Limerence: Chapter 29

“You know what your mother’s boyfriend reminds me of?” Adrian asks as we step into the hotel room. He’s already tugging off his jacket, revealing the bone white Prada polo he wore to dinner.

“What’s that?” I kick off the Louboutins, careful to place them back in the sturdy brown box they came in.

“One of my mother’s friends used to keep two-toed sloths as pets,” he explains. “They slept most of the day, required lots of specialized care, and functioned very slowly.” He pauses. “And surprisingly volatile.”

I don’t even have to think about it. “Yeah…that’s a pretty apt description for Rick.”

He steps close to me, his hands finding their way around my waist. “You know, I’m starting to feel a little guilty about tonight, which is unusual for me. I don’t tend to experience guilt.”

“Guilt? What for?”

“Well…” He bites down on his full bottom lip, and I quell the sudden desire to reach up and take it between my teeth. “You weren’t exaggerating about your mother. She’s clearly a handful, and I did make you sit through an entire dinner with her for my own selfish reasons.”

I swallow.

You don’t know the half of it.

I haven’t said a word to Adrian about the blow-out fight I had with her in the bathroom – though I’ve certainly thought about it.

I thought about it when I returned to the table, hands shaking, and apologized for the delay.

I thought about it as the driver took us back to the hotel, curled up together in the backseat of the rented Lincoln.

And I’ve even thought about it now, staring up at him and unable to shake the weight of my mother’s words.

But that’s all they are – words spoken by a woman who’s done little but turn me inside out any chance she gets, and if I speak them aloud, if I speak them to him…

No, I won’t give her the satisfaction.

“Don’t worry about it,” I say instead. “I’m glad she met you.”

“You know she’s wrong, don’t you?” He gazes down at me, surprisingly serious.

Though I know we’re thinking about different things, my breath catches anyway. “You think she’s wrong?”

“Of course,” he murmurs. “She’s resentful of the things she didn’t accomplish, and now, she’s even more resentful of the things you’ll accomplish.”

“Right.” I nod. “I know that.”

I practically told her as much in the bathroom.

“You don’t need her approval,” he says. “You’re beyond that now.” He leans down, presses a chaste kiss to my mouth – only for me to wind my hands around the back of his neck and tug him even closer.

I’m not sure what I’m trying to achieve in this moment, but I need more.

More of this.

More of Adrian.

I don’t want words. I don’t want promises. Right now, I want something physical enough to leave marks, something tangible I can hold up to the light and proclaim: See? This is real. This means something.

Adrian responds in kind, molding his lips to mine and tightening his grip. His touch is nothing but pure heat licking at my hips and the dip of my waist but –

It’s still not enough.

There’s too much space between us, so I press my front to his, intending to eliminate every millimeter of it.

A surprised sound, something halfway between a moan and a groan, escapes him, and it spurs me on.

More.

My fingers fly to his shirt, to the thin fabric currently separating me from the smooth expanse of skin underneath, and I feel the energy between us. It’s alive, it’s vibrating, it’s –

His phone.

His phone is vibrating.

We disconnect immediately, and I only have a brief moment to savor the way his pupils seem to have swallowed up their irises before he’s fishing the device out of his pocket.

He stares down at the screen, his mouth thinning.

“It’s my mother,” he says quietly, and whatever remains of the mood spoils immediately.

“Should we take her to dinner?” It’s a weak joke, but the corner of Adrian’s lip quirks up anyway.

“Not tonight,” he says and then sighs. “She’s calling to check up on me. I’m not entirely sure she bought that I was spending the holidays at an internship.” He shoots another distasteful glance at the phone and then peers down at me, his expression softening. “We’ll finish this later. I’m going to step outside, see if I can get better service.”

I rub the back of my neck. “Of course.”

His parting kiss is gentle (and actually chaste this time) before he disappears through the door, but I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that we will not be finishing this tonight.

***

The next morning, I wake to a historic event.

A text from Rick.

I can’t tell which event should go down in the books – the fact that Rick’s actually texted me or that his message’s surprisingly free of grammatical errors.

My fingers hesitate over the message box.

This historic, once-in-a-lifetime event must be orchestrated by Mom, who clearly doesn’t want to speak to me, but isn’t spiteful enough to hang me out to dry academically. I text back:

Then, thinking better of it, add:

Rick’s reply is surprisingly prompt but no more enlightening: It’s on the kitchen table.

I sigh.

Why did I even ask? Rick’s incapable of being helpful.

The absolute last thing I want to do is visit the trailer after last night’s showdown, but I can’t be sure the paper’s not important.

Unfortunately, Lionswood takes a lot of pride in communicating like they’re the IRS. Emails may exist for urgent news and schedule changes that can’t wait for two to three business days, but everything else – newsletters for the academic year, quarterly grades, scalding behavioral reports – is fair game.

For all I know, it could be an updated list of course requirements for next semester, that letter of recommendation I’ve been begging Ms. Hanson for, or any number of other important documents.

