Page 21 of Always Murder (The Last Picks #9)

I texted Bobby back to make sure he knew we were okay and that we’d talk later that night. Then I spent the hours between that conversation with Millie and the end of Bobby’s shift trying to find ways to keep myself busy. I played Xbox for a while, but I couldn’t get into it. I shambled into the den and tried to write, which was how I found myself two hours later, with grime up to my elbows as I wiped down the old bookshelves. Millie and Keme, apparently now fully reconciled, took over the billiard room so they could watch a movie. I figured they didn’t need a third wheel, so I went upstairs to shower (resisting the urge to indulge in one of what Millie had started to call my sadness baths ), and then I got into bed to read.

It wasn’t that I was sad or angry. The text from Bobby had salved the worst of my hurt, and the conversation with Millie had given me that uniquely soul-destroying insight into my own bad behavior over the last few days. But I was still…upset, maybe. In the truest sense of the word. I felt jumbled up inside, and I couldn’t focus.

The words on the page kept slipping away from me. I loved Dorothy Sayers, and I loved Whose Body? If you haven’t read it yet, it’s the first Lord Peter Wimsey mystery, and the name of the protagonist should tell you what the general vibe is.

But it doesn’t .

That’s one of the reasons Sayers is so good—why she’s a genius, even though people don’t know her name the way they know Agatha Christie. (I mean, Christie’s a genius too.) Because you might hear the name Lord Peter Wimsey and think—with good cause—that the series is going to be, well, whimsical. And it is. The books are fun and funny and playful. And then they have this raw streak of reality that cuts right through them, and it’s heartbreaking and true and so incredibly human that it turns what could have been a lighthearted romp into so much more.

Plus, the book starts with somebody finding a dead body in his bathtub. Talk about a great choice for where to put the first murder in your story!

Of course, it’s hard to sink into a book, no matter how good it is, when every five seconds your brain leapfrogs away and you find yourself thinking about how stupidly you’ve acted recently.

The sound of the front door closing made me sit up in bed. Bobby’s familiar steps moved through the house, up the stairs, and toward my bedroom. Which was quickly on its way to becoming our bedroom. He hesitated outside the door, and then he knocked.

I gave an unexpectedly watery laugh. “Bobby, you don’t have to knock.”

The door opened.

He was still in uniform, of course. And his hair was still in its neat part. But he had the faintest hint of stubble (not that he could grow a beard, but still), and his face was drawn. His eyes were red. His color was bad. How many doubles had he worked in a row? When was the last time he’d eaten, or slept, or just gotten to veg out?

“Hi,” I said.

“I didn’t want—” He stopped and gestured at the door. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted—”

“I always want,” I said, which didn’t make any sense, but kind of did in the moment.

He was still standing in the doorway, so I got out of bed and went over to him and hugged him. He smelled like he did at the end of a hard day: sweat and leather and oil. His arms closed uncertainly around me.

“I’m feeling very vulnerable right now,” I whispered against his neck.

It felt like a long time before, voice thick, he said, “Me too.”

“Maybe you should give me your gun.”

The change came in his embrace, more than anything else. His arms tightened around me, and all of a sudden, it felt like every other time he’d held me. Like things were back to normal, and we were okay. Then he said, “Absolutely not.”

“Bobby, you have an unfair advantage.”

He said mmm , but in a way that was not gratifying. “I’m so sorry for the way I talked to you. That was inexcusable, and I’m so—so angry with myself for losing it like that. It was unacceptable—”

“Bobby—”

“—and I want you to know that I know that it was unacceptable—”

“Bobby!” When he stopped, I said, “It’s okay.” I wiggled back until I could see his face. “It’s okay. You can get mad. You’re allowed to have feelings. I mean, I never want you to be upset with me, but if I do something that makes you mad, you’re supposed to get mad. And come on, you didn’t even raise your voice.”

His jaw was tight. He cut his eyes away and shook his head.

