Fissure Page 8

  “Would it be premature if I proposed right this minute?” I asked, only half joking. I understood it now, or at least I was understanding it. When you met the one, you knew. It was beyond a shadow of a doubt, the most certain thing you’d ever known, the easiest, least scary decision you’d ever make. When you met the one, what was the purpose of ticking off months and years with anything less than a band circling a certain finger on a certain hand?

  She laughed, but it was a nervous one. “Maybe just a tad premature,” she said, clearing her throat. “You should probably at least wait until the end of the date.”

  “Patience, real girlfriend,” I warned, “is not one of my few virtues, so no promises.”

  Another laugh. “Fair enough.”

  I’d left the car idling along the front curb. Probably not the genius IQ choice given one of only thirty ever made vehicles would be hard to replace, but I loved making an entrance, and the only thing sexier on the road than the car growling in front of us would be Emma and me speeding down the highway.

  “If I was a total cheese-dick, I’d say something like your chariot awaits,” I said, motioning at the Zeus of RPM’s, “but since dick of cheese I am not, how about if I keep it sweet and simple and just open the door for you?” I swept the door open, beckoning her in.

  “What in all-things-excessive-and-could-feed-a-third-world-country-for-a-month is this?” she asked, whipping to a stop and surveying the car like it was guilty of a capital crime.

  I shrugged at the special occasion car I coveted. “It’s a Maserati,” I answered, keeping it simple. Girls, other than my sister-in-law, didn’t care about the nitty-gritty details in the car world.

  “A Maser-what-i?” she said, curling her nose at it.

  I would have felt insulted for the car if it was anyone but Emma roasting it. “It’s a car. A mode of transportation,” I said, my over-simplification only expunging a crossing of the arms from her. “Will you be getting in it any time soon?” I asked when she took a step back.

  “If you’re looking for a means of transportation,” she threw back at me, “I’ve got this really awesome late 80’s Honda Accord with about 500,000 miles on it we could use”—I had to keep my expression from grimacing—“or this other wonderful thing known as public transportation we could make savvy use of too.”

  I moved my mouth, popping my jaw to release tension. This girl was driving me crazy. In every sense of the word.

  “What’s your price?” I asked after a couple satisfactory snaps and pops.

  “Excuse me?” she said, taking a step forward. Confrontational as it was, at least it was a start in the right direction.

  “Your price,” I repeated. “For getting in the bloody car so we can get on with our date. Name your price.”

  Her eyes drilled through mine, confirming my seriousness. Silence and a stare was the only thing we shared for almost a full minute—every bit as awkward as you’d think it would be when a gorgeous woman was staring you down while passers-by looked on like we were the latest and greatest reality show to hit the airwaves.

  Finally, a smile curled up the corners of her mouth. “If you want me to get in that hunk of junk”—I winced like a bandaid had just been ripped off one of the more tender areas of my body—“I want you to donate as much money as that thing cost to some charity—any charity—by the end of the week,” she finished, smirking at me like she had me and was only waiting for me to pick my poison.

  And if forced to make the choice, I didn’t know which one I’d rather drink: a rice rocket on its last leg created in the worst decade for cars ever or sitting sandwiched between the snot and stench lurking in a public bus.

  Little did she know, money I had. More than I needed, more than I wanted, more than I knew what to do with, but had it I did and agreeing to donate a million of it to charity was an easier decision than chocolate or vanilla at the ice cream shop.

  “Done,” I said, reaching for her hand. “Can we get on with it now?”

  “You’re bluffing,” she accused, although she let me guide her into the car.

  “I never bluff when it comes to money,” I said, tucking the train of her gown in when she sat down. “And did you miss the conversation we just had a few minutes ago about honesty?” I shut the door after her, feeling a small victory that I’d succeeded in getting her in the car.

  As soon as I slid into my seat, she was already mid-way into her sentence. “You’re really going to donate one million dollars this week?” she said, the tone of someone who wasn’t sure if they were dealing with someone who was a royal nutter or a habitual liar.

