“I see that now.” Without another word she turns and gets back in the car, closing the door behind her. I see her stare down at the floorboard. I feel a tug of sympathy for her, even though I don’t want to.
“Can you get this thing?” Charles calls out. And then I see Wilbur’s wings flutter wildly as Charles kicks the duck away from him.
And before I can move, before I can intercede in any way at all, Ethan punches Charles square in the face. Charles sees it coming, but he’s so surprised that he doesn’t try to dodge or block it or get out of the way.
Charles lifts a hand to his nose, wiping to see if it’s bleeding. It’s not. Truth be told, Ethan could have hit him a lot harder. Charles stands there, sniffling into his hand, his eyes watering wildly.
Ethan bends down and scoops Wilbur up in his arms, cradling him close to his body. “Don’t touch my duck,” he says sternly. Wilbur quacks loudly, like he’s telling Charles off, too, his neck extending as he gripes out loud.
And if this wasn’t so awkward, it would be hilarious.
I cover my mouth with my hand to keep from letting out an enormous snort. I hold it in, but just barely.
“Are you fucking her?” I hear Charles ask one more time.
Ethan turns to me, like he’s asking for my permission to hit him again.
“Go home, Charles,” I say. “If you know what’s good for you.”
“So, will you call my mother and tell her that you approve?”
“Nope.”
“But Abs—!”
“It’s Abigail,” Ethan bites out.
“Why are you talking right now?” Charles says, hands on hips as if he’s reprimanding a child.
Ethan takes one step toward him, and Charles dashes for the car, which is hilarious because Ethan is still holding the duck under his arm.
Charles gets in, slams the door, and rolls the window down. “I need for you to do the right thing, Abby!” he yells. He rolls the window up quickly when Ethan starts toward him again, and then he backs out of the drive.
Ethan turns and walks up the steps. He sets Wilbur down on the porch and the duck marches around protesting like Charles is still here and he’s tattling on him.
“That’s some duck,” I say.
“My attack duck,” he replies with a grin. “I’m kind of proud of him.” He walks toward me and brushes that stray lock of hair behind my ear again. His fingers are so gentle that I lean into his hand, and he cups my face, staring into my eyes. “Are you okay?”
I heave out a sigh. “Actually, I am.” I reach out and grab his biceps, giving him a squeeze. “I’m really glad you punched him, though.”
“Well, he kicked my duck,” he says simply, his eyes glinting with humor. “I had to do something.”
“He kind of deserved it.”
“He kind of did,” he whispers back. Then he leans forward and kisses the corner of my mouth. Then he kisses the other corner. Then he drags the side of his nose up the side of mine. He smells like toothpaste and aftershave, and I realize he shaved for me.
I touch the side of his face. “You shaved.”
“Don’t want you to end up with fuzz burn when I finally get to kiss you.”
“Oh, is there kissing on the menu?”
He shakes his head. “Not yet.” He sniffs the air. “What are we eating? It smells wonderful.” He walks toward the screen door, but I wrap my arms around him from behind, burying my face in his shirt.
“I’m seriously in like with you,” I say into his shirt. It comes out like a mumble, but I’m sure he hears me because he reaches back to pry me loose and turns around so that I can see his face.
“I’m seriously in like with you, too.”
I point toward the duck. “So all that was for Wilbur? You didn’t punch him for me? Not even a little bit?”
“Nope.” He shakes his head, but he’s grinning. “That was to avenge Wilbur.” He stares into my eyes. “You didn’t need me to punch him for you. You had all that under control.”
“I’m kind of glad they came, actually,” I admit. “I needed to say those things to her.”
“I feel kind of bad for her,” he says.
“Why?” I lean back so I can look at his face.
“She’s stuck with him, no matter what.”
“True.” I open the screen door and we walk inside together, and his eyes get glassy when he sees the table set for two, the candles, the wine glasses. “I cooked,” I say as heat creeps up my cheeks. I pick up a bowl of bird food and set it on the floor. “For Wilbur.”
“He’s going to get it everywhere,” he warns. “He’s not a very refined little dude.” He stares at the table. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been on a dinner date. What exactly are we supposed to do now?”
I motion toward the table. “Well, first we sit.”
He walks over and pulls my chair out, and I nearly swoon as I settle into it. He sits down next to me and looks at me instead of the food. “I think this is the very best date I’ve ever been on.”
“It hasn’t even started yet,” I say with a laugh.
“Wrong. It started when I first met you.” He stares into my eyes and doesn’t look away. And I can’t either.
15
Abigail
“Gran,” I say with a heavy sigh, “he didn’t even kiss me.” I stare up at my ceiling, thinking back to the best date I’ve ever had. Ethan had been charming and charismatic and so damn nice. But no kiss. Not even a small one.
“Maybe he’s not ready for kissing,” Gran says with a chuckle. “Maybe he’s holding on to his virginity.”
“He has a son, Gran,” I feel led to remind her.
“But he’s been re-virginized. Meaning it’s been so long since he’s had sex that he’ll probably go off like a virgin when he finally gets to do it again.”
“Gran!” I pretend to be astounded by her boldness, but I’m really not. She’s Gran, after all. If it’s in her head, it’s pretty much going to come out of her mouth. “You don’t know anything about his sexual past. He could have had sex recently.”
“You should ask him.” I hear her chewing something on the other end of the phone.
“I’m not going to ask him anything that personal.” When was the last time you had sex? Did you enjoy it? How many times did you do it? In what position? “What are you eating?” I ask her.
“Jelly beans,” she says. “The black ones you always leave behind.”
“I hate the black ones.”
“That’s the kind of man you need, Abigail,” she says. “You need one that’ll eat all the black jelly beans just because he knows you don’t like them.”
“I could just do away with the need for a man and throw my own black jelly beans away,” I say flippantly.
“You know how when you pick through the party mix and you only pick out the little woven squares? You need a man that’ll eat your pretzels and the other bits you hate so much.”