“Can you give me ten minutes?” I ask, hopeful when it’s dangerous to hope.
“Make it five, and I’ll reconsider the poisoning thing.” He laughs, and I race back to my room, eager for the first time in a long time. I feel like a teenager, prepping for her first date, only I never dated as a teen. I didn’t have time for it, and this isn’t a date. It’s chemotherapy. There’s nothing sexy in that, but still, he asked me to go with him, and I’m happy to leave the house.
Happy. It’s not something I’ve considered myself in a long while. I fight the smile on my lips as I apply a quick swipe of lip gloss, freshen up my mascara, and contemplate some foundation for my face. I paste on the cover-up and run my fingers through my hair.
“Princess,” Ethan calls out, and I grin. I grab my coat and my purse and take a deep breath. I cross the bridge, descend the stairs, and then stop at the expression on his face when he sees me. Something’s wrong, and I poke at the corner of my lips. Is the gloss on crooked? Did my mascara run? He’s staring at me but not in a good way. Not in the way he looked at me last night. His eyes linger on my face, not my scar but just me, all of me.
Without a word, he holds open the door for me, and I descend the stairs, suddenly uncertain about this decision. Maybe he had second thoughts.
I turn to him at the bottom of the stairs.
“You know, if you don’t want to be seen in public with me, you can just tell me. I get it that my face freaks people out.”
Ethan glares at me as he crosses his arms. He’s gone from zero to sixty. I’ve never seen him angry, other than the night of the accident, and that was more hurt than upset.
“You’re right. I don’t want to be seen with you in public.”
My mouth falls open, and my fists curl. That hurts.
“Because you have too much shit on your face.”
My jaw can’t possibly open any wider.
“It’s called makeup. Cover-up,” I explain although I don’t know why I’m explaining this to him. I need this. I can’t go out there without it.
“You don’t need to mask anything, especially not with me. It’s not that you’re still beautiful, like a thing of the past lingering. You are beautiful right fucking now. Just the way you are. And as for your comment, don’t you ever say that to me again. Don’t even think it. I am abso-fucking-lutely not ashamed to be seen with you in public.” With that declaration, he opens the garage door and stomps toward Jacob’s Escalade SUV. He circles the front and yanks open the passenger door, waiting on me to enter the truck. He tips his head for me to move my feet and get in the vehicle. Once I settle inside, he closes my door, walks around the back, and enters the driver’s side.
Ethan huffs as he starts the engine and gives the SUV a second to warm up. His hands curl around the steering wheel, his knuckles nearly white.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. I hate that I’m apologizing. I hate my face, and I hate that I’m asking for forgiveness for it. Ethan surprises me again.
“What are you apologizing for? If anything, I’d think you’d be embarrassed to be seen with me. You’re a freaking supermodel, Ella. I’m some guy cooking pizza for your brother.”
I twist in the seat. “What? You’re gorgeous.”
“I’m . . .What?” he stammers.
“You’re the one who looks like a supermodel, Ethan. Not me.”
“Don’t,” he snaps, pointing a finger at me. “Don’t you dare shame yourself again. I told you you’re beautiful, and I’m not just blowing smoke up your fine ass, Ella. You. Are. Hot.” His eyes travel my face, hit my eyes, and then glance at my hair. I feel the look in his eyes as if his fingers trace my face and then comb into my wild locks. And I want him to touch me like that gaze. I need the reassurance that someone could desire me. He doesn’t need to think I’m pretty. I just want him to want me.
“I . . .” I’m about to apologize again, but I clamp my lips. The tension is so thick in the front seat of this vehicle, I’m ready to lunge myself at him. Only if I landed on him, it would be my mouth against his. I’ve never wanted to kiss someone so badly in my life.
Suddenly, the phone comes to life, ringing so loud it’s like the bell ending the first round of a prize fight.
“Hello?” Ethan huffs after he presses the button for the Bluetooth connection.
“Hey, E. It’s Pam.”
“Hey.” Ethan doesn’t look over at me as he presses the garage door opener. “I’m on my way to get Mum for chemo. Can I call you back?”
He sets the SUV in reverse, and we back out of the garage.
“Sure. I’m just calling to check in. You okay? Your voice sounds funny.”
“I’m good,” he snaps. Ethan skillfully backs out onto the driveway as he responds to her.
“You feeling okay? Taking the meds?”
“Yes, Doc Hottie. I’m following doctor’s orders.”
“Don’t get flippant with me,” Pam barks.
“Why? Will you toss me over your knee and spank me?”
My head snaps up, and I glare at Ethan. We’ve pulled onto the road, and his eyes shift to me, but he keeps his face forward.
“You must be fine if you’re back to flirting with everything that has two legs.” Pam laughs. However, I fail to find the humor. He’s such a player, and hope dies a little inside me.
“You’re more than two legs, but . . .yeah . . .,” he mutters back to her, losing his charming steam. We take the tight curves of the gravel road, and I remain quiet beside him.
“E?”
“I’m so late, Pam. Let me call you later.”
They say their goodbyes, and I don’t know what to say. We remain silent the rest of the ride, and I again wonder if I’ve made a huge mistake.
+ + +
After a bumpy ride up a long gravel drive, we stop before the Scott family home. Before me is a yellow clapboard home with a green roof and matching shutters. Flower boxes with fall foliage grace the front windows, and a large flowerpot stands at the base of a covered porch. Cherry trees extend for acres around the place.
“It’s not Beverly Hills,” he snarks, but I dismiss his comment.
“It’s lovely,” I say, and mean every word. The place looks inviting and homey, something I never had in the cold, marble interior of my parents’ house. I hadn’t moved out, hadn’t needed a place of my own. I had an entire wing to myself, much like I do in Jacob’s simpler lakeside home.
“Come on, princess,” Ethan mutters, exiting the truck, and I do the same. He crosses in front of the vehicle and reaches out for my hand. I’m surprised by the gesture and then realize he might need my hand today. We’re taking his mom to chemotherapy. This isn’t a date.
Ethan helps himself through the front door and releases my hand once inside. I stop as I observe the room. A piano stands off to one side. A homemade quilt covers the back of an overstuffed couch. The rug is faded from numerous feet traveling in and out.
“Mum?” Ethan calls toward the back of the house. Eventually, a frail-looking woman with a bright smile walks toward him. He opens his arms, and she steps into them. She settles her scarf-covered head against his chest. Dressed in a blue cardigan that hangs long and loose-fitting over her T-shirt, she looks thin and fragile. A smile hides any discomfort.