  I sighed, punching the Maserati into gear. I’d feel better once we were in motion and the chances of her throwing herself out of the car if I said the wrong thing were diminished by cruising at some impressive MPHs. “Would you be satisfied if I show you the check first?”

  She paused, something she seemed to do as infrequently as I did. It was apparent neither of us was like saint William who thought everything out before he said it. Something about wanting to avoid verbal diarrhea at all costs, he’d attributed it to. “That’s all right. If you say you’re going to do it, I believe you,” she said, her words deliberate. “I trust you.”

  Three words. Three syllables. Insignificant in the scheme of the billions we hear during our lifetime, but to date, the most significant words I’d heard. They hit me with the weight of a dozen different responses. I wanted to grip her to me and never let go, I wanted to slam the brakes and kiss her until the windows were coated in steam an inch thick, I wanted to wrap her in a bubble of protection and never let anything bad happen to her, I wanted to make her happy in every way a man could.

  Trust was a simple thing, or at least so it seemed at face value, but the thing about living two centuries of existence is that one learns that trust is rarer than love. True love, even. I couldn’t count the number of couples, families, and friends that professed undying love to one another, only to find their unions fractured when this little underestimated thing known as trust was broken. You fell in love, but you earned trust, and for whatever reason, Emma trusted me.

  I don’t think I would have been more moved if she’d just said she loved me.

  And without realizing I was saying it, I responded, “I trust you, Emma.”

  So much for playing it cool, keeping my cards to myself . . . I’d found myself sickeningly sweet profession deep in a Hallmark card.

  “Good,” she said, running her fingers over the dash. “I can always use a good friend.”

  I knew friend was generally the label of death for any man hoping to work his way into a woman’s heart, but I’d never let the odds stop me before. Friend was better than acquaintance, classmate, or enemy. Friend could work itself into something else, especially with me at the helm steering our friendship boat in the right direction.

  “So, friend,” I began, letting the Maserati loose once we hit the freeway on-ramp. “Just so I know for future reference—are you going to be so difficult about everything?”

  I could feel her grin light up the car. “I could ask you the same question.”

  “Yes, you could,” I said, smiling the real kind I so rarely did. My smiles were generally more constructed depending on the situation and the outcome I wanted to elicit. “And the answer would be yes.”

  She laughed as I threaded the car through an endless line of red tail lights. “Well aren’t we just two peas in a pod?”

  Just as I was about to say something profoundly witty, my phone went off. “Sorry about that,” I said, freeing it from my pocket. “I forgot to silence it.”

  Taking a glance at the screen, I saw who was responsible for the interruption. If it wasn’t already a truism that little brothers are annoying, this confirmed it. Joseph knew I was on a date, on a date where I actually dug the girl and didn’t want an interruption, and the little goober probably thought it would be great fun to pepper me with prank calls all night. I’d never punched ignore faste
r.

  “You were saying?” I said, turning the phone off so I wouldn’t be distracted by the dozen and a half more calls that were surely coming. “Something about us getting all snug and cozy inside a pod?”

  “You’re as optimistic as you are difficult,” she said, staring out the windshield like I wasn’t driving like it was the last lap of the Indy 500 and I was in second place.

  “You’re just handing out the compliments tonight, aren’t you?” I replied, missing the bumper of some mini hybrid when it decided to hit its brakes when it saw me coming.

  “Okay, so give me the sixty second Emma Scarlett spiel,” I said suddenly because, while I felt I knew her on a hey-you-wanna-be-my-soulmate level, I had very little knowledge of the everyday details that made her who she was.

  “Sixty second spiel?” she repeated like it was a foreign concept. “I’m not familiar with that lingo. Mind giving me an example?”

  Sure, I’d play. I knew this was just her way of deciding how much she’d divulge based on how much I did. Women were cunning creatures; that’s part of the reason I was enamored with them.