I bite my lip, unsure what’s the bigger risk: running into Mom and Rick or being unable to graduate.

I’m still staring down at the phone when the door swings open and Adrian strolls through, two coffees in hand. “You’re awake. Finally. I went on a coffee run.”

I take in his sweat-drenched shirt and the heavy rise and fall of his chest. “It looks like you went on a literal coffee run.”

He hands me the blue paper cup decorated with a logo I don’t recognize. “Only the way there,” he tells me. “I walked back for obvious reasons.” He glares down at the Apple watch strapped to his wrist. “My time’s down.”

I take a sip and nearly sigh with pleasure when I realize it’s the robust artisanal stuff that doesn’t need to be drowned in milk and sugar. “Really?”

“My last ten miles, I managed 55:42. This one’s 55:50,” he mutters, half-distracted by whatever stats he’s flipping through on the watch. “And my heart rate spent more time in zone three than zone two.”

“Well…that’s only eight seconds.” I blink at him, then realization hits: “You ran ten miles to get us coffee?”

He ignores that last part. “It’s eight seconds behind.”

Knowing Adrian, those eight seconds might as well be eight minutes, and there’s little I can say to convince him otherwise.

So, instead, I redirect. “I have to stop by the house today. Some school paper came, and I need to make sure it’s not important.”

He’s still looking at his watch. “I’ll call the driver. Once I shower, we can –”

“No.” It slips out before I mean it to, earning me a raised eyebrow. “I mean…no, it’s probably better if I go by myself. One less person to ambush.”

And I don’t have to worry about Mom repeating any of her half-baked conclusions to Adrian.

“Are you sure?”

I nod. “I’ll be back within the hour.”

To my surprise, he agrees, and though I’m less than excited to spend any part of my day in Mom or Rick’s proximity, at least I know I’m not sentencing Adrian to the same fate.

***

It’s with great reluctance that I abandon the safety of Adrian’s driver for whatever unknown lurks in the trailer – but relief trickles through me when I realize Mom’s Saturn Ion is nowhere to be seen.

Neither is Rick’s pickup.

There’s no way I’m this lucky.

I use the extra key Mom keeps under the potted plant on the porch to let myself in. I can’t hear a sports game blasting from the living room or Mom tinkering in the kitchen, which means I really am alone.

Thank God.

I cross the threshold into the kitchen, the vinyl squeaking under my sneakers, and stop short.

There’s nothing on the kitchen table.

Well, nothing for me.

A couple of old bills for Mom, something from social security for Rick, but nothing addressed to me, and certainly nothing bearing Lionswood’s stamp.

Frustration burns a hole in my stomach as I search the counters next , and again, find nothing.

Then the coffee table – nothing.

My bedroom – nothing.

Even the master bedroom yields nothing, though I’m pretty sure I won’t be getting rid of the image of my mother’s leopard print bra slung over the headboard anytime soon.

It’s not on the kitchen table, I text Rick. I try to telepathically channel as much of my frustration in his direction as possible.

I even consider calling, but I can’t imagine he’ll be any more helpful in real time.

His response comes shortly.

I exhale sharply. He’s confused?

For a brief moment, I wonder if this is one of my mother’s new war tactics: feeding me false information that’ll lead nowhere but a wild goose chase.

Maybe it’s amusing for her, knowing I’m going to tear through the trailer for a letter that doesn’t exist.

Or maybe she’s just waiting for me to cave and text her about it.

Not happening.

As a last resort, I head for the garage.

I doubt it’s here, in Rick’s sanctuary, but if nothing else, I can see if his cigarette stash’s been replenished and employ a war tactic of my own.

There’s nothing but darkness to greet me as I step inside the shed, and even though it’s broad daylight, even though I’m not afraid of the dark, something like trepidation winds its way down my spine.

Like Rick’s very aura is trying to push me out.

Just one quick look.

I flip on the single overhead bulb, which does little to fill the space with light, but reveals the same cluttered mess of tools and half-baked projects that I remember from last time.

But no letter.

Maybe he stashed it in the same drawer as his cigarettes.

It’s craftier than I’d expect from Rick, but if I’m already here…

I’m rifling through the adjustable wrenches when the garage door suddenly slams shut.

Fuck.

I whirl around, ready to spew excuses at Rick – and feel my heart jump straight into my throat.

“Ian,” I breathe, not sure whether to be more relieved or panicked.

Framed in the shadowy corner of the garage, I can’t quite make out more than his silhouette, but it’s just him. Alone. No Rick.

“Are you here to work on the bike?” I ask. “Rick’s not here. I’m not sure when he’ll be back. I was just looking for something, but it doesn’t seem to be out here, so I should probably go. Get out of your hair.”

Three things happen at once.

I realize there’s no bike in the garage anymore, Ian steps into the light and I notice, for the first time, that hair-raising, cold fury has engulfed in his green eyes.

And he’s clutching a pocket knife in his left hand.