Ace of Hearts, page 11
I could still be a coach. I could still find something I was as passionate about as I had been about playing football.
Jackson dug in his closet. He tossed several suits out on the bed, and I picked up a black one. I pulled the jacket on over my T-shirt. It was a little snug in the arms, but close enough nobody would notice it wasn’t mine.
“Thanks. I owe you one.”
“Nah, don’t sweat it. I haven’t had to wear these since I changed majors. Keep it as long as you need. What’s it for? Big job interview?”
“No, a work thing. With Hesper.”
“Tell me, Felix. Is she for real? Because this sounds like more than playing pretend for free college.”
Damnit, I forgot—for all that he was annoying and clueless most of the time—he was pretty perceptive when it came to the things that mattered.
“Yes. It’s…very real.”
“Good for you, dude.” He clapped me on the shoulder. “Good luck with her. Maybe someday you’ll renew your vows? I can be your best man next time.”
I smiled. “Count on it.”
I stashed the suit, dress shirt, and tie carefully in Calamity’s hatch before I loaded up Jackson and drove across campus to Mitch’s house. Music pulsed so loud I could hear it outside, and I already had a headache, but deep down, I was too desperate to still be a part of this—to hold on, at least for a little bit longer, to who I was and the friends I had before the accident.
As it turned out, the music—despite its volume—was just a bunch of rock and roll renditions of classic Christmas songs, and everyone sat piled on the living room floor around an Xbox, drinking eggnog (which I assumed was spiked, given how merrily and off-key they were singing along) and playing on their phones.
“Felix!” Davante cheered from his spot on the floor, and Mitch stuck his head out of the kitchen door and waved a plate of crackers.
“Snacks in the kitchen! Help yourself.”
“Congrats on the season.” I smiled, surprised to find most of the bitterness had melted away. I was genuinely happy for them.
All the same, the mood in the room shifted, and nobody would meet my eyes.
Most of them moseyed off to play festive pong—which was really just beer pong using red and green ping-pong balls in plastic cups with snowflakes printed on the sides. I settled in on the couch next to Jackson, and Mitch came in with a tray full of candies.
“Rum balls?” He waggled his eyebrows. “My grandma’s famous recipe.”
He plopped down on the floor and regaled me with play-by-play details of all the games I had missed, including my replacement’s glorious fourth-quarter catch of Davante’s Hail Mary, winning us the game and the championship. Toby handed me a controller, taking advantage of the raucous pong game going on in the dining room, before freezing.
“Felix Morlan, you got married?”
Wearing my ring had become second nature—I had forgotten I had it on. It was like an extension of my skin. But of course they would notice. I snatched the controller away, but now both Toby and Mitch were leaning in, gawking at the golden band on my finger.
“You weren’t even dating anyone when you left!”
“You move quick, dude. Who’s the poor sucker who married you?”
“My high school sweetheart.” I flushed; I wasn’t sure why. Hesper didn’t embarrass me, and it wasn’t actually a lie.
“Why didn’t you bring her along? She could have hung out with Alison and Mina.” Mitch gestured to the deck, where Davante’s and Jakobe’s girlfriends sat perched on the rail, their heads bent together over a phone.
“She’s not big on parties.”
“You’d have told us about this girl if you were dating her. What happened—did you knock her up?”
Before, I would have wrestled with him, got him in a headlock, and rubbed my knuckles into the top of his head until he apologized, laughing. Now it was so much worse, because of what it implied about Hesper—about the nature of our relationship. Like she was just some girl I went to school with and slept with on a whim, like we had some mandatory shotgun wedding.
I punched Toby, my fingers curled in as my knuckles connected with his face. He shouted and swung back but I was on him, diving off the couch and straddling him, hitting him again. He got a punch in on me and blood gushed from my lip, and I was still swinging when Jackson got hold of me and dragged me off him. I struggled, the adrenaline of the fight buzzing and the rage making me desperate to hit Toby again.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?” Toby shouted, scrambling up off the floor and away from me while Mitch sprinted for the kitchen.
