“I just want to know what your plans are,” I say, staring at the sky. The sun is setting and the lights of the city in the far distance illuminate the skyline.
“Plans for what?” She sounds confused.
I focus my attention on her. “Just with stuff.”
“You’re already getting sick of me, aren’t you? Look, Ethan, I can totally move out. I have a few friends I can stay with until I find somewhere else.”
“And how are you going to pay for this other place?” I ask. “And who are these other friends you’ll be staying with? Guy friends?” Why the hell did I just ask that?
“Hey, I have other friends.” She presses her hand to her chest, offended. “You’re just my favorite.” She’s not joking when she says that, and for some reason it makes me happy and also makes me mentally roll my eyes at myself.
“That doesn’t answer how you can pay for your own place,” I say, unbuckling my seat belt.
She tips her chin down and twists the platinum ring on her finger. “I have no idea.”
I reach over and fix my finger under her chin, forcing her to look up at me. “Hey, you’re totally taking me wrong here anyway. All I want to talk about is our plans for moving forward.”
“Our plans?” she asks, assessing me with skepticism.
“Yeah, you and I and the place we now both call home,” I explain, removing my finger from her chin.
“Oh, you want me to start paying rent.” She frees a trapped breath.
“Yes and no… I know you’re going to probably need a little more time to heal and what not, but I think we should probably discuss how this is going to work a little further down the road.” I flip the handle of the door, hating to say it but knowing it has to be said. “Like maybe when you’re feeling better, you could get a job and start helping out.” I’m trying to be subtle, but it’s hard. “I just think that maybe if you were doing just a little bit more stuff, like working and finding some kind of hobby, things might be a little easier.”
“I know that,” she says quietly, her brow puckering as she stares at the scars on her wrist. I asked her once where they came from and she said it was from something really stupid she did, which makes me wonder if she got them when she got the ankle one. “But I have no idea where to start.”
“I’ll help you,” I assure her, reaching over and giving her knee a gentle squeeze. “I’m not going to let you go at this alone. And when you’re ready, we can talk more… about anything that you want to. I’m an excellent listener.”
“I know you are.” She stares at me for an eternity, searching my eyes, like she doesn’t quite believe I’m real. When she finally opens her mouth, I have no idea what she’s going to say. “Thank you.” She unlocks her seat belt and leans over, giving me a kiss on the cheek.
I’m stunned. Despite all the touching we’ve done, this feels different. More intimate and personal and I realize that despite the fact that we’ve touched each other in places most friends don’t, we’ve never actually kissed each other, a real passionate, lips-devouring kiss. And I want to kiss her so much it takes a lot of inner strength to keep my hands to myself. My instincts shout for me to jump out of the truck and run through the desert back to the apartment, far, far away from her. But the need to help her keeps me in the seat. I need to help her, like I didn’t help London. This is my second chance to get things right and I want to make things right with Lila and with us. It’s an overpowering, binding, magnetic feeling, one I’m unsure what to do with other than keep going.
When she leans back in the driver’s seat, the look on her face is unreadable. “What do we do now?”
I shrug and then my mouth turns upward. “How about we go home and watch a sappy, poetic movie?”
“Home?” She says it like it’s unreal, like homes don’t exist. “Yeah, let’s go home.” She opens the door and jumps out into the sand, then turns around and aims a finger at me. “But you’re driving. I’m so flipping scared I’m going to wreck your truck.” She blows me a kiss and then slams the door, acting just like the Lila I met a year ago, only she’s not because the Lila I met never really existed. She was a mirage created by pills.
Strangely enough, I’m not the same person when I met her because what I’m doing right now—what I’m feeling at this exact moment—is something I never thought I’d do or feel. Dependency—the thing I hate. I’ve seen it in action, through drugs and through relationships, like my mom’s dependency for my dad, but I’m letting her be dependent on me, and in a weird way, I’m kind of relying on her to let me help her and trusting her to get better.
Even though she’s been a pain in the ass for the last few days, the thought of Lila moving out, living with another friend, annoys me. I kind of want her to live with me and that leaves me confused because it means that for the first time since London, I want someone to be in my life. I want Lila, more than I’ve ever wanted anyone.
