I watched him stretch a little longer. “The way you move,” I said, not sure how to describe it. “You’re kinda graceful? And your posture—it’s very good.”
Will opened his eyes. “My posture’s excellent.”
He smirked, then sat on the chair, absently ruffling his damp hair, sending it in all sorts of fascinating directions. “My grandma’s got a thing about posture.” He smiled. “And table manners, handwashing, walking on the outside of the sidewalk when one is escorting a young lady.”
I laughed. “Aha. It’s all coming together. Did you spend a lot of time with your grandma growing up?”
He nodded and rubbed at the spot on his chin where his scar was. He seemed to hesitate before he spoke again. “My sister and I lived with her for a few months after Mom left.”
“Your dad was having a hard time?” I guessed.
“We all were. But”—his eyes searched my face—“I guess I had the hardest time.”
I blinked. “You?” Will seemed so together.
“Me.”
I thought of the comment Eli made at the bar, about Will being emo.
And then I could see it clearly. “You were mad at her,” I said. I knew all about being angry at a parent.
Will looked away for a long moment. “I was fucking furious.”
I could feel my heart racing, like it was trying to break through my ribs and reach out to his. I know you, each thump said. You’re like me. I wanted to leap off the bed and throw my arms around his neck. “What did you do?”
“I picked a lot of fights. It was dumb, but it was the only thing that could shut my brain off.”
I stared at the scar on his chin. “Is that how you got it?”
He nodded. “I got jumped by a few older kids walking home from school after mouthing off one too many times. It was only two stitches, but it was enough to send my grandma flying into action. I guess my dad didn’t know how to deal. Annabel and I stayed with her until the end of the school year, and for the summer. I got a lot of lectures about responsibility and choosing what kind of person I wanted to be.”
“And that worked?” None of my mother’s talks were enough to put a stop to my antics when I was a teen.
“I didn’t know who I wanted to be, exactly, but I knew who I didn’t.”
“And who was that?”
Will twisted the ring on his finger. I could barely hear him when he said, “My mother.”
“Your mother?” I repeated, surprised. “In what way?”
“In every way. Selfish. Critical—”
I cut him off before he went on. “You’re not like that.”
“I can be. We’re a lot alike,” he said. “I left like she did. I look like her. Think like her.”
I thought of how calmly Will had spoken to his sister earlier today. How he seemed to know when to ask questions and when to stay quiet. How he let me fall apart at the art gallery and then cheered me up after. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re any of those things.”
We watched each other. The air felt thick. “It’s worth a lot,” he said in a low voice.
I moved to the edge of the bed and leaned toward him, lightly pressing my index finger to his scar.
“The way you drew me . . . it’s like you saw something I wasn’t sure was there. I don’t think a selfish person could capture someone like that—could see other people the way you do.”
Will’s gaze moved down my face and then he reached out, touching his finger to my chin, same as I had done. He slanted his head.
“What?”
“Nothing.” He raised his hands. “It’s nothing. It’s not my place.”
“What do you mean, it’s nothing? What do you mean, it’s not your place?” I felt feral. Whatever it was, I wanted it to be Will’s place.
“I just think . . .” He lowered his palms. “You don’t want to go home and work at the resort, so don’t. You want to be here. You should stay.”
I ran my nails over the inside of my wrist. “Everyone is expecting me to go back. My mom would kill me. Sometimes she will literally say stuff like, The day you become the resort’s manager will be my proudest moment. I can’t do that to her.”
Will’s hand covered mine, putting a stop to the scratching. I looked down at his fingers.
We stared at the red welts on the inside of my wrist. “You don’t really seem like the kind of person who goes along with what other people want.”
I chewed on the inside of my mouth.
“Am I missing something?”
I nodded slowly.
He ducked to meet my eyes. “Do you want to tell me about it?”
I looked at Will and nodded again. I wanted Will to know me. I wanted to tell him everything.
August 13, 1990
Eric’s gone. He left a note in his bunk. Just eighteen words. I counted. “Maggie, I’m sorry but I can’t be a dad. I wish you all the happiness in the world.” He didn’t even sign it. I knew he was shocked about the pregnancy. I knew he was surprised I wanted to keep the baby. But I thought he’d be in this with me. I thought he loved me. How can I be a mother if I can’t even pick a boyfriend? Peter was right about him. It’s been more than a month since Peter and I have spoken, and I miss him. I need him. He’d know exactly what I should say to Mom and Dad. I never thought our fight would last this long.
19
Now
Will shows up with a bag of groceries the morning after dinner at Whitney and Cam’s. His hair is wet, and I’m still wearing my pot head pajamas.
“I haven’t had a chance to make you breakfast yet,” he says as I let him in. “My omelet is excellent.”
“I’m sure it is.”
He sets the bag on the counter and asks if I have an apron, and I dig out Mom’s—the one with the red apples on it. I’m sure he won’t wear it. But Will ties it around his waist and kisses me on the cheek, and I’m so charmed, I reach around his back and unknot the strings.
Will gives me a questioning smile, and I pull my shirt over my head so my intentions are as clear as the fact that I’m only wearing underwear.
He backs me up to the kitchen table and lifts me onto it, pushing my knees apart and stepping between them.
“Lie back,” he tells me, cupping my neck to set me down gently as I do. He slips my panties down my legs, and then brings his lips to my navel, tracing it with his tongue. He leads a wet trail to my hip bone, and when I put my fingers in his hair, he kneels. Will pauses only to tell me that he missed me last night, and I last only a few seconds after that.
As I shower, Will makes omelets with spinach and caramelized onions and we spend most of the day in bed until it’s time to get ready for cocktails with the Roses. We stay for long enough to seem polite, and then race back. I turn to head up the path toward the house, but Will tugs on my arm, leading me to his cabin.
“Closer,” he says, biting my earlobe.
It’s the best Sunday I’ve ever had, and I fall asleep with a smile on my lips. But the next day, the week from hell begins.
Following lunch service on Monday, I gather everyone in the dining room to announce my decision to stay on as owner. I keep my hands clasped behind my back so no one can see how badly they’re shaking. One of the housekeepers asks what qualifies me to run Brookbanks aside from my last name. Eyes widen at his bold choice of words, but I can tell from the way people lean forward in their chairs that they’re wondering the same thing. I say something about my degree, my hospitality experience, and how I helped oversee Filtr’s expansion, but I can’t hear myself speak over the blood rushing in my ears.