over her shoulder, and she leaned into his chest, tipping her head back now and then to meet his eyes.
He kissed her upside down.
“Can I take you home now?”
“Please,” she said. And she smiled.
Tomorrow, she would leave. But tonight, she belonged to him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
His phone rang as they mounted the interminable steps to his apartment. Ben didn’t recognize the number, so he handed it to May. “For you?”
She looked. “Probably.” She answered the call. “Hello?” Then a pause, and she shrieked, “Allie!”
Her sister. Ben nudged past her and hustled up the last flight of stairs so he could have the door open before she reached the top. She was tired. On the subway, she’d looked like she might fall asleep.
She came in behind him as he was dropping his jacket over the arm of the couch. He cracked the window, waved her into a seat, and fixed a couple glasses of ice water, sitting one on the coffee table in front of her as she reassured her sister that she was fine, and she’d sort out her ID quandary tomorrow morning.
It was difficult to avoid listening in. The apartment was small, and she was talking about him.
“His last name is Hausman,” she said. “No.” Pause. “No.” Long pause. “No! Jeez, Allie, how dumb do you think I am?” Pause. “Yes.” Pause. “Well, yes, but it’s not—”
And then she stopped for a second, broke into a huge grin, and threw her head back and laughed.
He had to look at something else. The sight of May laughing gave him wood, and it didn’t help that he had a strong suspicion she was talking to her sister about having sex with him.
He’d heard her Please all the way home. The throaty, sexy sound of her voice when she was turned on. How soft her skin was. Her breasts, holy fuck.
Stop, he told himself, but it was useless.
“No,” she said, “it is like that, but I’m fine.” Pause. “No, I haven’t.” Pause. “Not yet.”
She wriggled out of her sweater. She crossed her foot over her knee and leaned down to tug off her boot—a position that pulled down the scooped neckline of her T-shirt and gave him an eyeful of the breasts he’d been trying not to think about. His empty hands curled into fists, and he stood staring until she looked up, raised her eyebrows, and laughed again. “Yep. That’s exactly what I meant.” Pause. “Duly noted.” Pause. “Nope. I’ve got this under control.”
She was definitely talking about having sex with him. She peeled off her socks and flexed her bare toes.
Ben walked into the bedroom, where he threw some dirty clothes in the hamper. Were the sheets clean? He tried to remember, but he couldn’t think, because she kept bending over in his head, and he wanted to peel her shirt off more than he wanted to draw breath.
He turned down the covers instead and remembered that May had slept in the bed last night, and these were the sheets he’d put on for her. They were fine.
Leave the covers folded over, or smooth them flat? What would look least presumptuous?
Why was he being such a tool?
Her voice carried down the hall. “How am I supposed to know? Don’t you think if I had any idea what to say to Mom, I would have called her myself?”
Pause.
“Well, I guess if you have to tell her something, tell her whatever seems easiest, and I’ll sort it out after I get home.”
Longer pause.
“Right. So are you guys having fun? How’s Matty?” Pause. “What do you mean, Dan’s there?”
He was halfway to the living room when he realized what he was doing and stopped short.
Leave it alone, Ben. None of your business.
May glanced at him. He grimaced and then, for lack of any better ideas, opened the fridge.
He needed to cook something.
He didn’t have any groceries.
Run. He’d go for a run. Five miles would beat some of this restlessness from him, give him his discipline back, and May could finish her phone call and deal with whatever implications arose as a result of fucking Thor having flown to fucking Michigan in pursuit of her.
And that fucking pisses you off.