“I’d like that,” I say.
“You want help carrying everything?” he asks.
I turn around, glancing at my door then back at him. “No, it’s okay.”
Breathing out, I smile and move toward the curb, but his hand hooks my arm and he pulls me back, closer to him. Without saying a word, Ace kisses me.
In broad daylight.
In the streets of Manhattan.
For all the world to see.
And he doesn’t just kiss me – he kisses me hard.
Every part of me hopes it won’t be our last, but I know better than to get my hopes up.
I lick my lips, letting his taste linger on my tongue, and I watch him drive away. Lugging my bags up to my apartment, I realize I forgot the antique jewelry box in his truck. On our way back this afternoon, we stopped at this charming little town called Walnut Creek and popped into this antique shop on the corner called The Yellow Elephant.
It was there I found this little oval trinket box. It had a glass top and little gold filigree legs and little jade cameos all around it. Ace thought it was ugly, and I almost bought it just to spite him, but when I saw the price tag on the back, I realized there was no way in hell I could afford it. The cost was more than one month’s rent here, so I put it back and continued browsing.
When we got back in the car a little while later, Ace produced it from his pocket.
He’d bought it for me when I wasn’t looking, that scoundrel.
I sigh, sticking my key in the lock of my door. I’ll have to get it from him another time.
Twenty-Five
Ace
* * *
ARE YOU HOME?
I’m woken from my afternoon nap by a text message from Aidy. It’s Wednesday, and it’s been three whole days since I last saw her. Three whole days of replaying our weekend together on a loop in my mind. Three whole days of thinking about the way she kissed my lips, how soft her skin felt beneath my palms, and how sweet her taste was on my tongue.
I’m officially a pathetic, lust-sick puppy dog.
I’m not sure what kind of spell she cast on me, but whatever it is, it’s working.
I haven’t thought about Kerenza all week, and that’s a record.
I pull the blanket off me and rise, reading her text message again, my eyes bleary. Rising, I head to the bathroom, take a piss, and then grab a bottle of water. Firing back a response within seconds would make me look like some lame loser. And maybe I am one. But she doesn’t need to know.
I even stop at the laundry room in the hallway and throw in a load of whites.
When it’s been at least ten minutes, I fire one off and let her know that yes, I am in fact home.
She replies within seconds: CAN I STOP BY?
The doorbell rings fifteen minutes later, and Aidy stands on the other side of my door, her makeup case in one hand and her other one gripping the strap of the purse on her shoulder.
“Hey,” she says, smiling sweetly. “I was in the area for work. Thought I’d stop by and get that jewelry box I left in the rental truck last weekend?”
Well, fuck me. She wasn’t coming by to hang out or because she wanted to see me.
“Right,” I say. “Yeah. It’s upstairs. Come on in.”
We climb the stairs, Aidy yapping away about some client who demanded peacock blue eyeshadow despite Aidy’s professional attempts to sway her in a different direction.
“What have you been up to all week?” she asks, leaning on my kitchen island.
She looks pretty today, though she always does. But today her hair’s a little brighter, like she maybe just had it done. And her makeup is different. Then again, it’s always different. Every time I see her, she looks a little bit like somebody else. She’s like those fireworks over the lake last weekend, the ones that were every color all at once. You can’t pin Aidy Kincaid down. You can’t pigeonhole her into one particular type of anything.
“Had an interview with the New York Times,” I say.
“No shit?”
“Yeah. Apparently since I co-hosted Smack Talk, they think I’m preparing for my big return.”
“What’d you tell them?”
“I told them what they wanted to hear. That I’ll always be a ballplayer at heart, but pitching’s out of the question for me,” I say. “Then they wanted to know what’s next for me.”
“What was your answer?”
“Honestly? I have no fucking clue what’s next for me. But I may have shot myself in the foot with that one.”
“Why’s that?”
“I told them they’d have to wait and see.”
“Oooh.” Aidy’s mouth inches up in the corners. “You baited them. You left them with a cliffhanger. Now you have to do something really exciting.”
I drag my hand down my face, tugging at the smooth, unfamiliar skin beneath it. I’m still not used to being clean-shaven, and most of the time I feel completely naked, but decided last weekend that I had to kiss Aidy again. I had to have her again.
And besides, it’s only hair. It’ll grow back.
Aidy’s eyes fall to the jagged scar across my left cheek. It’s shaped like a crooked lightning bolt and it’s still pink. Maybe a quarter of an inch thick and slightly raised. Hair doesn’t grow there anymore, of course, but the beard always did a fine job hiding it.
Now it’s out in the open bright as day, its ruddiness like an invitation for the rest of the world to stare.
“I like your scar,” Aidy says. It’s the first time she’s mentioned it since I shaved.
“What?” I squint, holding my palm over it.
“It gives you this edge. Makes you look badass,” she says. “Because without it, you’re kind of a pretty boy. No offense. But you’re really, really good looking, and, like, you’re still hot with the scar, don’t get me wrong, but it just gives you a little something extra.”
“Thanks.”
“Look, I deal with people every single day who have physical insecurities,” she says. “There’s not one person in this world who loves every single feature on their face, and if they do, it’s probably because they’re some genetically modified Frankenbeauty from the plastic surgery capital of the world.”
Chuffing, I pull up a bar stool and take a seat.
“People find all kinds of things to hate about themselves. Big noses. Eyes that are too close together. Eyes that are too far apart. Flat chins. Big foreheads. No cheekbones. Too much cheekbone. Too short. Too tall. Straight hair. Wavy hair. Curly hair. The list goes on.” Aidy rolls her eyes, sighing. “People don’t realize, if you love yourself and accept yourself for who you are, all those insecurities eventually fade away.”
“Says the makeup artist who can make them go away.”
“Makeup isn’t supposed to hide,” I say. “It’s supposed to accentuate. Anyway, you made me go off on a tangent. Thanks a lot. Back to your scar.”
I blow a hard breath past my lips. “All right. What about it?”
“You’re hot, but the scar makes you even hotter,” she says. “Walk around and own that scar. Screw the past. Screw the accident that stole your career. Screw whatever the hell that scar reminds you of.”