“Yes,” I said. “You most definitely are. Especially when I am being so totally oblivious to what you want and need, and I’m making everything about myself, and I’m not taking your feelings into consideration. I know—” I almost said, That’s how it was with West , but I didn’t want to say that—didn’t want to bring his ghost into our relationship. So, I said, “I know that’s happened to you in the past. I never want to do that to you. You were right: I should have talked to you, asked you what you wanted, listened to what you were trying to tell me. I love you so much, Bobby. I don’t care about you being a detective; I want you to be happy and fulfilled, whatever that looks like for you. That’s what I should have said.”

He still wasn’t looking at me. His jaw was still stone. When he spoke, the words were clipped. “I should have told you.”

“You did tell me.”

He made an unhappy noise.

I bonked him—gently—with my head. “Hey.”

Slowly, his eyes came back to me—wary, defensive. Not like he was protecting himself from me, but—but from himself, maybe. Or from this moment. From the intensity of it.

“You should be proud of yourself,” I said. “I know how hard you’ve been working on communicating. I appreciate that so much. I love that you want that to be better for us. And I’m so glad you told me when I wasn’t respectful of your boundaries.”

He swallowed. His hand shifted on my back. With that same iron control locking down his voice, he said, “I lost my temper.”

“That’s okay. I mean, I hate that I made you so mad. But it’s okay for you to have those emotions and communicate them to me. I’m so glad—” I almost said, I’m so glad you didn’t just go along with it , because that’s what the Bobby from the year before would have done. “I’m so glad you told me.”

He swallowed again, and it looked like he was fighting not to let his gaze slide away. His next words were rough. “Thank you, I guess.” He gave a raspy little laugh. “This is hard for me. And I am sorry, Dash.”

“I’m sorry, too.”

His fingers brushed the hair on the side of my head and bumped over the earpiece of my glasses. “I want to kiss you now.” His breath was soft against my face. “Is that okay?”

“This is why you should have given me your gun, so I could have been in charge.”

Instead of responding, Bobby kissed me. Or maybe that was his response, because it was soft and questioning. When I kissed him back, I answered as best I could. Bobby did some more kissing, and there wasn’t anything soft or questioning about it. It was a statement. And here’s the thing about Bobby Mai: he’s not always great with the words, but he has some very effective ways of getting his message across.

The problem, though, is that I will always be Dashiell Dawson Dane. That’s why, when Bobby pulled back, I had this horrible moment where I was fixing my glasses and trying to check my hair (too little, too late) and remembering how to breathe. And I blame all that multitasking for why I blurted, “I’m turning into my mother.”

He didn’t groan; that’s kind of the remarkable part. His eyebrows didn’t even go up. But it felt like a very long moment before he said, “Babe, I’ve worked, like, three doubles in a row.”

Laughter erupted out of me. “Rude!”

A hint of Bobby’s goofy grin slid out from behind the exhaustion. “Let me change; you get back in bed.”

I did, but only because my feet were cold. And because it was fun to watch Bobby take off his duty belt and his holster.

“All right,” he said as he locked up his gun.

“It’s not like I want to turn into my mom,” I said. “You get that, right? It’s happening against my will.”

He made a sound that could have meant anything.

“I was talking to Millie about all the stuff that’s been going on, with her family and with Keme and—and I might have had a breakthrough. It was awful. And I hated it. And it was totally unintentional, and I’ll never do it again.”

We had gotten to the part of the evening where the clothes came off. Bobby was so careful. He undid each button slowly and methodically as he said, “Why do you think you’re turning into your mother?”

“Because I did exactly what she did. Well, my dad too, so I guess I’m turning into both my parents. But it’s more horrifying if I say I’m turning into my mother.”

Bobby pulled off his shirt, and instead of wadding it up, he folded it neatly in half before slipping it into the hamper. He had broad shoulders narrowing to a trim waist, and the lamplight looked like liquid gold poured across his skin. “Is this a writing thing?”

“No, this is an us thing. The way I’ve been acting with you. Thinking I know what’s best for you. Having this vision of who you are and who you’re supposed to be. Making decisions for you. Not listening to you or caring what you want. Railroading you into this stupid detective thing.”

