We walk in the door, the warm air in the lobby whipping around us like a blanket, and I take everything in: the dark paneled walls, the white linen tablecloths already set with wine glasses, which shimmer under the glow of candlelight. Will squeezes my hand, knowing instinctively that my anxiety just grew by a mile.
The hostess is a girl about my age, maybe a little older, pretty and showing way too much cleavage. She sees us-or, I should say, she sees my boyfriend. She's looking at him like he's her winning lottery ticket. Will asks for a table and she gives him her widest smile, grabbing menus while she licks her lips and tugs her low-cut dress even lower.
We follow her through the restaurant, her hips swaying so much you'd think she was in a Shakira video, and then she leans over as she seats us, letting her cleavage spill forward, to ask Will if the table is okay. He absent-mindedly tells her it's fine, with a polite smile, but I shoot her a nasty look as she walks away.
He's watching me. "What's with the face?" he asks, grinning. "I know you don't want to be here but it's not her fault."
"Did you seriously not notice the way she was acting with you?" I demand. "She practically shoved her rack in your face."
He looks genuinely, adorably confused. "I didn't notice anything."
///
"I'm not sure how you failed to notice that."
He laughs, but it sounds slightly disgruntled. "It's about time you spent some time in my shoes."
I gasp. He's got to be kidding. How many times did I have to watch Jessica sitting in his lap or implying they'd just had sex? Showing up on the track in her fuck-me pumps and short skirt? "Your shoes? You're the one who had a girlfriend all fall!"
"I've put up with plenty, believe me," he says with a scowl, setting down the wine list.
I roll my eyes. "Is this about Brendan again? I already told you he was just acting like that to make you pull your head out of your ass. He's never laid a finger on me."
"I saw him lay a finger on you, remember?" Will asks, his face clouding. I really need to stop bringing that up. "And do you know how many fucking times I had to listen to Brofton hitting on you on the bus? Or the football team with that stupid song, sitting on the bleachers watching you come in from a run like it was a lingerie show? You're so used to it you don't even know it's happening."
I wave it away. "None of that meant anything."
"Just like that girl doing whatever she theoretically did means nothing. It meant so little that I didn't even see it."
He's right. The football players, Brofton-they barely registered because I only had eyes for Will. Is it so inconceivable that he might feel the same way?
"Maybe," I say reluctantly.
"Definitely," he replies, his mouth softening, a hint of laughter behind it.
I smile. "It's our first date and we're already arguing. That can't be good."
"I bet arguing with me made you feel right at home though, didn't it?" he asks with a low laugh.
And the funny thing is that it did. Neither of us are different here, as I feared we might be. He's the same guy who often annoys me and always thrills me, the same guy who can get me to undress with simply a look, and right now he's watching me across a candlelit table with a smile I've never seen him give anyone else.
"You're better now?" he asks.
"I am."
"Good," he says. "Because even if we're arguing, this is still the best first date I've ever had."
By the time our meal concludes, I feel all warm inside and relaxed from a glass of red wine and can't even remember why I was nervous about this. I love being here with Will, hearing his stories about climbing and about how unbelievably bad he was in high school. I love that I can watch him, take in the flash of his teeth when he laughs, the slow curve of his reluctant smile. And I love that beneath the table, my legs brush against his, and every time it happens he registers it with a look that makes me shudder in the best kind of way.
So I rub my leg against his, this time very, very intentionally. His eyelids lower ever so slightly and his mouth goes slack. I think about how many times I've seen that look on his face without realizing what it meant, that it's the look he has when he wants something and is doing his best to restrain himself. Except his restraint is no longer necessary. Thank God.
I kick off my shoe and lift the hem of his pants with my toes so I can run my foot along his bare skin. His eyes meet mine across the table, vivid in the dim light, and his mouth opens slightly as he exhales. He pushes his plate away and his glance falls to my mouth.
"Maybe we should get the check," he breathes.
By the time we reach the apartment, foreplay is completely unnecessary and even unwanted. He pushes my back against the wall just inside the door, his mouth landing on mine as he slides up my dress, his hands skimming my thighs.
"Oh God," he groans when his fingers slip between my legs.
I reach for his belt and undo it as we move toward the table. I'm not sure which of us is leading the other. There will be time for something slow and measured later, but that's not what either of us wants right now. He turns me so that I'm face down, and I remain there, breathless as I listen to the sound of his zipper sliding, feel him push against me and then into me with a groan of relief. He holds my hips in place, his thrusts quick and sharp, murmuring my name as he bends over to kiss the back of my neck. My back is damp, soaking through the dress and I don't care as he moves faster, as his words grow incoherent.
"Grab the table," he grunts, and then he pushes so hard that it feels as if my clinging hands are all that separate me from a long, hard fall. One more push, the table sliding across the floor, and I come.
///
He lets go with a hoarse cry, and when he's finally spent he lies over me, his front pressed against my back, his mouth buried in my neck. "I love you," he whispers. "God I love you so much."
I know that he does. And I know I love him so fiercely that words are inadequate. So fiercely that it will destroy me if he ever changes his mind.
Over break, Will begins taking groups out, mostly tourists in town for the holidays, skiers looking for a diversion though I can't imagine wanting to climb when it's so cold. But he comes home with a light in his eyes he never had when we first met. I attempt to cook, because it shouldn't fall entirely on him, and it's awful but he digs in anyway, asking for seconds. We go running, and when he tries to correct my turnover rate I bark, "You're not my coach anymore!". After a fair amount of bickering we decide that I will do what he asks if he promises to make it worth my while when we get home-an agreement that works out satisfactorily for us both.
He's happy.
I'm happy.
And then I talk to the police.
79
Olivia
It didn't take them long to figure out how my father got Sean's address. There was no endorsement offer from a Japanese shoe company. It was my father, using a fake email address, and I was an idiot to fall for it. They tell me he's being extradited to Kansas to stand trial for the murders of my brother and my mom. They also tell me that my years of not remembering probably saved my life because he'd have shown up a lot sooner otherwise.
And then they mention something in passing that leaves my stomach sinking like a heavy weight: my father's nickname was Finn.
It's the part of the conversation I don't want to tell Will later, but I do, and he sees in my face all the things I'm thinking. "It doesn't mean anything, Liv," he says immediately. "Lots of people have that nickname."
Except I've had time, too much time, to think this through. To look for and find all the staggering similarities between my father and myself.
"That nickname's not the only thing we have in common," I reply, staring at my hands, wondering what more they might be capable of.
Will's gaze pins me, and his voice is angry. "There's a world of difference between what you've done and what he's done. Don't you dare make that comparison."
I want to believe him.
But then I think of the look on Matthew's face when I agreed to dig that hole.
Second semester begins. Will climbs. Dorothy plans a wedding. I begin working with ECU's new female coach. She's good, but not as good as Will, who I run with on weekends now and actually listen to without demanding an incentive.
And we are happy, very happy, but all the while there is something festering-something I don't share with Will. The similarities between my father and me are sort of like a monster under the bed: I'm so scared of what I might find that I can't bring myself to look.