Page 49 of Control (Everyday Heroes 3.50)
I laugh, surprised by how much he has me pegged. “Always the bridesmaid, never the bride.”
He falls quiet for a moment but his eyes question and ponder something for a beat. “I thought you were okay with that.”
“God, yes,” I say with a little more enthusiasm than I should. “That sounded bad. I just mean—dogs are more loyal than most men.”
“So instead of the crazy cat lady named Jana who lives in the corner house, you’re the dedicated dog lady who lives in the yellow clapboard.”
“Pretty much.” I laugh. “And perfectly fine with it.”
“You might change your opinion someday,” he says, and I swear to God that look in his eyes right now, the one that’s part amused, part serious—but wholly invested in every single response I give—could very well make me change my answer.
The thought stuns me. Unnerves me. Makes me panic because I don’t think that way.
“So when are you heading back to San Francisco?” I ask the question because I need to remind myself he’ll be gone soon. That I can’t fall prey to the flutters and the swoons because he will be gone soon and that’s...that’s exactly how I like it.
But my mind stutters over those six words. Over my normal response that now doesn’t feel so normal. Because that’s exactly how I’ve liked it.
His eyes hold mine, the flash of surprise at my sudden change of topic there, but I appreciate that he doesn’t call me on it. He nods his head in silent acceptance. It’s as if he knows the question can’t be avoided. It’s valid, and truly, he doesn’t have any right to call me out on my fears when he can’t offer me anything. And somehow, that stings.
“Three weeks. Four. It could be sooner unless I find something here that piques my interest enough to want to stay.”
Three weeks. Twenty-one days. Unless something piques his interest. Not someone. So why is he here with me? Why push for something so temporary? Because he’s horny? Because I’m convenient?
Jesus, Des. Aren’t you the first person to push someone away? Aren’t you the one putting the brakes on things with a man? So why does this bug you? Why does his blasé response sting? I feel emotionally exhausted and spent, yet not ready to return home either.
And so we sit in this awkward state where I’m hurt but shouldn’t be and he doesn’t realize it. He takes a sip from his Slurpee and we turn to watch a group of teens to the left, re-enacting their reactions to their experience in the haunted house. “Do you have any family around here?”
I look back at him but he’s still watching the kids. “Nah. My mom lives in Idaho.”
“And your dad?”
“Don’t know.” I shrug. “He left when I was one, and after that my mom always had a boyfriend for a few months on, few months off...and on and on. A constant cycle of someone moving in, getting used to a new person in our house, and then just as we settled down into a routine, they’d break up. The revolving relationship door isn’t for me.”
“Who said it has to be that way?”
I twist my lips as I try to put my thoughts to words. “Right or wrong, I think I conditioned myself to have fun, and when the fun starts to become something more, I shift gears and move on. I’m good with dating. With enjoying the moment. The future’s going to happen whether I worry about it or not, so why even bother?”
Reznor’s eyes are intense when he stares into mine. “Makes sense. I can respect that.” There is no judgment in his tone,
and there’s something about him that makes me feel comfortable being me—makes me feel comfortable telling the truth—when most of the time I say what I need to say to play the role society feels I should. “What about you? Why aren’t you married to Mrs. Stepford?” I ask. “Don’t think the spotlight you’re shining on me isn’t going to turn toward you and ask the same question.”
But why am I asking? Do I really want to know his answer or am I just trying to get out from under the microscope that will magnify my hidden cracks and atypical shortcomings?
He takes a sip as his smile falls quiet and his eyes meet mine. “First off, Stepford is far from my type.”
“What is your type then?”
“Long-legged brunettes who love to wear bold colors, smell like wet dogs, and have a wicked kiss.”
I hate that with every word my body reacts more to him. The ache between my thighs. The flutter in my belly. The swooning in my mind.
“That was smooth,” I say to try and distract myself.
“You like that?” He lifts an eyebrow. “I was going to add who likes to groom Pussy, but thought that might be a bit crass.”
I throw my head back and laugh and think of that damn cat and love and hate her all simultaneously for getting us to meet each other.
“Well...it is groomed.”
