Page 24 of The Neighborly Thing To Do
Cassidy tastes like that blackberry jam and mint toothpaste, and she kisses like she’s hungry for it. One of her hands comes up to my chest, and I wish that I hadn’t bothered with a shirt today.
Kissing Cassidy is simultaneously exactly what I thought it’d be and completely unexpected. It’s like standing outside in a thunderstorm and still being surprised when you get hit by lightning: shocking, but with an air of inevitability.
I pull back slowly, not wanting to end the kiss immediately, but needing to remind myself that this is allfake.We’re practicing for a marriage that is only real on paper.
Cassidy looks at me with heavy eyes, and I’m a weaker man than I thought, because I almost lean in and kiss her again.
I clear my throat. “Yeah, that should convince people,” I say, my voice coming out hoarser than expected.
Do I imagine her licking her lips? I must imagine it. “Yeah,” she agrees, eyes still trained on me.
Cassidy is a dangerous woman. She’s going to tempt me into doing something stupid, I know it. I’m already leaning closer to her, my whole body aching for her. She touched my horn and got me hard, but anyone could do that; one kiss from her and I want to beg her to let me come in her.Fuck.
“What time do you work?” I ask her, squeezing my fist so I don’t reach up and stroke her hair again.
She turns her head, finally breaking the eye contact that felt like it was drowning me in the best way. With a quick glance at the microwave clock, she says, “I have about thirty minutes.” She glances down at herself. “And I still need to shower and change.”
“Go change, then. And I’ll bring you to work when you’re done.”
She stares at me for another minute, then scampers out of the room like she’s running from something.
I don’t think anyone could see the enthusiasm in Cassidy’s eyes when she flies with me and not conclude that she’s enjoying the hell out of herself. It’s entirely for the experience and not for me, but the people spying on us when we land don’t have to know that.
I land in front of the store, carefully setting her on her feet. Kissing her again feels like tempting fate in the worst way, so I restrain myself and brush a kiss across her forehead, gentle and tender.
She blinks up at me, and I don’t know if the staring into my eyes is play-acting or genuine. I don’t take the time to sort it out. If I do, I worry that I’ll make her late.
“I’ll be back at the end of your shift,” I promise her, and then I take off again.
I go straight home, not bothering with the long way around that I’ve been flying with Cassidy. I don’t need a nice view; I need to be out of the public eye.
When I get to the workshop, Dad is already there, chiseling at a gravestone and completely ignoring me. Same thing as always, then.
We’re good now, but when I’d first started taking on less and less of the family business in favor of my art, it had been tense. He’d taught me everything I know, after all, and I had felt like I spurned the gift, turning away from the craft passed down to him by his father. He was as silent as ever, leaving me unsure about where I stood.
But he doesn’t have to talk for me to know; he gave me half the space in this workshop. He helped me build the apartment upstairs so I could stay here. He gives the most honest, no-frills critique of what I’m working on whenever I ask for it. He isn’t effusive with praise, but he isn’t overly harsh, either.
My father is an honest man, and a quiet one, and we’ve settled into an understanding.
Or at least, I thought we did. Today he looks up from his stone. “How’s your wife?” he grunts.
She’s scared and too hard on herself. She’s beautiful and I can’t forget how her lips tasted. I don’t know which of those answers he wants. “She’s okay.”
“You taking care of her?”
I stare. My dad has never asked that about any of my girlfriends in the past. “Of course,” I tell him, but inside I’m doubting it. I’m trying to take care of her, but she makes it hard.
Not that I’m blaming her. She’s lived a life that doesn’t lend itself well to letting other people take care of her. And the amount of shit life has dumped on her recently absolutely isn’t her fault. I just wish I could make her feel better. I wish I was more helpful to her.
“Good.” He chips away at his work in silence for a minute, long enough for me to drift over toward my area and study the fox that’s almost done. “Marriage takes work, Finn. You have to put in the work. Treat her right.”
“Dad… you heard me when I told Mom that this is fake, right?” I hesitantly ask.
He grunts. “Marriage isn’t fake. You married this girl, Finn. Take this seriously.” He turns away from his work to look me in the eye, tilting his head. That’s the thing about my dad; he doesn’t say much, but he sees everything. “But I think you’re already doing that, hm?”
I look down, unable to look him in the eye when I admit, “I’m in way over my head, Dad.” I’m thirty-nine years old, well-off, and not inexperienced. I shouldn’t feel like a floundering kid right now, but I do.
My mother asked if I was going to get hurt by this, and I’d suspected she was right. Now, I’m beginning to think she wascatastrophically, unavoidably right. The truth is Cassidywrecksme. I want to kiss her on the public street and the thought of taking her on a date makes my heart skip.