“Don’t bleed on my carpet!” he bellowed over his shoulder.
“Don’t go running your mouth when you don’t know anything about her!” I yelled, squirming against Jackson’s grasp, my knee screaming in agony over my abrupt dive to the floor.
“Felix. Felix!” Jackson shouted in my ear, and I finally went limp, all the fight in me gone in a flash of horror. I had punched a former teammate. “Chill, man! He didn’t mean anything by it!”
I grabbed Hesper’s keys and headed for the door, half mortified, half filled with a vicious sort of satisfaction.
“That was out of line, Tobes,” Jackson snapped.
“It was just a joke!”
“Yeah? Well, it wasn’t funny.”
I slipped outside, the cold night air stinging my burning cheeks, and Jackson followed on my heels—because even though he was a tool sometimes, he was a good guy at heart. A good friend.
“This party is dumb. Let’s get out of here.”
“You don’t have to leave. I’ll wait in the Jeep till you’re ready to go—and please apologize to Mitch.” I yanked my shirt up and held the hem against my mouth to staunch the bleeding, then added scathingly, “But don’t apologize to Toby, because he’s a jackass.”
He smiled. “So are you.”
“Yeah. I know.”
“Take me home and go back to your girl. Wouldn’t you rather spend Christmas Eve with her instead of a bunch of knuckleheads anyway?”
Of course I would. I wished I would have realized it sooner. They had changed, and so had I—too much, maybe, to pretend we had enough in common to hang out.
“Thank you, Jackson. You’re a good friend.”
I dropped him back off; I had spent longer driving to Pearcy than I had at the actual party. Calamity was slow to start, and the engine sputtered, but she finally kicked down. Someday she was going to leave either Hesper or me sitting on the side of the road, but at least she had the good taste not to do it the night before Christmas.
9:13 PM
Why does Santa Claus go down the chimney on Christmas Eve?
9:14 PM
Because it SOOTS him!
9:17 PM
Does this mean you’re headed home early?
9:17 PM
On my way.
I started the long drive home—to Hesper’s house, the place I belonged.
Chapter Nine
Hesper
I WASN’T AN I-told-you-so kind of girl, especially when Felix slipped inside—with a split lip, no less. I raised my eyebrows but didn’t ask. He carried a suit on a hanger, looking sheepish.
“Jackson’s suit. Sorry it won’t match your dress.”
“How could it? I haven’t even shown you my dress.”
“Touché.”
He hung it up in the living room closet, where he still kept his clothes despite the rather alarming fact that we basically shared a bedroom now—and he was as good as his word. He didn’t put a single toe over the line, and I felt certain if I told him he was making me uncomfortable, he’d back right off.
Because I finally believed he wanted this to work as badly as I did.
Felix had walked through the door between the living room and the kitchen no less than six times before he caught sight of what I had hung from the facing. He cut his eyes around at me nervously, and my lungs tightened with affection, because his expression clearly said, are you sure?
Mistletoe—a big bunch of it in a heart-shape, dangling from a hook.
He made sure not to linger under it too long, zipping into the kitchen and coming back with the last few snickerdoodles, warmed in the microwave, and milk for both of us. We sat on the couch and turned on old black-and-white movies, polishing off the cookies and admiring the Christmas tree and lights. It was cozy inside, and snow was falling outside; if I’d ever had such a nice Christmas Eve, I certainly couldn’t recall it.
Something was bothering him, but I gave him time—because he didn’t pry, and I wanted to return the favor. Jimmy Stewart had realized his own importance and Clarence the angel had gotten his wings before he finally spoke.
“I punched someone.”
“I gathered.” I leaned forward, tracing my fingertip along his lip.
“Do you ever get anyone at work making horrible comments about…us? About this?” He gestured vaguely.
“People think it’s strange. They know I was very single and very uninterested, and it takes them by surprise. Why? Do you care what people say?”
He thought about it for a long time. “No. Not really. I just…don’t want them to hurt you.”
