My chest squeezes at the signs he’s not meaning to give off, and I wish I could get my hands on my mother’s friends and straight tell them what I think of them. How dare they make Dominic feel any which way? They don’t even know him.
I touch his arm, letting my hand lie gently on the curve of his bicep. It’s as if the contact releases some of his tension because I can actually feel him relax.
“I’m sorry they looked at you that way,” I whisper.
“Don’t worry about it. Women like that—if I wasn’t with you, they’d be asking for me to be their dirty little secret.” He watches for my reaction. “When I go to houses like that—”
“Like mine?”
“Like yours,” he concedes, “those women like the tattooed, blue-collar asshole. We’re what they’re not supposed to have. I’m exactly what their missionary-style, four-inch-cocked husbands are not.”
“Dom.” His name is a sentence, not a question or the start to anything more. I remove my hand slowly.
“So it’s nothing for you to apologize for. If I wasn’t sitting with you, it would’ve been a different ballgame.”
There’s so much I want to discuss, so many directions I want to go with this, that I can’t pick one. I just sit, buckled in my seat, and wish there was a way to strap in my thoughts too.
“For the record,” he says, smirking, “the brunette has fucked Ford too.”
“How do you know that?”
He just laughs.
“Is that what you think of me?” I ask guardedly. “That I’m with you because I shouldn’t be?”
He takes a moment to respond and with each passing second, my anxiety grows. “Maybe.”
“Really? That’s offensive, Dominic.”
“That’s the truth.” He bites his lip as he waits for the guard at the gate of my subdivision to let us in. “Do I think that’s what got your attention at the start? Yeah. Absolutely.”
The gate moves up and he eases the car through. “Is that why you’re still here? No.”
“I hate that you think I’m so shallow.”
“I didn’t say that. I said you wanted me at first because you shouldn’t. The same way you always want a pint of butter pecan ice cream that you lament you shouldn’t eat because of the calories. Then we buy it and you eat a couple of spoonfuls and then you’re done because it’s not really what you wanted. You wanted the lemon sorbet. You just were proving to yourself you had choices and could go off-script.”
“So you’re the butter pecan ice cream?” I ask, trying to follow along.
“Yes. I was at first. Now, maybe, I’m . . . those little chocolate cookies you keep in the back of your cabinet behind the cereal.”
“Wait,” I laugh. “I thought we were talking ice cream.”
“We were, but let’s broaden it to food.”
“Fine. Keep going. This is interesting.”
He whips the car into my driveway, but not without a quick squeal of the tires that he knows pisses off my neighbor. The black marks in the maintained streets are undesirable, the guy two houses down calls it.
Turning off the Camaro, he faces me. “I’m the cookies you love, but don’t want to love. That’s why you keep them behind the cereal. The cereal is a good choice, full of fiber and all that bullshit you look at on the label. I’m the snack full of preservatives, fake colors,” he says, nodding towards his tattoos, “and cooked in some cancer-filled oils. I’ll be the death of you one day. You know it. You just can’t quite say no when it’s in front of you.”
“Okay,” I chuckle, waving my hands in the air, “while that is a very thought-provoking analogy there, Waylor’s Cookies, you’re wrong.”
“I don’t think so.” He hops out and races to my side. The door is opened, letting in the warm afternoon breeze. Lending me a hand, he helps me out and closes the door behind me. “Again, you look very pretty today.”
“Is the cookie conversation over?”
“Yes.” He pulls me into his chest, wrapping his arms around my back.
I snuggle into the soft fabric of his shirt, breathing him in and shoving off the ice cream discussion to be analyzed later.
“You know,” he says, his chest moving with each breath, “I could never be like your brothers.”
“How do you mean?”
“How do I not mean?” His voice sounds hollow, almost third-person, and it glues me in place. “They’re so laidback. Like they have nothing to do, nothing to worry about. Like they pick their battles, not the other way around.”
“We all pick our battles, don’t we?”
“Not where I’m from,” he admits. “Sometimes battles pick us. Sometimes our lives don’t come with trust funds and fairy godmothers.”
Pushing off, I look at him. “I can’t help I have a trust fund. Just like you can’t help you don’t.”
“I know,” he says, brushing a strand of hair out of my face. “I’m just saying today was really eye-opening for me.”
My spirits sink like a weight as I watch him search for his next words. There are a million I could come back at him with, but I don’t. I’m too afraid to.
“There will be a day when someone like Lincoln or Ford catches your eye, a quality lemon sorbet,” he grins sadly, “and you’ll wonder what the hell you’re doing with the butter pecan.”
“I wonder what I’m doing with you every day,” I say, trying to get playful Dom back and failing. “But every day, there’s no one else I want to listen to telling me about leg kicks or air conditioner units or bringing me Chinese at eleven at night when I just make an off-handed comment that I could really go for some General Tso’s.”
His eyes lock with mine. “I gotta go.” He kisses my forehead and starts around the car.
“You don’t want to come in?”
“I gotta watch Ryder for a while today,” he says as he reaches the driver’s side door. “Nate has to work and Chrissy bailed or something. I don’t know. I don’t want in the middle of their shit.”
I wait for him to invite me to come over. I’ve helped watch Ryder before. After a few solid, uncomfortable seconds, it’s obvious no invitation is coming.
If I gave in to my emotions, I’d start crying. Being in limbo is the worst feeling in the world and that’s where we are—in limbo. We’ve never been an official item, yet . . . we have. I don’t even know if we are that unlabeled item now.
Demanding things from Dominic gets you one thing—the opposite of what you want. So I can’t just ask him what he’s thinking or feeling. Even if I did, by the look in his eye, I’m not sure he even knows.
“Okay,” I say, heading to my door. “I’ll talk to you later.”
He waits until I get the door open and the security system off. Tossing my purse on the settee inside, I turn to face him through the doorway.
“Thanks for going with me today.”
He bows his head for a moment. “This is going to sound really weird, and I don’t want you to think about it too much, but . . . thanks for introducing me to your family.”