Harrison smiles, looking more relaxed.
We walk toward the stairs near the kitchen.
“Would you like me to prepare dinner for you and Miss Randolph before I go?” Harrison asks.
I step into the kitchen and wave him off. “No. I want to do it myself.”
“Very good, then.”
As Harrison continues toward the stairs, I call, “There’s just one small thing. How do I turn this stove on?”
• • •
By five fifteen, I have a simple lemon and chicken recipe in an “oven-safe dish” like the online instructions said, ready to go. I slide it into the oven and go take a shower.
By five thirty, I’m dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved dark blue button-down.
By five forty-five, the table is set—linen napkins, crystal glasses, china plates, silver utensils—Harrison would be proud. I turn the lights down low and put a bottle of white wine in the ice bucket to chill.
By five to six, I have the cooked chicken warming on top of the stove, hoping it tastes better than it looks. I light the candles on the table, sit on the couch, and wait for Kennedy to get here.
By six fifteen, I’m still waiting—but I’ve never met a woman who was actually on time, so it’s all good.
By six thirty, I turn on the TV and use my handgrips as I walk around the room. Watching and waiting.
By six forty-five, I pour myself a glass of wine.
By seven, I risk looking completely pathetic and dial Kennedy’s number. It goes to voice mail and I don’t leave a message.
By seven thirty, I’m on glass number two. And I blow out the candles.
At eight, I thought I heard someone on the front step, but when I went to check, there was no one there.
By nine, it starts to rain hard, thunder and lightning galore. I lie on the couch, arm bent under my head, legs stretched out, shirt open.
But it’s not until ten that I actually believe Kennedy’s not going to show.
12
When I first open my eyes, I’m disoriented. I don’t know what time it is, or how long I’ve been asleep. Then I realize I’m on the couch, it’s still dark and raining outside—and as the recollection of Kennedy not showing for dinner hits me like a sharp jab below the ribs, the knowledge of what woke me up breaks through my foggy brain.
It was a knock on the door.
I walk to the door and open it, just in time to catch a petite blonde going down the steps.
“Kennedy?”
She stops on the sidewalk and slowly turns to face me. She’s soaked through—her jeans molded to the curves of her legs, the sleeves of her white and navy striped sweater dripping, her hair flat, lips slightly tinged with blue.
“I wasn’t going to come,” she says.
My voice is drowsy and deep. “Yeah, I kind of figured that when you didn’t show up.” I open the door wider. “Come inside.”
Instead, Miss Vinegar to my Mr. Water takes a step back.
“I don’t know why I’m here.” And she sounds genuinely bewildered—even a little panicked.
“Obviously because I’m irresistible.” The wind blows, spraying ice cold drops across my bare skin where my shirt hangs open. “You’re shivering, honey, come inside.”
She stares at me, so many emotions swirling in her expression. She’s like a skittish kitten who can’t decide if she should let the stranger pat her head or haul ass up the nearest tree.
And it breaks my heart.
“I don’t think I can.”
So I go to her.
The rain is cold and hard, soaking my shirt. Her eyes dart from the sidewalk, to my chest, up to my eyes and back again, like she’s ready to bolt—but her feet stay planted.
I lean in so she can hear me above the deluge. “Do you remember when I first learned to ride a bike again?”
The corners of her mouth tug up a little. “Yeah, I remember.”
“And we only had your girly bike, so you sat on the handlebars and I pedaled?”
She nods.
“And one day, I was going way too fast and we hit a rock, and both of us went flying. I didn’t want to ride like that anymore, because I was afraid you’d get hurt. Do you remember what you told me?”
Her eyes meet mine. “I said . . . I said we had to keep riding . . . because the ride was the only thing that made falling worth it.”
I nod tenderly.
And she adds, “Then you called me a fortune cookie.”
And we both laugh.
When our chuckles settle, I hold out my hand. “I’m not going to let us fall this time, Kennedy.”
Her eyes are back on my chest. “I’m not sure—”
“All you have to do is take my hand.”
It’s like I was saying before—you never really know who someone is inside. That someone as magnificently ferocious in court as Kennedy could be hiding such a fragile, delicate soul. And don’t think for a second it’s because she’s weak. The fact that she’s even fucking standing here shows how strong she is. It’s just . . . instinct.
We shy away from the things that hurt us—that have hurt us in the past.
That’s what scars are for. They protect the wounds. Cover them with thick, numb tissue so we’ll never have to feel that same pain again. The bottom of my stump is one big, hard callus.
But the scars Kennedy has inside? They’re even tougher.
When she continues to stare at my hand, I plead, “Please, just come inside.”
