Page 14 of The List
The question hits me like a kick to the solar plexus. I shake my head, buying myself time to find my voice. “No. Kaitlyn and I don’t see each other anymore.”
Junie frowns. I can tell she’s trying to digest this. We’ve had this conversation before, and she hasn’t seen Kaitlyn for two years. Or Paula. Or Britney. Or any of the other girlfriends I introduced to her years ago. Back when I thought happily-ever-after might be a real option for me, and that women I formed relationships with weren’t just after my money.
I was a dumbass.
“We’re going to have a lot of fun at the beach,” I tell Junie instead. “Just the two of us. No girlfriends.”
The idea seems to please her, and she smiles. “We can hunt for agates,” she says.
“And we’ll have clam chowder at Mo’s.”
“Yummy!” She grins. “I have the date written down on my calendar.”
She does, too. I saw it earlier, along with the dates she’s scheduled to work at Hot Swap’s Gresham location this coming week. I’m so fucking proud of my sister sometimes I feel like jumping up on the porch rail and crowing about it.
“Okay, then,” I tell her. “I have to go now. You have a good week. And thanks for the lunch date.”
“Thanks for the sweatshirt. I love you, Simon!”
“I love you, too.”
It’s the only time you’ll catch me saying those words, to anyone, ever. And when I hug my sister tightly, I feel the love with every fiber of my being.
I can still see her smiling and stroking the arms of the sweatshirt as I slide into my car parked at the curb outside the group home where she lives. Sarah comes out and sits beside Junie, and they both wave at me as I pull away with a big knot in my chest.
I wish things were different. I wish Junie didn’t have to struggle to do so many things other people take for granted. I wish our parents hadn’t died ten years ago. I wish I hadn’t learned the hard way that women only want to date the jet-setting millionaire and not the devoted brother who will always, always put his sister first.
I shake off my own funk as I pull out into traffic and glance at the clock. It’s just after three, and I’m not due at Cassie’s place until four. I could kill an hour getting some work done or stopping at the gym, but instead I pull into the parking lot of the flower shop on the corner of Burnside and buy the biggest bunch of daisies they have.
I know we’re not dating—not even close—but she deserves some damn flowers. Besides, I haven’t seen her since that first night. We’ve texted a lot, coordinating the details of our schedules and our plans for which item to tackle next. But I haven’t laid a hand on her for days, and I’m dizzy knowing I get to touch her again.
I leave my car in the parking garage two blocks away, feeling a small pang of guilt. It’s true I’d prefer it if she didn’t know I’m a guy who can afford a Mercedes CL65 coupe. A whole fleet of them, for that matter. Arming the women I date with that information has never gone well for me.
You’re not dating, I remind myself. Just fucking.
I like Cassie too much to see this end before it even really begins. There’s plenty of time to explain things later.
I ring the bell at Cassie’s place right on the dot at four. She opens the door, and it takes me a second to recognize her.
“You’re not wearing sweatpants,” I say lamely.
She rolls her eyes at me and pushes the door open wider, gesturing for me to come in. “Very observant, Einstein.”
“You’re also not naked,” I point out, studying her from head to toe as I step into her apartment and hand her the flowers.
“Thank you.”
She takes the flowers and strides into her tiny kitchen in a pair of strappy black heels that don’t make her wobble at all. She’s wearing a black skirt that’s tight, but not too tight. Green top made out of some sort of slippery material. Not silk, but I’ll bet it’s soft like that. My mouth starts to water, and I realize I’m gaping at her.
“What?” she says, whirling on her heel. I see a flicker of something in her expression—defensiveness? Self-consciousness?—and it occurs to me she’s a lot more nervous than she wants me to know.
I’m not sure why, but it makes me like her more.
“You look amazing,” I say.
“I do sometimes dress up, you know.” She runs her palm down the skirt, still clutching the flowers in one hand. “When I’m not doing fieldwork, sometimes I have to present my findings at university lectures. I know how to look girly when the occasion calls for it.”
I’m not sure where this bristliness is coming from, but I give her my best reassuring smile and lean against the kitchen counter. “I definitely don’t think you look girly.”
