A Fine Mess (Over the Top) (17 page)

“Lily, look at me.”

I squeeze my eyes, my limbs suddenly heavy, my head a thousand pounds. I exhale and look up.

“I love you,” he says.

Love.
Love, love, love.
He loves me. But he can’t. “You can’t.”

“You need to stop telling me what I can and can’t feel. Sure there’s some stuff we need to deal with, but you’re still you. You’re Lily Roberts, hot as sin, designer extraordinaire. You’re my Venus. It’s pretty simple, actually. And I realize now might not be the best time, inappropriate or whatever, but being in your teenage bedroom is turning me on.”

I laugh, actually
laugh
. I’ve just bared my most hideous self, the sticky truth spilled between us, and he still sees the girl he ravished in Belize. And I mean
ravished
. I latch on to his flirting like it’s a life raft. “I don’t have a school uniform, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Can’t lie, that disappoints me. I’ll have to deal with you naked.”

We’re sitting here, flirting, joking, as though it’s just another day. As though things haven’t changed. He’s
showing me
things haven’t changed. I take in the sincerity in his brown eyes, the warmth of his hands holding mine. He was worried he’d repeat his family’s mistakes, but here he is, standing by me. He’s so much more than he realizes. Bigger. Brighter. He’s a planet in a world full of stars.

“You can’t love me,” I say again, too scared to believe it.

“Seriously? You’re still going on about that?”

“You can’t.”

“I do.”

“You’re sure?”

“Okay, let me think about it.” He tips his head back, then he shrugs and smirks. “Yep. Still sure.”

“I love you,” I whisper, and my chest expands to fit my heart.

He grins. “I know. But it’s awesome to hear it.” He releases my hands and grabs my neck, pulling me in for a kiss, deep and true—the most honest kiss of my life. He pushes forward until I’m on my back, our tongues tangling and groans mingling, his weight holding me down.

God, do I love this man. He peels off my clothes, kisses my body, worships me from head to toe. Then he’s inside me.
I love you
, each thrust says.
You haven’t changed
, his greedy hands confirm. We’re rough and wild, trust and truth binding us closer. My orgasm blinds me, stars collecting behind my eyes, our cries suppressed in my parents’ house. He stays inside me longer than usual, peppering kisses all over my body.

“Tomorrow,” he says once we’ve washed up and crawled into bed. “We’ll go tomorrow and figure stuff out.” He pulls my back into his chest, latching an arm around my waist.

“Tomorrow,” I confirm.

Anxiety still simmers, fear that I’ll eventually have to part with my things. Let people go. But this needs to be done. A trip to the farm normally calms me. One whiff of the lavender potpourri I have in each room relaxes my shoulders—the smell that would greet me at my grandmother’s.
I’m home
, I often think. Not tomorrow, though. Tomorrow, I’m guessing nausea will claw at my throat.

When I pull into the lane that leads to Lily’s farmhouse, she slaps her hand on my steering wheel. “Can we wait a second?”

She doesn’t have to ask me twice, not with the way she’s bouncing her knee, or how a weight compresses my sternum, apprehension pressing it down. Whatever’s inside that building has a hold over her. It’s bigger than her quirks and tics—her idiosyncrasies I thought I understood. I want to say the right things, help her, but I’m no therapist. I barely passed Psych 101.

I ease my foot off the gas and park my lame-ass, I’d-rather-eat-a-bucket-of-oysters Toyota Corolla. Gotta hate rental cars. “Nervous?” I ask.

“Are scared out of my mind and nervous the same thing?”

“Would it help if I mentioned you look hot when you’re nervous? Especially in that hat.” Her skin still glows from Belize, a few freckles below her tan. I swallow past the pressure on my chest and focus on her strawberry lips, on her trim patchwork jacket, tight ripped jeans, and ankle boots.
My
Lily.

She tugs down the sides of her red knit toque and pulls her loose hair over her shoulder. “You’re ridiculous.”

