“Does your beard serve some kind of purpose?”
“Yeah. Kind of,” I say.
Aidy tilts her head. “What purpose could it possibly be serving you? It’s July. You don’t live in the mountains. You’re devilishly handsome. What does this beard do besides make you look closed off and angry and hide that incredible smile of yours I think I’ve seen all of one time since we met?”
I know damn well I don’t smile much, but in my defense, I didn’t smile much before either. Kerenza was constantly saying it was the only thing she never understood about me. Why would a man, who had every reason in the world to be smiling, refuse to do so? I had the career of my dreams. The woman of my dreams. The home of my dreams. The entire world was at my fingertips.
I never could give her a straight answer that went beyond the fact that I’m not a bubbly and effervescent person. It’s just not how I was made. Maybe I’m too serious. Too intense. Maybe I live too hard and love too hard.
It’s how I’ve always been. I’m wired this way. I don’t think I could change if I tried, and I’m not even sure I want to.
I wear my personality like a coat of armor. It works for me. Always has.
“There’s a scar on my left cheek,” I say, keeping it brief and to the point. “The beard hides it.”
Aidy sits back, expression softening. “Oh, that’s all?”
I chuff, finishing the last of my breakfast. “Yep. That’s all.”
“Is it from your accident?”
I should’ve known she was going to ask questions.
“It is,” I say.
“I’m sure it’s not that bad.”
My eyes flick into hers. “Don’t feel like staring at it every day.”
“What happened?” she asks carefully. “With your accident?”
Exhaling hard, I stand and carry my plate to the sink. “I thought you Googled it.”
“I did,” she says. “But you know how those articles are, mostly speculation mixed in with details they yanked from the accident report.”
Standing at the sink, my back to her, I debate giving her the cold hard truth. Telling her where I was going that night and why I was going there and what I was going to do once I got there. Not a day goes by that I don’t regret getting in the car that night.
My body burns from the inside out, my breath growing ragged.
And then I feel the warmth of her palm on the back of my shoulder. “It’s okay. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”
Aidy sits her plate on top of mine in the sink and then slinks away.
“Want to go canoeing today?” she asks.
My shoulders relax, and I turn her way. “Yeah.”
Our eyes catch and she smiles.
“Good,” she says. “I’ll go change.”
Twenty-Three
Aidy
* * *
“Why didn’t you tell me there was an entire closet of board games in the hallway?” I plop down on the sofa beside Ace Saturday evening, a box in my lap with SORRY! across the lid.
“Oh, yeah. Those. One of my brothers left those here a few years back.”
“Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve played this game? We have to play this.”
“We can’t,” he says.
My smile fades. “Why not?”
“Because I’m extremely competitive,” he says. “And I always win. And I don’t want you to feel bad when you get your ass kicked in SORRY!”
“Ha. SORRY! is my game, Mr. Baseball Man,” I say. “I believe you’re sorely mistaken if you think you’re going to beat me at my own game. I can’t allow it. I just can’t. And I won’t. Maybe you should stick to things you’re good at, like knowing sports trivia . . . and . . . looking hot.”
We went canoeing this morning after breakfast, and somewhere between the middle of the lake and the end of the lake, I received a lesson in Baltimore Firebirds team history.
“That’s all I am to you?” he scoffs. “A hot athlete with a head full of useless facts?”
“Pretty much.” I shrug, pulling the lid off the box and placing the contents on the coffee table in front of us. “I’m red. You’re blue.”
“I want to be red,” he says. “I’m a Firebird. I’m supposed to be red.”
I like this side of him. It’s like I’ve unearthed this playful facet of Ace that I never knew existed. For that, I’ll let him be red.
“Fine,” I say, pretending it upsets me more than it does. “I’ll be green. Because by the time we’re done, you’re going to be green with envy, wishing you had my SORRY! skills.”
An hour later, we’ve played four games.
I won the first.
He won the second.
And the third.
I won the fourth.
And now we’re halfway through our tie-breaking lightning round.
We’re neck and neck, each of us waiting to get our last piece to our home spots.
This could be anyone’s game, and I’ve never been so vested. I’ve chewed my left thumbnail to the quick and I haven’t so much as taken my eyes off the board in the last fifteen minutes.
Ace flips the card from the top of the deck and gets a reverse four.
“Ha!” I say, pointing my finger in his face as he moves his red pawn four spots back.
He groans, kneading his hands together before popping his knuckles. He licks his lips, the very ones I’ve been dying to kiss all day and have refused to on account of he hasn’t shaved that monstrosity from his face yet.
He even tried earlier, after we returned from the dock. Ace pressed me against the wall by the back door, a sweet homage to the previous night, and cupped my face in his hand. The look in his eyes when I tsk-tsked him was priceless, but I’m hoping my persuasion will pay off in the near future.
I take my turn and pull a ten, which puts me in the safe zone.
“Home sweet home,” I say.
“You still have three spots yet,” he says. “Which means you’ll need a one and a two. Good luck to you.”
Rolling my eyes, I square my shoulders and give him a fierce look despite the fact that I know he’s right. The odds are stacked against me now, especially since he just pulled a twelve and landed himself in his own personal safe zone. He needs a two. That’s it. And then he’ll win our little tournament and all my big talk earlier will have been for nothing.
I flip the next card. A seven. I can’t split it with any other pawns because they’re already home, so I stay put.
Ace flips another card. An eight, rendering his turn pointless.
My next card is a two, and I all but fly off the couch, I’m so happy. He reaches for the deck, but I swat his hand away.
“I get another turn, remember?” I remind him, rubbing my palms together. Closing my eyes, I press my prayered hands against my forehead.
“What are you doing?”
“Saying a prayer to the SORRY! gods,” I say, carefully opening my eyes.
“Pft.” He blows a breath through his lips and rests his elbows on his knees.
Reaching for my hopefully last and final card, I drag my fingertips across the top and flip it over slowly.