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Gigi taught me the same table manners. My mom only taught me how to eat with my fork upside down because it keeps bites small and forces you to eat slower. Oh, and to leave more than half of my food on my plate, to avoid overeating.
“Are you and your dad close now?” he asks.
I lower my head, my gaze blurring on the plate of pasta. “We were.”
“Were?”
Tears burn my eyes. I don’t always cry when I think of my dad. Sometimes it hits me harder than other times. It could be the wine or Riley’s attentiveness causing me to be emotional. I feel a bit unhinged. “He passed away a little over a year ago.” And because I don’t want to talk about him anymore—fear I might become a sniveling mess—I turn the conversation to Riley. “What about you? Are you and your dad still close?”
They seemed close back when he visited that one summer, even though his dad came across as a bit controlling.
I can tell by Riley’s expression he’s aware of my switcheroo. He answers me anyway. “My dad and I don’t agree on anything.”
“That sucks,” I say—or slur—and cover my mouth quickly. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. It does suck, but my dad has tunnel vision. It’s his way or the highway.”
I snort-laugh. “Your dad and my mom have a lot in common.” I finish my glass of wine. “I’m sorry about your dad, though. Parents shouldn’t suck. They should support us no matter what we choose.”
Riley chuckles.
“What?”
“You’re cute when you’re buzzed.”
I stiffen. I don’t know why. It’s not as if he’s hitting on me, but hearing him say I’m cute has me self-conscious all of a sudden. Why? Because my self-esteem is in the shitter, thanks to Justice and social media vultures? Because, until this moment, I didn’t think Riley thought much about me at all? Or because deep down I’m attracted to Riley, and I want his approval and I want him to find me attractive too, so at night when I’m trying not to think of Justice and Hope, I can remind myself that someone as intriguing and sexy as Riley thinks I’m cute?
“I should go. I’ve taken up enough of your time.” I stand and sway.Geez.
Riley’s on his feet in an instant. He grabs my arm to steady me. “Maybe you should crash here. You had two large glasses of wine.”
“You think I’m a drunk now, don’t you?”
“I don’t think anything other than I’d hate for you to hurt yourself on the way back to the house.”
“You could always carry me,” I tease and pat his abs with a floppy hand as I sway toward him.
His body tenses.
Shit.Did I miss and pat his private part or something? Maybe I’m in worse shape than I think.
I gather our plates, aware of how loud I’m clinking things, and set them on the tray. My fingers are covered with marinara sauce. How did that happen? I lick them clean with a popping sound from my lips. “That’s really good.”
Riley chuckles again. “Oh, Nova. You are something else.”
I lift my gaze to his face, but my eyelids are heavy with exhaustion. The day has finally caught up to me. “That’s me. Something else.” Not famous. Not skinny. Not tall. Not Black. Not White. Not doing myself any favors by drinking so much wine.
Riley wipes my hand clean with a cloth napkin. “I’ll get the tray and food. You sit over here.” He puts his arm around me and guides me to the couch in the family room.
I flop down and rest my dizzy head on the arm cushion. “I’m sorry, Riley. I’m not usually like this.”
Not anymore. I swore not to drink as much. It’s all Justice did and one of the many reasons we fought at the end. Two glasses aren’t a lot, but I’ve never been able to hold my alcohol. I’m one of those people who end up with a massive headache, vomiting in the bathroom, or both.
“Don’t worry about it.” He brushes my hair from my face, his fingers gentle and warm.
When was the last time any guy touched me in such a tender way? So long I can’t remember.
Dishes clink and clatter. Water sounds from the kitchen. I feel bad but I don’t have the energy to get up and help. I’m so tired.