“I appreciate that, but I’m pretty tough. It’s not the outer demons I struggle with. I’ll fight anyone—the only voice I can’t ignore is my own.”
He checked his watch. “Merry Christmas, Hesper.”
Not H, not Hes. Hesper.
“Merry Christmas, Felix.” I stood up and unplugged the lights strung around the tree.
Before he could head up the stairs, I grabbed the corner of his shirt—grimacing when I saw the blood on the hem—and pulled him under the mistletoe. He stood still, letting me lead and go at my own pace, and I loved him for it, appreciated it more than he would ever know. I held my arms out and he moved in for a hug, and we stood that way for a while. I was still adapting to the feel of being in someone’s arms, still trying to figure out if I had any sensual attraction. I liked holding hands. I liked sitting together on the couch. I was starting to like hugs—but only from Felix. My comfort levels were changing every day.
“Is this okay?” he murmured.
“Would you accept me if I didn’t think it was okay?”
“Of course.”
“I’ll keep you posted.” I cocked my head. “I think I like being held.”
I curled one hand around the back of his neck and rested the other one on his cheek. He leaned down obligingly, and I ran my thumb along his cheekbone, marveling at all the things that had always made him so captivating and fun to draw. I moved the hand on his neck up, reveling in the softness of his hair—longer now than it had been since high school.
“I’m so jealous of your eyelashes,” I whispered.
His only response was a strangled-sounding “Hmmm,” and I realized he was taut as a bowstring. Standing this still was taking a concentrated effort on his part.
“Thank you for your patience.” I stood on my tiptoes and pressed my lips to his.
It was less scary this time, but also did absolutely nothing for me. No fireworks went off; my skin didn’t feel electric. His hands twitched where they were settled on my waist, and his lips parted slightly, and I pulled away, thoroughly disgusted because wet and germy and I knew inevitably I was bound to encounter his tongue or his teeth and the thought made me want to positively gag.
“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, and I realized I had backpedaled several steps, only stopping when I bumped into the kitchen table.
“Don’t be.” I resisted the urge to spit in the trash can. How many romance novels talked about how people tasted? I didn’t want to taste Felix. My stomach heaved. “It’s me, it’s all me, I’m just, I’m dysfunctional—”
“It’s okay if you don’t like kissing me.”
“It’s not you,” I moaned, frustrated. “It’s the idea of kissing. I wouldn’t put my mouth on anyone, and I don’t want anyone putting their mouth on me!”
“Hey. Calm down. We don’t have to.”
“Who wants a girlfriend they can’t kiss?” I turned and tried to storm upstairs, but he caught my hand—gentle, not insistent, so I didn’t pull away.
“I want you any way I can have you. And this—this is enough for me. Of course I want to kiss you, and of course I want to sleep with you.” Hearing him say it out loud made my skin crawl, made my stomach tense with fear. “But I also want what’s best for you, and if those things aren’t, well, I’ll learn to live with that. Because I’d rather have you in this capacity than not have you at all.”
“You say that now,” I sighed, and I retreated up the stairs.
I lay in the dark and listened to the sounds of him moving around downstairs, the sink running briefly while he brushed his teeth, the uneven thump of his bare feet on the stairs, his routine as familiar to me as my own. I had grown so used to this. I wasn’t sure how I’d cope with the silence once he got fed up and tired of how very little I had to offer him.
“No crying on Christmas,” he said from the doorway, silhouetted by the hall light behind him.
He had no way of knowing. I was a quiet crier, and it was too dark to see me. But he could tell anyway, because he had been the other half of my heart for as long as I could remember. He knew me almost as well as I knew myself. When he sank down on the bed, pulling the covers up, I reached over, bridging the gap between us, and pulled him closer to me, an awkward tangle of arms and legs.
“I like this,” I confessed. It was easier to talk in the dark. “I’m sorry that it’s all I can do.”
“Don’t ever apologize for being who you are, Hesper.”
