“Answer both,” I ventured, my hands no longer patting but smoothing, soothing. Touching just because I could? Okay, we’ll go with that.
“I will answer both; they’re actually linked. But it’s a bit of a story—are you up for it? It’s all the things you say you don’t like: messy, painful”—he bumped his hips into mine—“and emotionally draining.”
He was giving me a choice here. Not just to hear his story, but to take this next step with him. To hear his story, and let him in. To hear his story, and he’d trust me with it. Was I up for this?
I chewed on my lip. He stroked my hip.
“Okay,” I said carefully, then placed a kiss in the exact center of his chest. “Let’s hear it.”
We sat on the front porch on opposite ends of the old wicker sofa, separated by a pillow I’d unwittingly erected between us. Probably not the most receptive-seeming way to listen to his story, but I needed this small distance.
These strong emotions were exhausting. I now understood why, when my girlfriends complained about how stressful relationships were, they said they were tired of all the back and forth and arguing and feeling let down.
Frustration, elation, being determined and driven—I knew those feelings inside and out. But the emotions of being involved with someone romantically? I had no primer except my mother’s—hence the determined, driven, and avoidant.
After telling Leo okay, I went straight for the scotch, and he accepted my offer of a highball. So here we sat, just us and our highballs, and Leo told me his story.
“I was born in Manhattan, Lenox Hill hospital—”
“A poor black child?” I just couldn’t help it.
He smiled, but arched an eyebrow. “Pretty sure you agreed to hear my story, not embellish it.”
I mimed zipping my lip, locking it, then throwing the key over my shoulder. I then had to fish around in my pocket for a second key to unlock it so I could take a sip of my water, as I was thirsty.
He watched all of this with an amused expression, then waited for me to get settled. “You done there, squirmy?”
I nodded. “Proceed.”
He did. Being born into a family of extreme privilege brought its obvious perks, but also a side of life that I’d never given much thought to.
“What elementary school did you go to?” he asked.
“Bailey Falls East Elementary.”
“And why did you go to that school?”
“Because we lived closer to it than Bailey Falls West Elementary.”
“Mm-hmm. Easy. Simple. Not the same for me. The name Leopold Matthew Maxwell was on the list for Dalton two weeks after I was born. Unofficially, even before I was born, there was a Baby Maxwell on the list. My whole life, I was brought up according to the best things that particular life had to offer. When it came time for college, there was no question about where I’d go.”
“Adirondack Community College?” I asked, earning a grin.
“My father went to Yale, my grandfather went to Yale—guess where my great-grandfather went to school?”
“Adirondack Community College?” I repeated.
He gave me a shocked look. “How’d you guess?” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. I could hear the rasp against his fingertips, and I’d come to associate that sound with Leo and that sandy-blond gorgeous. “My great-grandfather was even a legacy student: we Maxwells go back six generations in New Haven.