That was when he took his pants off.

I mean, obviously I didn’t actually swallow my tongue. But I must have made some kind of noise because he glanced over at me.

“You care what I want,” he said.

“But I didn’t ask you. That’s the important part. I made it all about me, about what I wanted, about the version of us that I made up in my head without, you know, consulting you. I just want you to know that I was honestly excited for you, Bobby. I meant what I said: you’re an amazing deputy. I know you don’t want to be a detective—”

“Of course I want to be a detective.”

“You do?”

Not the best question I’d ever asked in my life, but on the other hand, I was operating with about two percent brainpower because at that exact moment, Bobby hooked his black briefs, dragged them down, and threw them in the hamper. Then he stood there, all his attention focused on peeling off his socks.

As I’ve mentioned, Bobby doesn’t have any qualms about nudity. Not that I have any qualms about nudity, provided it's in the dark, or under the covers, or in a quick, mad dash from the shower to my towel. Bobby, on the other hand, once answered the door in nothing but a pair of shorts. Not even a shirt! The whole town talked about it for a month. (I made that last part up.)

Once the socks were safely in the hamper, Bobby stretched his arms over his head, muscles popping, and then padded toward the bed.

“I thought you were changing,” I said.

“I did change.”

“Into clothes.”

“I’m going to shower. Scoot over.”

I scooted, and Bobby climbed in beside me. We moved around until we were both lying down, my back pressed against his chest. Neither of us said anything. Bobby felt so warm. One arm, heavy and secure, held me against him, and every so often, his stubble would scrape pleasantly against the back of my neck. The rhythmic crash and fall of the waves filtered in from outside, and from downstairs came the sounds of Millie and Keme’s movie—there was a lot of swelling orchestral music, which meant they were watching something sappy and sweet and probably Christmas-y, perfect for a couple who had just finished making up.

“I’m bad at tests,” Bobby said.

“Huh?”

(Again, not my strongest conversational gambit. But you try being engaged and thoughtful when you have a naked hunk of hunk squeezing you against him. And in bed! )

Bobby only laughed quietly, though, and for some reason, he pulled me even closer. His chin settled on my shoulder. “I’m really bad at them. I mean, it’s like a joke in my family. I study. I know the material. I can do flashcards and practice exams and all that stuff and get everything right. And then as soon as I sit down with the actual test, it’s like my head goes blank. I can’t remember anything. I can’t even think.” The dry amusement that came next didn’t quite hide the bitterness. “That makes it hard to get into med school.”

For a few seconds, I let his words sink in. I rubbed his hand, and then I laced our fingers together. I settled for what I thought was a very Bobby-like question: “I thought you didn’t want to go to med school.”

“I didn’t. And that’s what I told my parents. But it’s not super convincing after they’ve seen your MCAT scores.”

“Bobby—” There were so many things I wanted to say. Things that, maybe for now, were off limits, because I hadn’t met Bobby’s family yet, and I didn’t know if it was my place to say anything. So, I settled for “Tests are so dumb. They’re so problematic. They don’t mean anything.”

“I know. Except when they do.”

And then I asked the question I should have asked earlier: “Is there a test for the detective position?”

“Yes.”

“But Bobby, if you want to be a detective, we can figure this out. There’s got to be a way. We can do some research. I can help you.” And somehow, because I’m not always completely hopeless, I managed to bring the crazy train to a halt and say, “If, uh, that’s what you want to do.”

“I don’t know,” he said. And after a few seconds, “I guess I should try.”

He would; I knew he would. Because Bobby was nothing if not a guy who tried. He always tried. And he tried his hardest. The way he was trying to get better at communicating, at helping me understand what was going on inside his head. He was trying to be better about being honest about his feelings. About being vulnerable.

And this, right now, was evidence of how far he’d come. (Also, when he’d told me off earlier, but I was less thrilled about that part.) Here Bobby was, telling me he was—what? Scared? Anxious? Not confident about his ability to do something, which for him must have been terrifying, because Bobby was always so good at everything.