Chapter Ten
Lila
I’ve been living with Ethan for two weeks and I’ve been pill free for two days, not even taking my half pills anymore. It’s a strange feeling, one I’m still adjusting to and learning how to handle. I’d never realized how altered things would get when I was popping pills. Even the heat of the sun feels a little more blistering. Plus, I haven’t slept with anyone. I think it’s a record for me. Even when I dated guys, like my fleeting relationship with Parker a year ago, the relationship was based solely on sex that I barely felt, barely remembered. This has been my life since the first time I had sex. Even then, I had no idea what I was getting into, and when I finally did, it was too late. The things that happened forever changed who I was and how I saw things. I’ve pretty much never looked at guys the same way since, except for Ethan. He’s a genuinely nice guy, which is rare, and makes our situation complex. Ethan and I have always had an interesting relationship, one that’s pushed the boundaries of friendship yet hasn’t quite crossed it. Now that we spend so much time together we barely touch each other, despite the fact that we’re constantly defying friendship boundaries. Like when he walked into the bathroom while I was taking a shower this morning.
“What the hell are you doing?” I’d yelled when I heard the door open and shut.
“Relax, I’m just getting my toothbrush,” he’d replied and then I heard him rummaging around in the medicine cabinet.
“If you don’t get out of here, I’m going to pull back the curtain and flash you.” I said, feeling squirmy about the fact that the curtain was very thin and nearly clear, almost see-through.
The water turned on and then he busted up laughing. “Okay, best punishment ever.”
My stomach fluttered with butterflies as I smoothed back my wet hair and cracked the curtain back, peering out at him. “You know just as well as I do that you do not want to see me naked.” I’m not even sure why I said it—whether I’m challenging him to admit something I hope exists or if I really do believe he doesn’t want me that way.
He was wearing a pair of plaid drawstring pajama bottoms and no shirt. He had a toothbrush in hand and he was leaning over the sink, staring at the curtain. “Do you not know me at all?” He cocked an eyebrow as he stuck his toothbrush, coated with toothpaste, into his mouth. “I love seeing naked women.” His voice sounded funny and he waggled his eyebrows, completely cool and casual.
I narrowed my eyes, wondering just how much he could see of me through the curtain, and wondering if I cared. “Yeah, but you made the friend line between us for a reason.” I was being blunt and I didn’t know why. I blamed it on withdrawals because I was learning quickly that they could make me insane and turn me into a crazy, emotional mess. “And you…” I almost bring up that night when we touched each other, but I’m scared.
His eyebrows knitted and he leaned over the sink, spitting out a mouth full of toothpaste. “No, we both agreed on that line, I thought.” He rinsed off his brush and returned it into the holder near the sink. Then he turned around, leaned against the counter, and crossed his arms. “Am I wrong about that? Do you… do you… What do you want?”
Why is he asking me this? What does it mean? Why am I asking myself so many questions?
Water ran down my eyes and face as I discreetly gazed at his body. He’s so beautiful in a way I’m not used to. A rough beauty, one that has substance, the kind that’s real, not masked by tans, perfectly sculpted bodies, and fancy suits and ties. He’s art, pure and simple—wispy hair that always falls into place right over his dark, smoldering eyes, creating the perfect shadowy look and those tattoos… dear God, the tattoos. He is the kind of art you really have to look at to get what it means—to understand what he’s thinking.
I suddenly realized just how out of character I was. I was noticing him more than I normally do and I could feel it through every inch of my body, the pulsating urge to fling the shower curtain back and beg him to take me now. Beg him to. I never do that with sex. Usually guys just take it from me and I shut my feelings off. But I was contemplating going there with him, asking him for the first time, and being sober. It was making me wonder if I really knew who I was. All these years, the person I’d become was based on pills and this crazy need to feel loved.
We stared at each other for a while, and then Ethan cleared his throat and stood up straight, heading to the door. “If you want, we can pack up the rest of your clothes and go down to that consignment store and see if you can get anything for them.” His voice sounded a little off pitch, but his expression was unfaltering.
I nodded, trying to stand motionless through the steam and the heat coiling up my inner thighs. “Sounds good.”
He smiled, and then winked, his gaze skimming to the curtain hiding my body, and then he walked out, shutting the door behind him. I released the curtain, moving back below the showerhead, allowing the water to wash the heat and want off my body and down the drain, telling myself I’d get over it—get over Ethan. But for some reason, the idea seemed unlikely and very out of reach.