Page 75 of The Keeper
We aren’t a good fit. We’re too different. We’ve lived very different lives with very different codes of conduct. What hope do we actually have of ‘figuring things out’ at this point?
Apparently, a part of me thinks there is the tiniest sliver of hope, because my response is direct and short, but eager.
Me: I’m free tonight
Chapter Fourteen
Mack and I are currently staring at each other, not saying anything.
I arrived at his house about twenty minutes ago and he has offered me something to drink three times, checked on the chicken baking in the oven twice, and has found at least a few reasons to get up and leave the room.
But now, here we sit. Just staring at each other in the small living room of the small back house he’s renting from his sister.
I was surprised when I walked in, expecting it to look like the quintessential bachelor pad. White walls and dark furniture pointed at a black entertainment system with nothing personal on the walls or side tables - if there even were side tables. But I was pleasantly shocked at the warmth I felt in what was clearly a small home decorated by Amy.
The open kitchen and living room are decorated in soft colors with elegant finishes. Stainless steel appliances in the small kitchen, gorgeous granite countertops, flowers on the small wooden kitchen table. Throw pillows are on the couch, an area rug on the floor, photos of Mack and Anna at a park are on the walls, rustic wooden furniture mutes an expensive-looking TV and sound system. An open hallway in the corner leads to what I am assuming are Mack’s bedroom and bathroom.
It doesn’t feel like Mack just stays here. It feels like Mackliveshere. And I like it.
But the warmth I felt at the design and style was quickly squashed by how awkward and uncomfortable our interactions have been since I’ve gotten here. We’ve exchanged only a few words, and they’ve been so stilted and forced, so unlike any of our previous interactions. I feel like I have to say something before it gets even more awkward and uncomfortable.
“I like seeing you here,” he says softly, startling me just a little bit after so much silence and staring.
“What?”
“You. In my space. I like you being here.” I must look confused, because he presses on. “After our date, I thought about inviting you over here, for dinner. I was going to ask you to come over and have dinner with me, and see if I could get you to spend the night.”
My breath catches just a little bit in surprise, but he either doesn’t hear it or doesn’t care.
“I’d already asked you to go to the Atwater game, but it was Monday morning when I sent that text, and the game wasn’t until Friday night. That was too long. I’ve always been the guy who plays it cool or doesn’t care enough to think that far ahead when it comes to the women I’ve… spent time with. But it was Monday and Friday was five days away and I wanted to invite you over so I could see you sooner. So I could kiss you again. So I could have you near me and wrap my arms around you, because having you against me felt so damn good.”
My face and neck flush at his words, my body unable to resist reacting to some of the images that pop into my mind.
“But then you were in my office and you were my athlete and it quickly became clear that inviting you for dinner that night wasn’t going to happen.”
I just nod. I don’t think he’s said anything that warrants a response, just yet, so I settle further into the incredibly comfortable couch and curl my legs underneath me.
“But I was leveled, RJ. Literally crushed by the thought that it was over before it was ever given the chance to really begin. It made me feel out of control, and I can’t… I don’t know how to cope with being out of control of my life anymore. I’ve been there. I’ve felt that feeling of not knowing what’s next and not knowing what decisions to make, or what’s right and what’s wrong. And I hate that feeling more than anything.”
Well, it seems like we have one huge thing in common.
He stands up from the love seat he’s been perched on and walks over to the couch where I’m sitting. He takes the seat next to me, close enough that I can feel the warmth from his body radiating towards me
I want to curl up into it and absorb everything he is.
When his hand reaches out for mine, I let him take it, threading our fingers together. I say ‘let’, as if I don’t want him to hold my hand, but that would be a bold-faced lie. I love feeling that physical connection to him, even if it’s just palm to palm.
“The reason I hate that feeling is because the last time I felt that way, I…”, and then he stops.
When I look up from our entwined hands at his face, I see that he is struggling to speak. I’m not sure whether he doesn’t know what to say, how to say it, or is afraid of the story he wants to tell, but I squeeze his hand once in reassurance.
I’m here, I tell him without words.
I’m not going anywhere.
He lets out a breath and untangles his fingers from mine. Before I can protest, he takes my hand and places it in his, then begins to stroke the back of it with his other hand. Soothing circles, something he did once on my wrist, although there was an innate sensuality in it last time. This time, though, it seems like he’s trying to soothe himself with the slow movements.
“When I dropped out of college to join the Fire, I thought I had it made. I was barely twenty years old and I’d signed a decent contract. I suddenly had money when we didn’t really have it growing up. The Fire had a reputation for being kind of a party team and I just went with it. I’d like to say that wasn’t who I was, but that’s a lie. I liked everything that came along with being a part of that group. I felt invincible.”