Love meant learning to see people differently, and that was true for me as much as it was for Millie. I knew Bobby wasn’t perfect; we’d had enough ups and downs for me to know that we both had things we needed to work on. But I was starting to realize that there was this part of me that still saw him as—to put it in the vernacular—fundamentally having his shiz together. And it wasn’t fair for me to keep imagining that Bobby was this perpetually unruffled bastion of calm and patience and confidence. He was a human being. Like everybody else, he got disappointed and frustrated and, yes, even scared. If we were going to make this work, he needed to know that he could be himself with me—not the perfect boyfriend or the amazing deputy or the easygoing surfer, but Bobby Mai, a real person. And he needed to know that I saw him, the real him, and I loved him.

I squirmed around until we were face to face. It was harder than it sounds because he had a pretty good grip on me, and I got the feeling Bobby wasn’t exactly thrilled about this next, look-into-each-other’s-eyes moment. But I made it work. He still looked tired, his eyelids drooping, his hair out of its careful part and spilling over his forehead now. I leaned forward until my nose booped his.

“Hi,” he said quietly.

“I forbid you from becoming a detective.”

He stared back at me for a couple of seconds. “What?”

“I won’t have it. Not in this household, mister.”

“Is this your mom again?”

“BOBBY!”

“You’re yelling in my ear.”

“Oh my God, I’m sorry.” In a softer voice, I tried again. “Bobby! No, this is not me being my mother. This is me being supportive and loving and the perfect boyfriend.” I could see I was losing him at the end, so I hurried to say, “I do not want you to take that test. I do not want you to do anything you don’t want to do. I don’t have any unspoken expectations. I don’t have any secret desires.”

For some reason, that made him smirk.

My face heated. “And this is not one of those things where I tell you I don’t want something, but I secretly do, and the whole point is to see if you’ll do it anyway to prove that you love me, and if you don’t do it, it means we can’t communicate and you don’t love me and this whole relationship is doomed.”

“You are a very complicated person.”

“Do you hear me?”

“Yes, but—”

“No buts. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“I do.” It looked like he tried to stop there. “But—”

“No buts.” I smoothed some of the hair back from his forehead and let it fall again. “Bobby, if you decide at some point you want to apply for that detective position, I will do everything I can to help you. I love you. I think you’re the best candidate for the job. And I know we can figure out a way to make it happen. But what matters is what you want, because I want you to be happy. You don’t have to prove anything to me. You don’t have to prove anything to anybody. You need to do what’s right for you, and I promise it’s not going to change anything about how I feel about you. I love you so much. I love you , Bobby. And I’m so grateful you told me about this, because I want to know everything about you. I want to keep learning things about you and loving you for the rest of our lives.”

His eyes shone, and he blinked rapidly a few times. Finally, he said, “Okay.”

“Okay.”

The roar of the waves breaking on the bluffs grew louder.

“I don’t think I’m going to apply,” he said. “Not right now.”

I nodded. “Okay.”

He made a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Okay.”

“I know that was hard for you. I’m really proud of you.”

His eyes moved, as though he were studying me. Or looking for something. And then his face changed, like he’d found it—whatever it was—and he whispered, “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Bobby kissed me.

“I miss you,” I confessed. “I miss spending time with you. I know it’s not going to be like this forever, but I just wanted you to know how much I miss you.”

“I miss you too.” His hand slid along my waist. “And it will get better. I’ll talk to the sheriff. I’m going to take fewer shifts.”

“That would mean a lot to me.”

He kissed me again, and a single, exploratory finger crept under the hem of my tee.

“I thought you were going to take a shower,” I said.

He made a sound as he slipped the rest of his hand under my shirt. It was a low-in-your-throat sound, a raise-the-hair-on-the-back-of-your-neck sound. And I was still feeling it, like electricity on my skin, when he kissed me again.

And that, folks—as they say—is all she wrote.