“No, this is better. You’re lucky.”
I feel his hand on my waist, and when I turn to look he kisses me. His lips taste sweet, like cinnamon and chocolate, and I want to pull him closer, I want to kiss him again.
But first I need to tell him the truth.
I put my hand on his chest.
“Wait.”
He stops.
He looks into my eyes, waiting.
And I’m sorry but I don’t know how to tell him. The whole scene is just too perfect: All the soft little lights are twinkling, the waterfall sounds like music, and the smell of the flowers is intoxicating—and it’s another perfect moment I can’t bring myself to ruin.
Because clearly I am past the point of no return. Lying to Adrian was bad enough. But now I’ve lied to his parents and even his parents’ friends. Once these people learn the truth, there’s no way they’ll ever accept me. My relationship with Adrian doesn’t stand a chance. We’re like one of Teddy’s playtime soap bubbles—magical, buoyant, lighter than air—and doomed to explode.
He realizes something’s wrong and pulls back.
“Sorry about that. I think I misread the moment. But if I talk long enough and fast enough we can just act like it didn’t happen, right?” He stands up, looking sheepish. “We’ve got Ping-Pong in the garage. Do you feel like playing?”
I take his hand and pull him back toward the bench. This time, I kiss him. I put my hand on his heart and lean into his body so there’s no mistaking how I feel.
“No,” I tell him. “I don’t want to leave here.”
* * *
But I do leave, eventually.
The dinner party breaks up around ten thirty. From our bench in the shadows of the garden, we can hear car doors slamming and engines starting and guests pulling out of the grand circular driveway.
Adrian and I stay in the garden past midnight. Eventually all the lights inside the house blink off and it seems his parents have gone to bed and I decide I should probably get going.
Adrian offers to walk me home. I tell him it’s not necessary, that it’s just a few blocks, but he insists.
“This isn’t South Philly, Mallory. The streets of Spring Brook get pretty rough after dark.”
“I have a stun gun on my key chain.”
“That’s no match for a drunk mom behind the wheel of a minivan. I’d feel much better if I walked you home.”
The neighborhood is silent. The streets are empty, the houses are dark. And as soon as we leave the garden, I feel like a spell has been broken. As the Maxwells’ house comes into view, I’m reminded of all my old problems, I’m reminded of the person I really am. And once again I feel compelled to be honest. Maybe I can’t muster the courage to tell him everything—not tonight, not yet. But I want to say at least one thing that’s true.
“I haven’t had a boyfriend in a while.”
He shrugs. “I’ve never had a boyfriend.”
“I’m just saying, we shouldn’t rush into anything. Until we get to know each other better. Let’s take things slowly.”
“What are you doing tomorrow night?”
“I’m serious, Adrian. You might learn some things about me that you don’t like.”
He takes my hand and squeezes it. “I want to learn everything about you. I want to change my major to Mallory Quinn and learn as much as I can.”
Oh you have no idea, I think to myself. You really have no idea.
He asks if I’ve ever eaten at Bridget Foy’s, his favorite restaurant in all of Philadelphia. I say I haven’t been to Philly in six weeks and I’m in no hurry to get back. “Then how about Princeton? The town, not the university. They have a really good tapas place. Do you like tapas? Should I get a table?”
By this point we’ve crossed the Maxwells’ yard and we’re standing outside my cottage and of course I say yes, I tell him I can be ready by five thirty.
And then we’re kissing again and if I close my eyes it’s easy to pretend we’re back in the castle gardens, that I’m Mallory Quinn Cross-Country Superstar with a promising future and no worries in the world. I’m leaning against the side of my cottage. Adrian has one hand in my hair and another hand moving up my leg, sliding under my dress, and I don’t know how I’m going to tell him the truth, I really don’t.
“This is not taking things slow,” I tell him. “You need to go home now.”
He lifts his hands from my body, steps backward, and takes a deep breath. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”
“Five thirty,” I tell him.
“See you then. Good night, Mallory.”
I stand on the porch and watch him walk across the yard, vanishing into the blackness of the night, and I know I must tell him the truth. I decide I will tell him everything over dinner tomorrow in Princeton. So even if he’s upset, he won’t be able to leave me, he’ll be forced to drive me home. And in that time, maybe I can convince him to give me a second chance.
Then I unlock the door to my cottage, turn on the light, and discover Ted Maxwell lying in my bed.
18
He sits up, shielding his eyes from the light. “Jesus, Caroline, can you turn it down?” His voice is an octave lower than normal, thick with sleep.
I don’t move from the doorway.
“It’s Mallory.”
He peeks out between his fingers and seems surprised to find himself in my cottage, in my bed, under my blankets. “Oh, Jesus. Oh, fuck. I’m sorry.” He swings his legs out of bed and stands up and immediately loses his balance. He grabs the wall to steady himself and waits for the room to stop spinning. Ted is so drunk he doesn’t seem to notice that he’s not wearing pants, that he’s huddled against the wall in a polo shirt and black boxer-brief underwear. There are gray chinos splayed across the foot of the bed, like he peeled them off just before tucking himself in.
He says, “This isn’t what it looks like.”
It looks like Ted is being frisked by the police. He’s got both legs spread apart and both hands pressed against the wall.
“Maybe I should get Caroline?”
“No! God, no.” He turns to look at me. “I just need you to—oh Jesus, oh no.” He looks back at the wall and steadies himself. “Can you bring me some water?”
I walk over to the sink and fill one of the small plastic tumblers that I serve to Teddy. It’s illustrated with polar bears and penguins. I carry it over to Ted and I can smell the booze on him; he reeks of scotch and sour sweat. He drinks from the cup, sloshing most of it across his neck and chest. So I fill it again and this time he manages to get most of the water into his mouth. But his body is still anchored to the wall, like he’s not quite ready to take on gravity.
“Ted, why don’t you stay here? I’ll go to the big house. I can sleep on the sofa.”
“No, no, no, I need to get back.”
“I really think I should get Caroline.”
“I’m better now. The water helps. Watch.”
He stands up straight and takes a wobbly step toward me. Then he reaches out, flailing, desperate for help. I take his hand and guide him to the foot of the bed. He sinks onto the mattress, not releasing my hand until I’m seated beside him.
“Five minutes,” he promises. “It’s getting better.”