“Oh. Hi,” she says.
“Bree, I don’t think you’ve met my brother,” Mom says. “This is Anthony. I’ve invited him to have dinner with us tonight.”
Bree smiles. “I think I’ve seen you come by a few times.”
She extends her hand to Anthony, and he takes it in a grip that looks more like he’s going to kiss it than shake it.
“It’s very nice to meet you,” he says. “May I escort you to the table?”
Anthony has never escorted anyone or anything in his life. I watch after him in surprised amusement, but when I catch Talon staring at me again, my smile slips.
My mother mercifully lets us get all the way through the salad and has our plates overflowing with mushroom ravioli and creamy sauce before she turns the conversation on Talon.
“I hear you are involved in the play,” she says with that encouraging type of smile only mothers can manage, their eyebrows rising halfway up their foreheads and their eyes widening to an almost frightening point.
That’s one of those things I wonder if they teach new mothers during pregnancy. Maybe there’s a whole seminar where women getting ready to have children learn the big facial expressions and classic mom phrases they’ll need to use to rear their young. If there is, my mother aced it and could probably teach. I may be an only child, but that just means all the focus that could be spread out across a bunch of children falls squarely on me.
“Yes,” Talon nods. “I’m working with the crew.”
“He’s working on the sets,” Bree specifies.
“Building them?” my father asks.
“Painting, mostly,” Talon tells him. “We haven’t gotten to the construction portion yet. But I certainly hope we do soon, or A Midsummer Night’s Dream is going to take on a whole new meaning with the stage looking completely draped in painted blankets.”
It’s an insult against Matilda and the rest of the crew, but the adults don’t catch it. They just hear the charm of his rolling Georgia accent and laugh. I toss him a scathing look across the table.
“And you, Wren? How is the dancing coming?” Bree asks.
“It’s coming along well. Samantha has been doing a great job with the choreography this year,” I tell her.
“I sure have been seeing a lot of her this week,” Bree says, her eyes sliding over to Talon. “Seems like she’s been at the house more than she has been at work.”
“Twice,” Talon specifies. “It’s not like she moved in.”
There’s a sharp edge to his voice, but his aunt isn’t deterred. My mother looks over at me, questioningly.
“Wren, you didn’t mention that Samantha is dating Talon,” she says.
“I didn’t realize they are,” I say.
“We aren’t dating,” Talon says firmly.
Bree smiles around her fork full of ravioli.
“No,” she says. “Talon doesn’t date. He’s been very clear on that.”
She gives my mom the cringe-worthy wink wink, nudge nudge smile adults like to give each other as if no one around them can see it. Apparently, you don’t even have to be a mother to learn that particular skill. Mom smiles back at her.
“Of course, not,” she says.
That’s about all I can take. I stand up and step away from the table.
“If you’ll excuse me for just a second,” I say and head toward the kitchen.
There’s nothing in here I need, but it’s the closest room that will let me put a door between me and the rest of the gathering, particularly the vicious blue eyes I can still feel on my skin. Opening the freezer, I shove my head inside and take a breath of the icy mist.
10
Talon
I find Wren in the kitchen with her head stuffed in the freezer.
“Getting some fresh air?” I ask.
She reaches into the freezer and steps back, slamming the door.
“I was just getting some ice,” she tells me.
I look down at the handful of cubes in her palm and narrow my eyes at her.
“For the glass of water in there that already has ice in it?” I raise an eyebrow.
She lets out an exasperated sound and walks over to the sink, dumping the cubes down, so they bounce loudly on the steel. I hold a hand towel from the bar on the front of the oven door and bring it over to her. She takes it and dabs at the cold puddles of water on her skin. Even that very brief time in contact with the ice left her hand red, and I felt a compulsion to close mine over it.
“Is something bothering you?” I ask.
“Why would you care?” she asks.
“Call it morbid curiosity. It seems like them talking about Samantha got you pretty well worked up in there.”
“I don’t care what you do or who you do it with. It’s just strange for me to deal with my closest friend dating my next-door neighbor.”
I look at her pointedly. “I am not dating Samantha.”
“Then whatever it is you’re doing with her. It’s not exactly comfortable for me to think about her being with anybody, but especially somebody like you.”
I tilt my head at her. “Why, especially me?”
“I didn’t say, especially you. I said, especially somebody like you,” she emphasizes.
I take another step and close more of the space between us. “I don’t think that’s what you meant.”
“I don’t care what you think I meant. It doesn’t matter to me what you do.”
“Then why are you getting so worked up about it?” I ask.
“You can do whatever you want,” she answers.
Her voice has lowered, and her breath seems to stay in her chest.
“Really?” I murmur.
“Why should it matter to me? I have a boyfriend.”
She’s trying to move away from me, but with each step she takes back, I take one forward. It pushes her up against the counter, her waist pressing up against the side, so she reaches back and grasps onto it with her hands. I’m just inches from her now. I ease a little closer.
“And if you didn’t?” I ask.
She swallows. “What do you mean?”
“If you didn’t have a boyfriend, would it matter to you?” I ask.
I brush her hair back over her shoulder, letting the backs of my fingers linger on her skin for just a second. It’s long enough to feel her tremble.
“That’s not a question I can answer,” she stammers. She’s trying to sound strong and unaffected, but the heat coming from her body doesn’t lie.
“Why not?” I ask.
“Because I can’t imagine my life without having Isaiah. We’ve been together for five years and are committed to each other. Something I can’t imagine you understand. There’s no way I can put myself in a position of pretending I’m not with him.”
“I don’t believe you,” I say.
My chest comes closer to hers as I lean down toward her neck, letting my breath trail along her skin. I’m close enough for my belt buckle to brush across her dress. Her breath comes out of her lungs in a shuddering stream as she presses back harder against the counter.