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Suddenly I can feel his eyes on me from where he sits in the living room, and sure enough, when I look over at him, he’s studying me, his green eyes curious, his soft mouth pressed into a soft line. I give him my best “I’m okay, just thinking” smile and watch as he frowns and gets up. In a few long strides, he’s across the room and leaning with one of his palms pressed against the wall for support while he hovers over me.
“What is it?” he asks.
Landon’s head lifts from his focus on Sophia at the sound of Hardin’s loud voice.
“I need to talk to you about something,” I quietly admit. He doesn’t look concerned—not as concerned as he should be.
“Okay, what is it?” He leans closer, too close, and I try to step away, only to be reminded that he has me cornered against the wall. Hardin raises his other arm to completely block me in, and when my eyes meet his, an obvious smirk covers his face. “Well?” he presses.
I stare at him in silence. My mouth is dry now, and when I open it to speak, I begin to cough. It’s always that way it seems, in a quiet movie theater, in church, or while having a conversation with someone important. Basically in situations where coughs don’t fit in. Like right now for example, I’m having an inner rambling session about coughing, while coughing, and while Hardin stares at me like I’m dying in front of him.
He pulls back and walks into the kitchen with purpose. He moves around Karen and returns to me with a glass of water for what feels like the thirtieth time in the last two weeks. I take it, and I’m relieved when the cool water calms my itchy throat.
I’m aware that even my body is trying to back out of breaking this news to Hardin, and I want to pat myself on the back and kick myself in the chin at the same time. If I did that, I assume Hardin would feel a little sorry for me due to my insane behavior and possibly change the subject.
“What is going on? Your mind is moving a mile a minute.” He looks down at me, holding his hand out for the empty glass. When I begin to shake my head, he insists, “No, no, I can tell.”
“Can we go outside?” I turn toward the patio door, trying to make it clear that we shouldn’t talk in front of an audience. Heck, we should probably drive back to Seattle to discuss this mess. Or farther. Farther is good.
“Outside? Why?”
“I want to talk to you about something. In private.”
“Fine, sure.”
I take a step in front of him to keep the balance. If I lead the way outside, then I may have a better chance to lead the conversation. If I lead the conversation, then I may have a better chance of not allowing Hardin to steamroll the entire thing. Maybe.
I don’t pull my hand from Hardin’s when I feel his fingers lace into mine. It’s so quiet—only the soft sound of the voices from the crime show Ken fell asleep watching, and the low rumbling of the dishwasher in the kitchen.
When we step onto the deck, those sounds dissolve, and I’m left alone with the sound of my chaotic thoughts and Hardin’s low humming. I’m grateful for whatever song he’s quietly filling the air with, but it’s distracting and helps me focus on something outside of the blowup that is sure to come. If I’m lucky, I will have a few minutes to explain myself and my decision before he goes nova.
“Spill,” Hardin says as he drags one of the patio chairs across the wood of the deck.
There goes my chance at having him calm for a few minutes; he’s not in a waiting mood. He sits down and rests his elbows on the table between us. I scramble to sit across from him and struggle with where to place my hands. I move them from the top of the table to my lap, to my knees, and back to the table before he reaches across and flattens his palm across my fidgeting fingers.
“Relax,” he softly says. His hand is warm, and it completely covers mine, giving me a sliver of clarity, if only for a moment.
“I have been keeping something from you, and it’s driving me insane. I need to tell you now, and I know this isn’t the time, but you have to know before you find out another way.”
He lifts his hand from mine and leans against the back of the chair. “What did you do?” I can hear the anxiety in his tone, the suspicion in his controlled breath.
“Nothing,” I hastily remark. “Nothing like what you are assuming.”
“You haven’t . . .” He blinks a few times. “You weren’t . . . with anyone else, were you?”
“No!” My voice squeaks, and I shake my head to prove my point. “No, nothing like that. I’ve just made a decision about something and have kept it from you. It doesn’t involve me being with anyone else.”
I’m not sure if I am relieved or offended that this was his first thought. In a way, I’m relieved, because moving to New York couldn’t possibly be as painful for him as my being with another man, but I’m slightly offended, because he should know me better than that by now. I’ve done my share of irresponsible, hurtful things to him, involving Zed mostly, but I would never sleep with someone else.
“Okay.” He rubs his hand over his hair and rests his curved palm over the back of his neck, massaging the muscles there. “It couldn’t be that bad, then.”
I take a breath, deciding to just throw it onto the table, no more dancing around the subject. “Well—”
He holds a hand up to stop me. “Wait. How about before you tell me what it is, you tell me why.”
“Why what?” I tilt my head in confusion.
He raises a brow to me. “Why you made whatever choice you’re pissing yourself over about.”