  “You know. Hi, I’m Patrick Hayward,” I began, “twenty years old, born in Charleston, split my time between here and Montana. I have three pain in the butt brothers I freaking worship. Three of the sweetest women for sisters in law that were all on some mission from God to marry my brutes of brothers. One father who’s the opposite of wearing his heart on his sleeve—although he’s got a large one—and my mother died years ago.”

  “I’m sorry,” Emma interrupted, resting her hand on my shoulder.

  I continued, not wanting to encourage any pointed questions about my past. “My favorite color used to be the color of the Pacific at sunrise, my fav food is my sister-in-law Abby’s biscuits and gravy. I’ve got an addiction to those that there’s no cure for yet.” My mouth watered at the mention. “I want to be a kung fu master when I grow up. I can’t remember the name of the first girl I kissed, but I do remember her being an insanely great kisser—by ten year old boy standards that is, which are no standards.” I grinned over at her, guessing I’d been specific enough without digging into the baggage file to satisfy her. “You know, that kind of thing.”

  “What’s your new favorite color?” she asked, redirecting the inquisition on me. “The color of the California sky on a warm summer’s morn?” Her voice was as sarcastic as it comes.

  “Although I know my attempts at masking my sensitivity are epic, I’m still something of a tender creature,” I replied, sticking out my lip. “And no, I happen to be digging that green color of your eyes at present.”

  Those eyes rolled away from me. “Wow. Now that’s a line,” she said, clapping her hands. “Is that your home run, grade A, top notch, go to line when you’re hoping to woo a woman out of whatever she’ll give you?”

  This girl was busting my chops. Hardcore. Had this been any other girl, she would have been mine a week ago, but she was nothing like any other girl. This was Emma. This was a girl as sweet as she was sardonic, as gentle as she was strong. She saw through my crap and had no problems calling me on it. This was a girl I never dared to dream was out there.

  “Sure, that’s been a line. Before, anyways,” I admitted. “Not my top-notch line, nowhere close, but this time it wasn’t a line. Just the truth.”

  Emma laughed one hard note. “That was a line,” she said knowingly.

  “Sadly, no. Just me bearing my soul to you,” I said, remembering why this whole conversation tangent had been taken. “All right, spiel me, Emma.”

  I waited for it, making use of the silence to practice my patience.

  “This whole driving like a maniac thing,” she said finally, twirling her finger around the windshield, “doesn’t impress women. I know this might tip the fragile scale of your male ego, but I can push the accelerator to the floor with my foot too.”

  I sighed, but I wouldn’t push her. Forcing a woman to open up when she didn’t want to was like trying to break open a clam with your bare hands—Mortal bare hands, at least.

  “Did you see that?” I asked, turning and looking behind me, letting her change the subject. “That was my ego just falling away. Do you think I should go back and get it?”

  She looked over her shoulder, playing along. “Nah. Something tells me you’ve got plenty of reserves.”

  I shot her a cock-eyed grin. “Lucky for me.”

  She landed a soft punch in my arm.

  “And here’s what you girls don’t get. We guys don’t drive like lunatics to impress you. We drive like this because we like it.” I shifted down, punching the gas at the same time. “Correction,” I said, our heads slamming the headrests. “We love it.”

  “Great,” she said through her teeth, her hands grasping whatever she could.

  I slowed instantly. I might have loved driving fast, but I wanted her to feel safe more. I wasn’t worried about wrapping us around a cement barricade—driving came as naturally as flirting to me—but she didn’t know that.

  “So where are you taking me?” she asked, her fingers loosening their grips as she relaxed in her seat.

  I made note of the highest speed I could attain and still keep her comfortable. I was happy to see it was just north of the triple digits.

  “Are you putting me on a private jet and flying me to the opera?” she asked out of nowhere.

  Private jet wasn’t that far from the truth, but the opera was my kryptonite. At least, one of the many.

  “No.” I drew out my answer. “What made you guess that?”

  “The red dress, you in a tux, the fancy car,” she listed off like I was supposed to be catching on to something. “I’m having a very Pretty Woman moment right now.”

