34. careful what you wish for

34

CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR

On my couch with a glass of wine and a purring Ferdi, I reflect on the surreal night I've had. From the phone number that's burning a hole in my phone, to seeing my dad and Jessica kiss for the first time, and finally to my frank, surprising conversation with Kevin after the game.

I almost didn't talk to him. Vincent was right—Leo's team wiped the ice with the Ice Holes. Leo himself scored four goals, basically making everyone else look like schmucks in ice skates. Vincent also confided in me that his dad played horribly the first two periods, and he'd secretly worried they'd lose. Although vain, I couldn't help but wonder if his sudden change was due to knowing I was watching.

Experience told me Kevin took winning—and losing—very seriously, and I balked at the notion of making amends when he was in a crappy headspace. But the desire to get it over with won out, and after saying goodbye to Vincent and telling Jessica that Jameson would drive me home, I camped out by Kevin's car and waited.

Dr. Wilson and I ran through different scenarios of what might happen when I told Kevin the truth, from good to really bad. In reality, it was somewhere in between. He was surprised to see me, glad I was doing well, and apologized multiple times for his infidelity.

I made amends for destroying his record collection and finally told him about the baby. He wasn't angry that I kept it from him, more confused as to why I didn't want his support—financially or otherwise. I tried to explain, but eventually realized the futility of articulating something I didn't fully understand myself.

By the end of the conversation, we were laughing about the bonfire on the front lawn like two friends reliving wilder days. He waved off my offer to replace the records or give him money for them, then we laughed again when I joked that we'd both be dead by the time I paid him back, anyway. We hugged and that was that.

By the time I went looking for Jameson—and found him chatting up a blonde near the concessions stand—the parking lot was nearly empty and Leo and his family long gone.

Now, my phone sits like a lead weight in my hand. Nina Simone croons from my record player, and Ferdi is doing cat yoga to reach his belly with his tongue.

"Fuck it," I mutter and gulp the remainder of my wine.

Hi, it's Amelia. I've reconsidered your offe r

His reply comes twenty minutes later, long enough for me to think myself into a hole of regret, eat two string-cheese sticks, drink another glass of wine, and seriously consider dyeing my hair blue.

I don't think there was an offer on the table for surfing lessons

The other offer, smartass

Ah, good. Where do you live?

Venice

Leaving Marianne's. I can be there in 20. What's your address?

My heart jackknifes into my throat. Oh, shit. A small part of me was hoping he wouldn't reply at all. Another part was planning a rendezvous several days from now. Like after a waxing appointment and copious Kegels. Not right now.

Ferdi gives me a kitty grin and licks his chops.

I text Leo my address, because I'm apparently still a slave to impulse. At least this one. Him. And because even now, my skin feels laced with live wires and all I want is Leo to turn the voltage higher and higher until I combust. And finally, because I might still be 10 percent crazy.

Even though Dr. Wilson said I shouldn't think so much about wrong and right but instead pursue what makes me happy, I have the feeling this isn't what she meant.

Too late now, sings Vagina happily.

Heart is resoundingly silent.

Even though I'm waiting for it, I jump when the knock comes. I texted him the gate code a few minutes ago, got a reply that he was close, and have spent the intervening time staring at the front door and periodically sniffing my armpits to make sure my deodorant is still working.

My fingers spasm on the doorknob, but I manage to turn it and open the door. Leo. The sight of him steals my breath, his tall frame taking up most of my doorway, the ocean breeze flowing around him and bringing his scent to me. My mouth waters.

He's dressed down in sweats and a black tee, his hair wet from a recent shower. Our staring contest lasts until he clears his throat. "I wasn't sure you'd actually open the door."

My first attempt to speak is an unintelligible sound. I cough in embarrassment and try again. "Um, hi. Come on in."

I step back to let him pass, then close the door and lock it. Leaning against the wall to give my shaking legs a break, I watch him look around my small sanctuary. My eyes track his every movement, my brain still not convinced he's really here.

"I like this. It's very you." Turning, he smiles softly. "Colorful. Eclectic. Lovely."

"Thanks," I squeak. "Do you want something to drink? I don't have anything fancy. Just water or wine. It's like the Last Supper up in here." I snort, then throw a hand over my mouth .

Leo grins, eyes dancing. "You're nervous."

I wince. "What gave it away?"

He takes a step toward me. "To be honest, I'm nervous, too."

"You don't look nervous," I retort, then lose control of my mouth. "You look perfectly calm, like this is no big deal. Do you do this often or something?"

His smile kicks up a notch as his brows lift. "Do what? Obsess for months over a woman I can't have? Make impulsive decisions like stalking her at a party to basically beg for sex? Drive over the speed limit to get to her house like an addict in search of a fix?"

"Uhh—"

Three more steps swallow the space between us. He palms the side of my face, the contact of his hot hand ricocheting down my arm, across my chest, and settling like a shot of liquor in my belly.

Gaze on my mouth, his thumb strokes lightly across my lips. I watch his eyelashes flutter and feel the beginnings of something dangerous. So, so dangerous.

"Amelia," he whispers. His eyes lift to mine, indigo in the candlelight. "I want you so much."

Danger has never sounded so good.