Chapter 58
“Well…” His eyebrows pinch together, and I find myself fighting the urge to reach out and smooth the newfound creases forming on his face. “In any other context, I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t subject myself to an uncomfortable dinner over mediocre steak. I wouldn’t risk an even more uncomfortable conversation with my parents just so I could fly here –” He pauses to swat at a fly that’s dangerously close to landing on my shoulder. “A place that seems to be teeming with bugs in the dead of winter. And the worst tattoos I’ve ever seen in my life. And far too many Confederate flags. I wouldn’t do any of these things if it weren’t for you.” He shakes his head. “It’s like an…impulse. I need to know everything about you. I need to see where you’ve grown up. I need to see your family. I need to see every single part of your life – past and present – till I’m sure I know you better than you know yourself. It’s not a want. I have to.”
His eyes radiate as much intensity as his words, and I open my mouth to respond.
Then close it.
And open it again.
This feels just like it did a few nights ago when he was standing in my bedroom, confessing how out-of-control he felt around me.
Well, that’s what this is, isn’t it?
He’s grasping for control. For understanding. For knowledge.
If he can put me together like a puzzle, he’ll know exactly how to pick me apart, too.
The rational side of me wants to fault him for it. People might be puzzles to solve, but the pieces are meant to be given freely. One by one. And only with time.
You don’t take them. You don’t fly across the country, so you can add a few more to your collection. You don’t force family affairs just for a little more perspective.
But I don’t really have room to talk either.
It wasn’t so long ago that I was the one grasping for control, for understanding, for enough knowledge that I’d be able to solve Adrian. And those pieces weren’t given freely either.
“What if…” I take a deep breath. “What if some of my parts aren’t meant to be examined up close and personal?”
His tone’s a mixture of curiosity and amusement. “What kind of parts are we talking about here, sweetheart?”
“Ugly parts,” I admit. “The kind of ugly you don’t even want to look at. Like so ugly you can’t even bring yourself to sympathize with them.”
I can’t name the emotion that flickers through his eyes, but his voice drops to a murmur that trickles like water down my spine. “Do you think I’m afraid of ugliness?”
My breath catches. “Isn’t everyone? At least a little bit.”
“Do my ugly parts scare you?” There’s that edge to his voice again – the one that makes me feel like I’m in one of those cartoons, a piano hanging over my head, and one wrong word from getting crushed to smithereens.
“I don’t know.” There’s no hesitation in my answer. “I can’t say that I’ve seen them all.”
If I haven’t shown all my cards, I doubt Adrian has either.
And I’d be naive to think what happened with Mickey is all he’s capable of.
For a beat, he says nothing – only stares like he’s trying to look through me, not at me, and then quietly: “You will. Just as I’ll see all of yours.”
Dread curls a knot in my stomach, but it’s not from fear of seeing his ugliness – it’s of him seeing mine.
***
The chophouse that Adrian makes reservations at doesn’t require a private jet to access, but it’s still far fancier than anything I could’ve imagined.
It’s a stately old building nestled in the beating heart of Mobile’s downtown, with forest green furnishings, large windows, and a crystal chandelier that reminds me of rainfall.
There’s a lot of whispering amongst the staff when Adrian gives his name, but a minute later, and we’re seated on a plush green couch in a private room, an “on the house” bottle of red wine from the year 2002 waiting at our table.
I’m already feeling woozy.
“Look at that dress,” Mom gapes from the other side of the booth. “Now I know you didn’t have that hangin’ in your closet.”
I rub the back of my neck. “No, it was a Christmas present from Adrian, actually.” I leave out that the sleeveless black cocktail dress I’m wearing also happens to be vintage Dior.
The fabric hugs my hips like a second skin, but it’s got the same hand-stitched durability I’ve come to expect from designer clothes – and exactly what I’m going to need tonight.
This dress is the closest thing I’ve got to a suit of armor.
“Ain’t that sweet,” Mom gushes, “It’s gorgeous, honey. In fact, I’d probably be houndin’ you to borrow it if I thought it’d fit me.” She chuckles and turns to Adrian. “I’ve been an extra-small my whole life. Only time I wasn’t was when I was pregnant with Poppy here. Poor girl got her father’s hips though. We haven’t been able to trade clothes since she was thirteen.”
And there it is.
The backhanded compliment I knew was coming the moment I sat down in this dress.
I suppose it’s a good thing she didn’t see my red-bottomed shoes. She’d aim for my foot size next.
Fortunately, a few days in a luxurious hotel and away from my mother has left me feeling equipped to handle whatever she’ll try and throw at me tonight.
I muster my brightest smile. “You look nice tonight, Mom.”
She’s chosen an olive green sweater dress that’s even more form-fitting than mine – no doubt one of her “fancy outfits” normally reserved for first dates and new boyfriends.
Rick’s also been stuffed into a suit jacket that must be at least a decade or two old, given the way his burly shoulders are nearly busting out of the seams.
His sour expression brings me more satisfaction than it probably should.
“You both look beautiful,” Adrian cuts in smoothly, an arm thrown lazily over the back of the booth. “I can see where Poppy gets her looks from. To be honest, at first glance, I thought you two might’ve been sisters.”
Mom throws her head back and laughs like it’s a joke – but even across the table, I can tell she’s secretly pleased by the compliment. “You really are a charmer,” she teases. “But you’re not the first to think so. When I was younger, I’d walk Poppy ‘round in a stroller and people would stop me on the street, asking where our mother was. Even got mistaken for twins once.”
I have to bite my tongue to keep from retorting that we’ve never been mistaken for twins.
“And even when she was older,” Mom continues, and I realize that I probably should’ve warned Adrian that Mom’s never-ending youth is her favorite topic. “Nobody would believe me when I’d tell ‘em I was a mother. Not even Rick when we first met.”
I’m thankful for the waiter who drops by to describe the specials – a six-ounce wagyu and whitefish caught this morning – if only to disrupt Mom’s tangent.
“You know, I’m very curious, Mae,” Adrian says as he pours a little bit of red wine into everyone’s glass. Mom tracks the movement, but doesn’t say a word. “About how you two met. I understand you’ve been together for quite some time.”
And here’s Mom’s second favorite topic: her blossoming love story with Rick.
It’s almost concerning how quickly he’s figured her out. Not that Mae Davis is hard to charm as long as you’re working with a Y-chromosome, but still.
I think some part of me was hoping that…