“What does this mean?”
Will goes completely still. “It’s a reminder,” he says.
“For what?”
He blinks twice. “Nothing important.”
“Usually people don’t get tattoos of things that aren’t important.”
“I guess that’s true,” he says. But he doesn’t elaborate.
I look up at him, frowning, and he rubs his thumb over the lines between my eyebrows, trying to smooth them out.
“Let’s talk about something else,” he says. His other hand skims over the flesh of my bottom. “Better yet—let’s not talk at all.”
* * *
—
For the second time today, I wake up in Will’s bed, but he’s no longer in it. I hear the gurgle of brewing coffee, and I’m about to take one of his pristine white button-ups from its hanger, but I pull a soft navy blue T-shirt from the dresser instead. The logo on the chest is a little red heart with cartoon eyes, and I know that means it’s expensive, but I like his T-shirts. They remind me of twenty-two-year-old Will. The hem falls midway to my knees.
I walk through the living room. There’s no sign of the paper and pencils I saw last night, and I find Will looking out the kitchen window, palms flat on the counter. He’s put on underwear, but that’s it. I stop before he hears my footsteps, taking a moment to appreciate the topography of bone, muscle, and smooth skin that is Will Baxter’s back.
“Good morning,” I say. “Again.”
Will turns around, his eyes sliding down to where the shirt brushes against my legs.
“I like . . .” He raises his eyebrows, and nods in my general direction. “This.”
“This?” I slant my head.
“Yeah. You here. In my clothes.”
There’s a shadow of stubble on his cheeks that I haven’t seen since the first morning he was here, and I want to run my hand over it. But I pull a couple of mugs down from the cupboard, heart hammering under my ribs. Morning-after caffeination is not usually something I stick around for. “And I like . . . coffee.”
“I hope I didn’t wake you up when I got out of bed. I didn’t want to move you off me.” His eyes glimmer at this. “But I have a call at ten.”
“That’s okay. I should have left earlier.” I fill the mugs, passing one to Will.
He pulls a carton of half-and-half from the fridge and pours it into his cup along with three heaping spoons of sugar. I take a sip of my own, black, sighing at how good it is.
“Wait a sec.” I pause. “Where’d you get the coffee maker?”
Will grimaces. “I bought it in town my third day here. Those pod machines are terrible.”
“God, I know.” I’ve got to replace them. “That reminds me. I have a bunch of resort stuff I want to talk to you about later. What does your schedule look like?” The last thing I want is to jeopardize our working relationship. If I decide to stay, I’ll need Will’s help more than ever. But I’m not going to get into all that before his meeting.
“We have a pitch today. It’s at two and will probably drag on for a bit.”
I feel a pang of guilt for coming here so late. “Who’s the client?”
Will’s forehead creases. He puts his mug on the counter and takes a step closer. “Do you really want to talk about my work right now?” he says, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. “Because I would rather talk about last night.”
“Oh,” I say. “Last night was . . .”
Will puts his hands on my hips and pulls me toward him, kissing my neck under my jaw, and then he says into my skin, “Last night was what, Fern?” He nips at my earlobe.
“Last night was . . . nice.” A break from reality. Will’s description crawls through my mind.
“It wasn’t nice.” He cups his hands around my face. “It was amazing. This morning was pretty amazing, too.”
I should tell Will that, as amazing as it was, I can’t see him like this again. It’s one thing to have a crush, but naked sleepovers will only lead to ruin. I don’t think my heart can handle being Will’s break from reality for the rest of his time here.
But then he kisses down my neck, his stubble tickling my skin. “I think we should try it again, don’t you?”
I nod. “Come over as soon as you’re done.”
16
June 14, Ten Years Ago
It was almost midnight when Will and I made it to the mansard-roofed Victorian where I lived. It would have been a grand home at one time, but its guts were now hacked into a warren of apartments. The smell of fried onions accompanied us down the gloomy, narrow hallway to the back of the building. I hoped Will wasn’t paying attention to the yellowing paint and the stained orange carpeting.
He leaned against the wall, hair plastered to his cheeks, while I struggled with the lock.
“My hands are slippery,” I mumbled.
We were drenched. The rain was so heavy that running would have been pointless. Instead, we walked quickly as lightning flashed in the northwest and the old trees that lined my street swayed in the wind, their branches thwacking the power lines.
Will followed me inside, and together we surveyed the tiny room that contained the whole of my life in Toronto. A double bed was pushed against one wall, the “kitchen” on the opposite. You could stand between the two and touch the counter with one arm and the end of my bed with the other. There was just enough room for a pair of vinyl-covered dining chairs and a little wooden table.
“Small would be an understatement, as you can see.” I wasn’t a tidy person by nature, but I’d learned to keep it neat. I made my bed every morning, washed the dishes after I ate. There wasn’t much to decorate, but I’d painted the walls a pale shade of mint and hung a couple of prints I found at a secondhand shop—a forest under an inky night sky and a donut ad that looked antique but certainly was not.
Will slipped off his backpack, his eyes traveling to a Grizzly Bear concert poster hanging above my bed. “It has a lot of personality,” he said. “It seems very you. The window is amazing.”
It was. It looked onto the backyard and had deep sills and a leaded glass pane across the top. It was what I liked best about the apartment—the hallway was ominous, but inside, the original hardwood floors and thick baseboard trim were still intact.
“There’s a claw-foot tub in the bathroom, too,” I said. “But the water pressure sucks.” Why was I talking about water pressure? Bringing Will back to my apartment had not been premeditated. Dancing was one thing—a step too far, probably. All I knew when I invited him here was that I didn’t want to let him go. But now what?
I scratched my wrist. “Well, I should probably get changed. I’d lend you something, but I doubt even my biggest shirt would fit you.”
“I think it would be a smidge small.” Will gave me an off-kilter half smile. “But that’s okay. My coveralls are in my bag.”
I pulled dry clothes out of my dresser, tossed Will a towel, and shut myself in the bathroom, taking twice the amount of time I needed to change. I brushed my teeth, slicked on deodorant, and twisted my body around in the mirror. I’d put on a pair of baggy gray sweats and another white tank top and a white bra. No silly business here. I waited until I couldn’t hear Will shuffling around on the other side of the door.
He was standing by the table, holding a framed photograph while rain pelted the window. His hair had been rubbed into chaos, and his sleeves were rolled past his wrists, hiding his tattoo once again. The walls appeared to have shrunk in around him. My apartment was not big enough to accommodate a Will.
“Is this your mom?” he asked.
The lights flickered.
I moved beside him, looking at the picture. “Yeah, and that’s Peter with us.” It was taken the night of my high school graduation. I’m wedged between the two of them on the lodge deck, the lake a blue blur in the background. Peter hadn’t wanted to be in the shot. I remember Mom whispering something in his ear and having the strange sense I was witnessing something private. Peter’s face remained placid, but he’d nodded and stood beside me, wrapping an arm around my shoulders.