“You’ll be giving up a lot.”
“You’re worth it.” He bumped his forehead against mine gently.
IN THE MORNING I woke up first, freezing in horror because we were entirely too close—I could feel every inch of him pressed against me, separated only by our thin, well-worn pajamas. It wasn’t his fault; it was an involuntary reaction by his body, and it was awkward but inevitable. I extracted myself as carefully as possible, relieved to get a bit of distance, and padded down the stairs quietly. I slipped into my painting room and pulled out the one I had done for him—wrapped now, but I knew it by heart. Oil laid on in thick smears, drying in beautiful ridges, depicting the depth of the night broken up by concentric rings of warm light. The snow in the distance was smooth, shaded with subtle color-tinged grays, with more impasto giving texture to the drifts in the foreground. And of course I had painted us, subtle silhouettes, focusing so intently on that moment of tension between us while both of us had waited for the other to break and finally make a move.
I leaned it against the Christmas tree, then went to the kitchen to make breakfast. I threw some frozen cinnamon French toast sticks on a baking sheet and slid it into the oven. I’d popped some syrup into the microwave to heat up when I heard Felix’s slow, shuffling steps down the stairs. His eyes were enormous when he came into the kitchen carrying the painting, his hair mussed from sleep.
“You’re…giving me this?”
“That is the idea of a Christmas present, yes.”
“Smarty-pants.” He smiled anyway, his most radiant and genuine one, the one I loved best. The one I could almost—but never exactly—capture. “It’s stunning. I wish you’d consider doing a show.”
“Never. I would make myself sick dreading it, fail to muster the nerve to attend the reception, and if I got negative reviews, I’d hate myself so much I’d never paint again. And I need to paint—I need it like I need to breathe.”
“I get that. Thank you—I love it. Will it make you anxious if I hang it?”
“Maybe a little.”
“We live in the same house,” he laughed. “We share a bedroom! Why would you give it to me if I have to hide it from you? It’s impossible for me to enjoy it anywhere you won’t see it.”
“That’s fair. I guess you can hang it—on your side of the room.” I put on oven mitts and grabbed breakfast out of the oven. We sat down at the table and ate right off the pan.
“I sort of got you something too. It’s, uh…not much. I promise next year will be better. I’ll be about to graduate then, and my knee will be healed up, I hope, so I can get a better job.” Embarrassed, he handed me a stack of tickets printed on card stock.
Honestly, I was too emotional over the idea that he still planned to be around next Christmas to try to tease him out of his self-consciousness. The tickets all said something different. Breakfast in bed. A date at a museum. A movie of my choice, even if he hated it. Several “shut up” tickets, promising he would leave me alone to let me paint or recharge my introvert batteries. (I noted, with a smile, that these said REUSABLE! all around the border.)
“They’re perfect. Thank you.”
I leaned over and kissed his cheek, because for some reason, that didn’t set off all the alarm bells and ratchet my anxiety up to a nonfunctional level. It seemed to be okay, so long as I was the one initiating and there was no physical reaction on his part. His jaw was stubbly where he hadn’t shaved yet. It was oddly endearing, and we sat at the table, eating our French toast sticks and holding hands while he rattled off every Christmas joke he knew and I rolled my eyes, trying not to laugh because it seemed like a bad idea to encourage him.
For the first Christmas in years, I wasn’t alone.
JASMINE CAME OVER on New Year’s Eve, because she said—in not so many words—she didn’t trust me to actually get dressed and show up. She wasn’t exactly wrong. For all the excitement of the dress and delicate, handcrafted mask I’d painstakingly created, the anxiety that always accompanied social events had been gaining momentum every day since Christmas. If she hadn’t shown up with a makeup kit and a bag of hair styling tools, I probably would have spent the night in my sweatpants, eating pizza and playing board games with Felix, consequences with the college be damned.
“Out! Shoo! You can’t see her till she’s ready,” she said bossily, pushing him out despite his startled, vaguely worried expression and shutting the door in his face.
