Unspoken(42)
“Mal,” Bo called, “where’s Adam?”
“He’s playing.”
“Wait, speak of the devil,” Finn said as another roommate came strolling in through the French doors separating the patio from the living space.
Bo introduced us and Adam, all tattoos and wild hair, wandered into the kitchen, where he proceeded to make another sandwich. Adam’s efforts to open the mayo were brief. A few twists and the defective jar was returned to the refrigerator shelf. He ate his sandwich in about three gulps and disappeared from whence he came.
“One more,” Bo said, sounding confident. Noah came in with a pretty girl with long brown hair. Noah introduced her as his girlfriend, Grace, and handed Bo a grocery bag with a small mayo jar.
“Thanks,” Bo said. He got up and took the old jar out, put it on the counter, and put the new jar in the refrigerator.
Noah picked up the tampered jar of mayo and held it toward Bo. “What the hell? This thing is totally full. Why’d I have to get a new jar?”
Bo shrugged and said, “It’s broken.”
Noah gave him a questioning look and Bo elaborated. “No one could open it.”
Noah shook his head in disgust, and I think muttered something like pussies or pansies under his breath. He took the jar and proceeded to try to twist the top off. Noah, like Bo, was ripped. His muscles have muscles, and they all stood out in relief as he twisted the jar cap. Finally he gave up and threw it in the trash.
Bo turned to me. “Four out of four.”
Chapter Fourteen
AM
THE NEXT DAY BO AND I made plans to meet at the museum to start the second lab experiment. The time we were spending together was intoxicating. The ride home from his house after the mayonnaise experiment was fraught with sexual tension. If his long game was getting me so worked up that I’d attack him, it was a good plan. Part of me wanted to rip his clothes off right there in the parking lot. Another part wanted desperately to invite him up to my bedroom. I’m not sure how I got out of the car without so much as a kiss.
Our sleepover seemed like a distant memory, and I was confused about what was going on between us. I knew he enjoyed spending time with me. We hardly went a day without seeing each other or e-mailing. Bo would even text me, despite his previously mentioned distaste for it.
When he suggested the museum, the “yes” came out of my mouth so fast that I think it surprised us both.
On my drive down to the museum, my phone rang, and I answered it. “What’s up?” I’d turned down a ride with Bo, afraid of what I’d do to him if we were alone in his car once again.
“AnnMarie, are you driving?” my mother said reprovingly. The background noise of the road must have seeped through the phone.
“You called me,” I pointed out.
“I’ll make this short because you shouldn’t be driving and talking on your phone. Are you driving with one hand? You know that’s unsafe.”
“You’re extending my unsafe period by continuing to talk to me,” I teased.
“Yes, yes, well, I spoke with Ellie’s mother at the supermarket today and she mentioned that Ellie and you are planning a trip over spring break. Is that true?”
I grimaced. I knew what was coming, and it was the very reason that Ellie and I were planning on doing something this year over spring break, but I wasn’t ready to discuss the issue with my mom.
“It’s too early to think about spring break,” I lied, ignoring the tug on my conscience.
“Darling, you know your father wants to see you. He mentioned something about Italy this year, and you know he didn’t get to see you much over the holidays.”
“Whose fault is that?” I couldn’t keep the bitterness out of my voice.
A small pause skipped by as my mother swallowed whatever retort she wanted to make and instead replied gently, “I’m sorry.”
I immediately regretted my lack of restraint. It wasn’t my mother who deserved my venom. She’d suffered enough, and she didn’t need me to add to it.
“No, I’m sorry,” I apologized. No one can make you feel lower quicker than your mother. “But I plan to spend spring break with my friends this year.” I could almost hear her biting her lip in dismay. “I’ll come home the weekend before, though. You can tell Roger that.”
I’d never called him Dad, and he’d never asked me to. My mother took all her cues from him, and for the most part, so did I. Roger’s appearances in my life were infrequent albeit regular, a week after Christmas, around spring break, and a few weekends in the summer. I hated upsetting her, and any harsh word against Roger upset her. She would never say this out loud to me. Instead, she would gently urge me to take what little scraps of affection he threw out, like she did.