We walk toward the stairs near the kitchen.
“Would you like me to prepare dinner for you and Miss Randolph before I go?” Harrison asks.
I step into the kitchen and wave him off. “No. I want to do it myself.”
“Very good, then.”
As Harrison continues toward the stairs, I call, “There’s just one small thing. How do I turn this stove on?”
• • •
By five fifteen, I have a simple lemon and chicken recipe in an “oven-safe dish” like the online instructions said, ready to go. I slide it into the oven and go take a shower.
By five thirty, I’m dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved dark blue button-down.
By five forty-five, the table is set—linen napkins, crystal glasses, china plates, silver utensils—Harrison would be proud. I turn the lights down low and put a bottle of white wine in the ice bucket to chill.
By five to six, I have the cooked chicken warming on top of the stove, hoping it tastes better than it looks. I light the candles on the table, sit on the couch, and wait for Kennedy to get here.
By six fifteen, I’m still waiting—but I’ve never met a woman who was actually on time, so it’s all good.
By six thirty, I turn on the TV and use my handgrips as I walk around the room. Watching and waiting.
By six forty-five, I pour myself a glass of wine.
By seven, I risk looking completely pathetic and dial Kennedy’s number. It goes to voice mail and I don’t leave a message.
By seven thirty, I’m on glass number two. And I blow out the candles.
At eight, I thought I heard someone on the front step, but when I went to check, there was no one there.
By nine, it starts to rain hard, thunder and lightning galore. I lie on the couch, arm bent under my head, legs stretched out, shirt open.
But it’s not until ten that I actually believe Kennedy’s not going to show.
12
When I first open my eyes, I’m disoriented. I don’t know what time it is, or how long I’ve been asleep. Then I realize I’m on the couch, it’s still dark and raining outside—and as the recollection of Kennedy not showing for dinner hits me like a sharp jab below the ribs, the knowledge of what woke me up breaks through my foggy brain.
It was a knock on the door.
I walk to the door and open it, just in time to catch a petite blonde going down the steps.
“Kennedy?”
She stops on the sidewalk and slowly turns to face me. She’s soaked through—her jeans molded to the curves of her legs, the sleeves of her white and navy striped sweater dripping, her hair flat, lips slightly tinged with blue.
“I wasn’t going to come,” she says.
My voice is drowsy and deep. “Yeah, I kind of figured that when you didn’t show up.” I open the door wider. “Come inside.”
Instead, Miss Vinegar to my Mr. Water takes a step back.
“I don’t know why I’m here.” And she sounds genuinely bewildered—even a little panicked.
“Obviously because I’m irresistible.” The wind blows, spraying ice cold drops across my bare skin where my shirt hangs open. “You’re shivering, honey, come inside.”
She stares at me, so many emotions swirling in her expression. She’s like a skittish kitten who can’t decide if she should let the stranger pat her head or haul ass up the nearest tree.
And it breaks my heart.
“I don’t think I can.”
So I go to her.
The rain is cold and hard, soaking my shirt. Her eyes dart from the sidewalk, to my chest, up to my eyes and back again, like she’s ready to bolt—but her feet stay planted.
I lean in so she can hear me above the deluge. “Do you remember when I first learned to ride a bike again?”
The corners of her mouth tug up a little. “Yeah, I remember.”
“And we only had your girly bike, so you sat on the handlebars and I pedaled?”
She nods.
“And one day, I was going way too fast and we hit a rock, and both of us went flying. I didn’t want to ride like that anymore, because I was afraid you’d get hurt. Do you remember what you told me?”
Her eyes meet mine. “I said . . . I said we had to keep riding . . . because the ride was the only thing that made falling worth it.”
I nod tenderly.
And she adds, “Then you called me a fortune cookie.”
And we both laugh.
When our chuckles settle, I hold out my hand. “I’m not going to let us fall this time, Kennedy.”
Her eyes are back on my chest. “I’m not sure—”
“All you have to do is take my hand.”
It’s like I was saying before—you never really know who someone is inside. That someone as magnificently ferocious in court as Kennedy could be hiding such a fragile, delicate soul. And don’t think for a second it’s because she’s weak. The fact that she’s even fucking standing here shows how strong she is. It’s just . . . instinct.
We shy away from the things that hurt us—that have hurt us in the past.
That’s what scars are for. They protect the wounds. Cover them with thick, numb tissue so we’ll never have to feel that same pain again. The bottom of my stump is one big, hard callus.
But the scars Kennedy has inside? They’re even tougher.
When she continues to stare at my hand, I plead, “Please, just come inside.”
