“You didn’t need to wait up,” she scoffs, brushing by me quickly, and heading right up the stairs.
Oh no. This is not happening. I may screw things up a lot, but this time, whatever’s up her ass, well…that ain’t my fault—it’s his. I follow her to her door, and catch up to her just as she reaches for the handle, and I pull it first, keeping it shut.
“Mason, I’m tired. I just want to go to bed,” she’s fuming. Whatever that ass**le did, his time will come. But she is not making this about me tonight. I step in closer, and force her to look into my eyes, and it takes her several seconds to break away.
“Seriously, Mason. I don’t want to talk about it,” she says, her voice softer, but not by much. Her nostrils are still flaring, and I can tell she’s still angry. She’s not going to go to sleep. She doesn’t have to talk to me, but she’s got to let out some of this stress from this…this…crap deck she’s been dealt.
“Come with me,” I say, grabbing her hand in mine, and pulling her reluctantly behind me. She tugs in resistance a few times, so I wriggle my hand higher on her forearm to show her I’m not backing down, and eventually she gives in and follows me back down the stairs to the front door, but not without stomping her feet.
“Max is sleeping; I can’t go anywhere,” she sighs.
“I’m not an idiot; just come out front,” I say, leaving her standing on the porch while I run out to my car.
“Wait a second, where’s Claire? Did she leave you here…alone?” She’s shouting at me, and I already know where this is going, and I’m stopping it before it starts.
“She left after he went to bed. Like I said, I’m not an idiot. I can handle watching the house while a child is sleeping,” I half yell and whisper, waving my hands over my head while I sift through the crap in my trunk. I’m yell-whispering—what the hell? I’m so angry and frustrated right now; I want to kick something, but all I can think about is how I owe this damn girl a kiss, and how more than anything I want to give it to her—I want to give it to her right now. But to hell if I’m gonna make her associate my lips with whatever pissed-off juju she’s got brewing in that head of hers. And if last night wasn’t the right time, right now sure as hell isn’t.
I find what I’m looking for, and slam the trunk closed.
“Jesus, Mason! Quiet, you’ll wake Max up!” she says, and I can’t help but stop in my tracks at her absolutely ludicrous statement.
“Really? You think I’m making a raucous? You don’t think all this is probably enough to wake up half the damned street?” I say, pointing into the fully lit and wide-open house behind her, then circling her and finally pointing all around us in one big-ass motion.
She slips out a small giggle at first, then she covers her mouth, trying to hold it in, but she can’t, and pretty soon she’s laughing, full-on belly laughing. Oh my god, she’s laughing. It’s the greatest sound ever, and all I want to do is kiss her!
“You…” I point to her, “are going to ruin me woman.”
Her smile grows when I say that. I’m not even sure where it came from. I’ve never given anyone an edge like that; never let them know they have anything—any power—over me. But she laughs like that, one more time, her arms wrapped around her body and her green eyes lit up under the moon, and yeah…I’m ruined.
“Now get down here,” I say, and she steps cautiously down the steps, still unsure about me.
“Golf clubs? What are we doing, breaking windows? You want me to drive over to his hotel, take a club to his Tahoe, and go all Carrie-Underwood-song on him?” she asks, but takes the club anyway, gripping it tightly, like a baseball bat, to the point where I start to think she might just beat the hell out of my car.
“No, nothing like that,” I say, pushing the club back down because, hell, she’s making me nervous. I hold up one finger so I can run over to the side of the house. I come back with about 15 Coke cans cradled in my shirt, and I drop them on the ground.
“Shhhhhhh!” she says, all serious at first, but soon her smile creeps in. She’s playing with me—this is good, this is the right direction.
I stand a can up on a small steppingstone in the middle of her yard and hold my finger up, like I’m calculating the wind. She laughs quietly, and it’s raspy, and it’s sexy, and I want to make her do it again. I scrunch up my shoulders, and then crack my neck to both sides to focus on my swing. I line it up like I really know what the hell I’m doing, like this—hitting a can with a golf club—is a thing people do.