“But perhaps not everyone would have felt it.”
There’s a long silence until Ryder’s voice finally ruptures it. “Perhaps.”
“All right. I’ll stop making you use your feeling words. Thank you for rereading that. Now let’s pick up at the good part.”
“Right.” Ryder clears his throat.
I sit there longer than I should, listening to Darcy and Lizzie clear up the confusion, to Darcy’s second proposal. I eavesdrop, committing the very transgression I ripped Ryder a new asshole for, but I’m neck-deep in my hypocrisy, rooted to the spot. Ryder reads on, pausing for what sounds like a drink of water before he clears his throat. He reads through the Bennet family’s surprise at their engagement and my thoughts drift with the story. I’m lulled, content with this happy ending, until their dialogue, beginning with Lizzie’s words to Darcy, sends a cold sweat trickling down my spine.
“My behavior to you was at least always bordering on the uncivil, and I never spoke to you without rather wishing to give you pain than not. Now be sincere; did you admire me for my impertinence?”
“For the liveliness of your mind, I did.”
My heart beats double in my ears. Ringing drowns out all other sounds. It’s like Austen’s describing us.
Ryder reads on, but I don’t hear it clearly until the ringing in my ears dies down, right as he reads Lizzie’s line: “Why, especially, when you called, did you look as if you did not care about me?”
He reads Darcy’s response with a stoic matter-of-factness that is Ryder to a T. “Because you were grave and silent, and gave me no encouragement.”
I’ve read this book too many times to count, so my lips mouth Lizzie’s line automatically. “But I was embarrassed.”
“And so was I.”
The words fall silently from my mouth. “You might have talked to me more when you came to dinner.”
He pauses. Darcy’s reply in Ryder’s voice makes my heart skip. “A man who had felt less, might.”
I slump to the ground completely and stare up at the ceiling.
Scary thoughts bang around my head. I see our entire frenemyship in one sweeping montage. Misunderstandings. Weighted quiet. Long glances. Relentless debate. Playful touches, hair tugs, rib pokes.
Every. Single. Kiss.
Too many emotions tangle in my chest, pinching and tightening. It’s harder to breathe again. One second, my heart’s tugged toward my mom, the next, toward this slowly unfurling portrait of reality between Ryder and me.
Before I can think it over anymore, I’m jarred from my thoughts as Ryder’s voice grows closer. I had to enter from their front door because the outside entrance to Mama’s room was locked. I didn’t want to risk waking her up when I realized I stupidly forgot my key. It was suck it up and take the main entrance through the house, or wait until it was late enough to call my mom to have someone let me in.
Scrambling upright, I dive into the neighboring room and hide behind the door, hearing the click of Mama’s door being shut, then Ryder’s steady footfall as he strides down the hallway. He pauses for a fraction of a second outside the room I’m stowed in. His nose tips up. His eyes narrow. He looks like a jungle cat who’s caught the scent of his prey. When his head drops down, I see it, the small disc nestled in his thick blond hair, a chunk of hair shaved away, right behind his ear.
How does it work? It looks electrical and complicated. Does he take it off in the shower? Does he wear it when he goes to bed at night? When he’s in bed for other reasons?
Nope. Not going there. Do not think about Ryder in sexually suggestive settings.
Finally, he walks away. A long exhale leaves me.
Phew. Safe.
Carefully, I peek my head out and slink back into the hallway, before I slip into Mama’s room.
“Willa.” She smiles up at me, patting the bed. “Guess what? We’re invited to Christmas dinner.”
A groan leaves me. Maybe not so safe after all.
Mama and I have an argument. It grows heated. I stomp out of her room and slam the door like a petulant child. It’s my last Christmas with her, I’m not stupid. I don’t want to share her with anyone else.
When I return, moderately cooled off, Mama jumps right back into it. She really would have loved to be paid to argue for a living. She lives for a good brawl.
“They’re a kind family, Willa. You’re friends with their son—”
“Frenemies,” I correct.
Mama is undeterred. “You know Dr. B well. What’s the big deal?” she asks hoarsely.
When she coughs into her arm, I just feel guilty. I know I’m being difficult and obstinate. Doesn’t mean I can make myself stop. “Fine, they’re a nice family, but they’re not my family.”
“But they could be a family to you.”
Anger and hot tears choke my throat. “No you don’t, Joy Sutter. You don’t get to pass me off on them. You’re not gone. Not yet.”
“But I will be!” she yells, slamming her hands on the blanket. “And you won’t even let me do what I can to look out for you. To make sure you won’t spend next Christmas alone…” Her shoulders shake as she covers her face. I immediately throw my arms around her.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“You’re so damn stubborn, Willa.” She wipes her eyes. “Having Christmas dinner with them won’t usher in my death. Sitting here alone with me in this room won’t slow it down, either.”
“Okay,” I say hurriedly, rubbing her back, feeling terrible for making her cry. Mama never cries. “I’m sorry. I’ll do it. We can go whenever you’re ready.”
Mama sighs shakily and sits back. “Thank you.”
After a nap snuggled together that goes some way to restoring both our moods, I help her put on a warm knit sweater and a soft pair of sweatpants. We wrap her in a thick blanket when she slides off the bed into her wheelchair. I find her gold hoop earrings and hook them on because her hands are too shaky.
When I stand back, I look her over. “Smokin’ as ever.”
Mom smiles genuinely, smacking her lips as she caps her tinted lip balm. “Why, thank you. You, however, look like hell. Go shower, tame that bird’s nest and change out of that rag.”
I glance down at my vintage Mia Hamm tee. “Excuse you.”
Mom grins and folds her hands in her lap. “I’m waiting.”
A quick shower and some curl-controlling cream later, I throw on black yoga pants and a slouchy red sweater that tends to slide off my shoulder. It drives me nuts but Mama says it’s sophisticated.
“My bralette keeps showing.”
Mama rolls her eyes. “Honestly, are you the twentysomething or am I? That’s the point.”
I give her a good glare. “I’m not going to Christmas dinner to seduce anyone, Joy Sutter.”
She makes a noncommittal noise in her throat. “Come on, obstinate offspring. Time to watch you squirm.”
“Mother!”
Cackling, Mama wheels herself ahead of me. I follow in her wake, pushing the wheelchair when her arms start to tire and she sets her hands in her lap. Like the first time I ventured down this hall, noise amplifies, light grows. Nerves tighten my stomach.