  Ahhhh, now I got it. “How about this? I’ll promise you a private jet to a private opera—I’ll even buy some diamonds for you and clamp the box closed on your hand when you reach for them—if . . .” I said with a tone of expectation, “you promise to wear those shiny, black, over-the-knee stiletto boots.”

  That earned me another punch, although this one was a little harder and more deserved in my opinion.

  “I might not bruise as easily as you, but I’m going to be sporting a purple right arm if you keep up at that rate tonight, Rocky Balboa,” I lied, rubbing my arm.

  “What? With that little love-tap?” she said with fake innocence. “And besides, you deserved it.”

  “You’re going to tell me diamonds, gowns, and Learjets aren’t worth wearing some trashy boots for a few hours?” I asked, whipping across three lanes to hit the off ramp.

  “It wasn’t what you suggested, it was how you suggested it,” she said, turning in her seat towards me.

  “Explanation, si vous plait,” I said, turning in my seat as much as I could towards her.

  She huffed, like she didn’t want to explain, but I knew her enough to know she would. “You know,” she said, “you got that dreamy, far-off look on your face when you said it. Like you were picturing me naked in them, licking a lollipop or something.”

  I choked . . . on nothing. The impact of what she’d said hit me that hard. Partly because that’s not what I’d been picturing at all, but mainly because that’s right where my mind went. And I liked it. Too much.

  “That’s ridiculous. You were eating a bag of pork rinds and you had on a jumpsuit,” I said, keeping a level voice.

  “A skimpy jumpsuit then,” she said under her breath, “and I was probably eating those pork rinds all sexy-like.”

  “You know me too well, Miss Scarlett.” I laughed, taking a hard left into the parking lot.

  “The beach?” she asked, surveying the area. “You took me to the beach dressed in a formal gown?”

  I had to work hard to keep a straight face. “You don’t like the beach?” I asked. “Scared of getting a little sand in your shoes?”

  “No,” she answered with irritation. “I love the beach. I’ve just never experienced it in formal wear before.”

/>   “Well you’ve never lived then,” I said, swinging my door open and hurrying around the front of the car so I could get her door before she did that twenty-first century thing girls did now of opening the door themselves. Sometimes, progress wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

  I got there just in time. Opening the door, I lowered my hand to meet hers. “But we’ll save that for another time. Tonight we’ll be merely taking in the view of the beach from . . .”—my eyes pointed down the dock where a gleaming yacht towered a good ten feet higher and twenty feet longer than the rest of the shabby-by-comparison yachts around. It was the kind of boat that might make someone think to themselves, do you think he’s compensating for something?

  Good thing for me I knew I was compensating for nothing. Especially that.

  Emma’s mouth dropped so violently it was audible. “Is that cruise ship yours?”

  I shut the door, grabbed her hand, and tugged her along in her stunned state. I didn’t want to deal with another half hour debate over getting on the ship like I’d had to with her getting in the car.

  “Given the way you reacted to the car,” I said, leading her down the dock. “I’d like to plead the fifth on the boat,” I understated. “Let’s leave it at that and just enjoy ourselves. Sound manageable?”

  “Something tells me you’d throw me over your shoulder and tie me to a gold plated chair aboard that thing if I said no,” she said, giving in to my pulling encouragement.

  “Gold plated?” I huffed, feigning insult. “That’s just tacky.” Grinning over at her, I added, “I prefer platinum.”

  She rolled her eyes all the way towards the boat, where one of the handful of stewards was waiting with an outstretched hand to guide us aboard.

  “How’s it hanging, Jacque?” I greeted, shaking his hand before boarding. But not before I tossed Emma in my arms.

  Before she could protest like I knew she would, I hopped aboard and set her back down.

  Grinning like the devil, I asked, “You were about to say?”

  She made an event of checking and adjusting her gown to make sure everything was still covered and in its proper place before answering. “You know exactly what I was about to say. I’m not about to verbalize it as the only thing that will accomplish is an elevation of your smugness levels.”