“No. I’m honest.”

“You say I’m hot no matter what I’m doing.”

“Exactly. Honest. You should try it. It feels great. What do you see when you look at me?” I wiggle my eyebrows.

I haven’t felt this protective of anyone since my mother. That time of my life isn’t one I’d like to repeat. Anger over my dad, coupled with the fear my mother might overdose again, had me so on edge I’d snap at my friends and fight with Finn at the drop of a hat. It took a beatdown from Finn to shake me out of it. He gave me shit, listing all our friends whose parents were divorced and telling me to stop being so selfish. That it wasn’t about me. Finn might not have had the burden of my knowledge, but his yelling subdued my rage.

This is different. There’s no anger here. Only a fierce need to prove to Lily I’m here for her, find a way to ease her worry, and the best way I know to distract her is to turn her focus on yours truly. After all, the word awesome ends with
me
.

In fifth grade we had to write a poem about ourselves. Like most school endeavors, I busted it out five minutes before class. It’s probably the best thing I’ve ever written:

Playing along with my distraction game, Lily runs a finger from my forehead down my nose, tracing a line to my lower lip. “You’re sexy as sin, Sawyer West.
That’s
what I see.”

Like I said, Captain Awesome. I nip her finger and she tugs it back, grinning.

“Isn’t honesty liberating?” I say. “Now tell me what you’re scared of. What do you think will happen when we walk into your place?”

Her smile slips, and I follow her gaze across the flat land leading to the farmhouse, snow covering the expanse. The structure is old, the gray-brown wood weathered. A few evergreens loom large at its sides. From the outside it’s ordinary, indistinct. But it’s not the outside that has her freezing up.

Finally, she says, “It’s one thing to tell you what I do, another for you to see it. I’m worried you’ll look at me differently, that you won’t feel the same. I still need to face my issues, but I don’t want to lose you, too.” Her last words trail off.

When we had sex last night, I could barely breathe. I didn’t want it to end, didn’t want to pull out of her when it was over. I’ve never let a girl spend the night, haven’t chosen to accommodate someone else in my life, until Lily. Not sure I’m ready for the ring and bended knee and promises of forever, but if she turns around and tells me she needs a break, that she has to handle her issues on her own, odds are I’ll wind up riding my bike until my legs snap. Or my heart stops. I place two fingers under her chin and turn her face toward me. “Not another living soul knows what happened with my mother. I’ve never told a woman I love her. I flew to Belize to be with you, and I’m here now. We’re in this together.”

“I’m still scared.”

“I know. But I’m here for you.” When she frowns harder, I say, “Plus, if we split, I’ll have to return the vintage sewing machine I bought you.”

Her eyes light up. “Is it a Singer?”

“Yup.”

“Black with gold-and-red filigree?”

“The very one.”

She bites her lip. “You shouldn’t have.”

With an exaggerated exhalation, I wipe my brow. “Actually, I’m glad you said that, because I didn’t. But now that I
know
you’ll go crazy for one, consider it done.”

She rolls her eyes, the exact reaction I’d hoped for. “Your maturity hovers around thirteen.”

I pull the car keys from the ignition. “It’s a gift. Now, what do you say we do this?”

Still worrying her lip, she nods.

The hinges sigh as she opens the farmhouse door. It’s warmer than outside, but still cool, the floor lamenting with each step. Scents of earth and cedar thicken the air, something flowery lingering as we cross the vestibule. She pauses at the threshold to the living area, and I grip her hips. “I got you.”

Her body shudders, a slight tremor I feel to my core. Then we step inside.

I’m on her heels, keeping close. She stops as we walk into the room, her slight body rigid with tension. If I could shield her with a protective force field, I would. Cloak her in love. Anything to ease her anxiety. Instead I wrap my arms around her waist.

The space isn’t as messy as I expected. There’s order to the chaos, in a way. But man, is it packed. The right wall is lined with two levels of clothing racks, hangers crammed together, like an overstocked thrift store. Below them are shoes. Lots of shoes. Boots and clogs and ballet flats, some piled on top of others. In the middle are a couch and coffee table covered with belts and purses. A shelving unit on the opposite wall is heaped with hats: sun hats, bowler hats, cowboy hats, cloche hats. Another beside it overflows with jewelry. Behind us paintings and artwork lean against a fireplace, stacks of canvas and wood frames.

My throat tightens. I knew this would be tough, that her issues were bigger than I could have imagined. But this is more. This is a woman who’s spent
years
hiding herself, never asking for help, and she’s placed her trust in me. The guy who dances to stamp out the weird.

Worried she can read my uncertainty, I say, “It’s not that bad. Nico’s apartment at university was way worse. It had a permanent hockey-gear, week-old-spaghetti stink. This place smells like flowers.”

“Lavender,” she mumbles. “And I bet he didn’t have enough clothing to dress half of Canada.”

“Considering one of his shirts would fit three people, I wouldn’t take that bet.” Her muffled laugh doesn’t hide her strain, but it’s the best I’ve got. “Is there more?”

She sighs. “I haven’t unpacked Jim’s things. The boxes are in the dining room, with other stuff. There’s more upstairs, too. Not as much, but…”

Her voice cracks, and it kills me. Fucking
kills
me. Cuts me down. Rips me in two. Last night, I made sure she knew she was still the sexiest woman I’ve ever known. I kissed her deeper and fucked her harder, not treating her like she’s fragile. Like she might break. She doesn’t need my pity; she needs to believe I still see her despite her issues. “This is a part of you, but it isn’t all of you. Without it, maybe you wouldn’t be such an amazing designer. Maybe these things are your inspiration. I wouldn’t change a thing about you, but I want you happy. Healthy.” I squeeze her tighter. “Let’s sit down.”

She nods, and her hat chafes my chin.

I sit on the floor, the only empty place to get comfortable, and she lowers herself opposite me. She wraps her arms around her knees and picks at the fraying threads. “You don’t have to do this. If you want to go, it’s fine. If you don’t want me to come to Vancouver, I’ll understand, and I’ll still get help.”

Fuck. Vancouver. What if moving exacerbates her issues? Makes her worse? Leaving this behind could help, but it could be a trigger, too. And I’d be responsible. If something happened, and she spiraled downhill, I’d never forgive myself. Avoiding the subject, I say, “I thought we were done with this whole you-telling-me-what-I-can-and-can’t-feel thing? I’m not going anywhere. Not because I feel obligated. Not because I feel bad for you. We were apart for three days, Lil.
Three days.
I don’t know about you, but it sucked for me. This”—I gesture around the room—“is a big deal. One we need to address. But I have no intention of walking away. Unless you want me to, but I’m pretty sure you think I’m awesome.”

She shakes her head, mock annoyance on her face. “Yes, I think you’re pretty awesome. And I missed you, too. A lot.”

“So let that be the last of that. No more questioning my feelings.”

Feelings that are knotting in my chest. This past week I had dinner with Finn and Meryl and spent the night picturing Lily and me living together—me forcing her to watch a samurai film, her dragging me to yoga. Before her all I wanted was fast cars, fast women, and a successful business. Now I want more. But I’m impulsive and selfish, traits that are tough to roll with on a good day. Add in her anxiety, and I could damage the one girl I’d do anything to protect.

Lashes lowered, she peers up at me and says, “Okay.”

But I’m not okay, and neither is she. The way she hugs her knees tighter, avoiding my eyes, she doesn’t believe me. Which isn’t cool. I’m here to help her, make things easier. This is about Lily, not me.

Superpower wish: hypercognition,
understand her mind
.

I tilt my head until she looks at me. “What we need is to figure out a next step for you. Have you ever thought about talking to a therapist?”

“Yeah, at different times, but then I have an upswing and assume I’ll be fine. I convince myself it’ll go away, that I’ll grow out of it. That I can handle it on my own. When I’ve looked up stuff online, it often talks about this sort of thing being linked to OCD. I was nervous. Worried something else was wrong with me, and I’d be given medication. And”—she draws a figure eight on her knee, looping her finger in circles—“I had an aunt who was a severe hoarder. Seeing a therapist felt like, I don’t know…like I was a step closer to ending up like her.”

A snapshot of homes filled with newspapers, kitty litter, and box towers plagues my mind, the severity of the situation growing by the second. “And now?”

She studies the crowded space, pausing on each section. “And now I realize I need help. Jim’s death has brought my anxiety rushing back. Worse than it’s been in ages. And I’m tired of the deceit. If I want an honest relationship with you, if I want to stop lying to my friends and family, I have to talk to someone. It’s just…” She frowns.

I scoot closer. “What are you worried about?”

“I also know getting help means I’ll have to let things go.” She glances around the room again. “Thinking about it increases my anxiety. I start to panic.”

“I bet a therapist would help with that. Kolton saw someone after Marina died. If you ask me, my stunts to make him laugh were the main things that pulled him through, but I’m sure the therapist contributed, giving him coping techniques and stuff.”

She offers a thin smile and says a noncommittal, “Yeah.”

“Yeah, what?”

“Yes, I’m ready.” She juts out her chin, defiant. “It’s time I see someone. I can’t keep going on like this, always worried the girls or my folks will find out. Getting help can be a fresh start for me.”

As long as I don’t make her worse. She crept up on me, infiltrated my every day—working together, pushing each other creatively. Opening up to her about my mother was surprisingly easy, and I can’t get enough of her body. But I’m still me. Out of the gate, I hurt her and kept her at a distance. I nearly slept with the Anti-Lily to prove a point. I could mess up again. Undermine Lily’s progress, unintentionally.

Her gray eyes linger on her treasures, but her hold on her knees loosens and her shoulders relax. “Yeah,” she repeats, her voice more solid, sure. “I’m ready. I realized it last night and the feeling has only increased. I want to do something about it.”

The bravest woman I know.

Which means I have to suck up whatever crap is spinning in my head and man up. I can deal with the Vancouver move and my shitty track record with life and women later. For now, I’ll be by her side as she gets help, let her know I’m not going anywhere. Talk to Meryl, maybe. My sister-in-law spends the better part of her day with her face between women’s legs, but she’s a doctor. She must have some experience with anxiety disorders and can help me figure out if being with Lily could help or hurt her. My arrhythmia returns, a syncopated beat that twists my chest. If the answer is “hurt,” I’m not sure I’ll have the willpower to do right by Lily and walk away.

Pushing that mess from my mind, I focus on what I
can
do. “What if I delay heading back to Van for a couple weeks? I met with the new designer, Amal, before I flew here, spent some time with him. He can handle any minor production issues. I want to stay, if that’s cool with you. Be here for you at your first appointment.”

“I’d like that. We can leave for the city tomorrow. Kevin and his family want some time on their own.” She touches my cheek, tears welling. “Thank you.”

I brush an errant drop with my thumb, looking forward to having her to myself for a while. Plus, getting her away from the man-child before he turns her against me is a necessity. “There’s nothing to thank.” I pull her closer and kiss her, taking my sweet time. I suck on her strawberry lips and graze her tongue with mine. My heart pounds again—harder, faster—this woman controlling the tune.

“Keep kissing like that,” I say, “and I’ll barricade us upstairs for the winter.”

Her tan cheeks redden. “I can think of worse things. But the heat’s pretty shoddy.”

“Are you suggesting I don’t have the means to keep you warm?”

“Might be a risky bet here. When we’re back in the city, we can turn off the heat in my place and see what you can do. Deal?”