Camelot: How To Misbehave Part 12

She sank down to her haunches, and he felt the brush of her fingers over his cheek before he understood she was going to touch his face.

If he'd seen it coming, he wouldn't have let her. She'd snuck up on him.

She kissed his temple. "When did it happen?"

"Five years ago. Last month, she would have been seven."

"And your dad?"

"Three years."

"You still drink?"

"Never."

"You raise h.e.l.l? Go out to bars, pick up women?"

"No."

"So how long before you're done with your penance? When do you get forgiven?"

He made his fists flatten out on his knees. Not her fault that she didn't understand. She didn't know.

"Not yet."

She wrapped her arms around him and rubbed her wet cheek against his neck. "I forgive you, Tony."

Oh, f.u.c.k. He didn't want any of this. Not the cold sweat or the shaky hands, and not this flare of anger at her, that she could think it was so easy.

That he should be so vile, so worthless as to take comfort in her forgiveness.

When she started to shake, he put his arms around her, and when she kissed him, he lay her down on the bed and made love to her all over again, burying himself to the root in her softness.

She stroked her hands over his hair and said his name. "Tony, Tony." She said it like a prayer. Like the Catholic kids did-Tony, Tony, turn around. Something's lost and must be found.

She wanted to find him and give him back to himself, but that wasn't how it worked.

"Tony."

He took his name from her, took her body and her mouth and everything she offered him, and he didn't give her anything back.

The o.r.g.a.s.m stole his breath and left him empty. A sinkhole in his chest that wouldn't go away.

It only got bigger. The worst thing would be to pretend it wasn't there. He'd get to thinking he could have her. Keep her. He'd do everything he could for her, and then he'd mess it up, and she would fall in.

When the sun came up, he put on his clothes, laced up his boots, and left.

Chapter Twelve.

Amber's mother plucked the carton of ice cream off the table on her way to the kitchen.

"Hey! I was eating that."

"You can't have ice cream for lunch. It's not healthy."

"I was having it for breakfast. Because of the power outage."

"The power's been back on since yesterday morning."

Amber couldn't argue with that. "I'm an adult. I can eat ice cream whenever I want."

"You can eat your own ice cream when you want. In my place, you eat ice cream for dessert. Or for a snack. Not for lunch."

"Breakfast."

"Either way. What's gotten into you?" Her mother flapped a manicured hand at Amber, a gesture that took in her limp posture and the fact that she was wearing a bathrobe at eleven a.m.

"I'm sad."

"Yes, darling, I figured that out. I did warn you."

Amber got up and fetched the ice cream from the freezer. Rocky Road was her favorite, and even though the consumption of ice cream made her a walking cliche, it also made her throat feel better.

The depth of her grief kept surprising her. She'd awakened early, before the sun was all the way up, and had instantly known that he was gone. She'd thought she was fine. That she was handling it. And then she'd gotten out of bed and made a cup of tea, and after one sip, she'd started to cry.

It was just what he'd said would happen, which made her furious.

I'm fine, she kept telling herself, first in her head, then out loud. But she hadn't been able to stop crying.

She took her prize into the living room and dropped onto the couch to scoop ice cream directly off the sides of the paper carton.

Her mom came in through the archway that separated the dining area from the living room, her hands staked out on her hips. Sunday morning, and she was dressed in her church clothes-a skirt with a short-sleeved blouse and pearls. Though the outfit wasn't so different from her everyday clothes. Janet Clark believed in being well turned out at all times.

"You're not even going to tell me what happened?" she asked.

Amber shook her head. "Personal boundaries."

Personal boundaries was code. It meant, essentially, Back off, or I'm moving to Switzerland. She and her mother had been doing much better as a pair ever since Amber had discovered that personal boundaries existed, and she could erect them.

"Did he hurt you?"

This question arrived in a quieter, less interfering tone, representing a real fear that Amber needed to soothe-not Did he hurt your feelings? but Did he rape you, attack you, take advantage of you?

"No." She said it too loudly, and the word seemed to bounce around the apartment walls.

She tried to think how to explain it. How to tell her mother that Tony hadn't tricked her or lied to her, that he'd been absolutely straight with her from the beginning, and she had known he would be gone in the morning, and yes, he'd hurt her anyway. Badly.

"Not on purpose," she said.

Her mom came over and sat next to her on the couch. She flipped on the television, and a commercial for Survivor came on.

"Your sister watches this," Janet said. "I can't understand the point. A bunch of idiots on an island. Who cares?"

"Katie likes idiots. Look at her boyfriend." Levi was a smooth-talking, good-looking kid who didn't have an ounce of common sense.

Her mom made a snorting noise. "Hand me that ice cream."

"You're just going to take it away from me."

"No, I won't. Hand me the spoon, too."

"You're going to eat with me?"

"Just a little bit."

"Aren't you supposed to be at the Parish House lunch thingy soon?"

Janet's mouth compressed into a line, and she put out her hand. Amber gave her the ice cream. "Yes, but you're sad. Spoon."

She took the spoon and dug into the ice cream. "Mmm. This is good. All melty still from the freezer being out."

"I know. Don't eat all the marshmallow parts," Amber said.

"Tell me again which Mazzara boy you got mixed up with."

"Tony."

"Is he the one who had the accident all those years ago? Hit his daughter with the car?"

Amber's throat closed, and she reached for the ice cream. After swallowing another bite, she said, "No. That was Patrick. Tony is older."

"What's he like?"

"He's great. And ... and kind of messed up, I think."

"Drugs?"

"No."

"Alcohol?"

"No. Jeez, Mom."

Her mother was unrepentant. "So what kind of messed up is he?"

"Just the ordinary kind. Nothing terrible."

"Well, he can't be ordinary messed up, or he would be too smart to make you so sad. He would be here, treating you like a princess."

She thought about saying that he had treated her like a princess, but she was afraid her mother would ask how, and she didn't think c.o.c.k jokes and o.r.g.a.s.ms were her mom's idea of the princess treatment.

But they were Amber's.

He'd made her feel as though she could say anything. Be anybody. That she could be who she was inside her heart, inside her head, instead of who someone else wanted her to be.

He'd made her feel amazing. And then he'd left.

She understood what he was doing. When she'd looked him up in the phone book and called his home number, she'd done it knowing that he wouldn't pick up.

Just in case you change your mind, my number's 427-7786. Call me if you want to talk. I'm here.

She'd listened to herself leaving the message, fully aware that he wouldn't call back. That she probably sounded weak and desperate in exactly the way he'd predicted.

But d.a.m.n it, she wasn't weak and desperate. She just really, really liked him, and she refused to let him slink off without at least having to hear her voice again in the daylight. He shouldn't get to drop her without having to make the decision one more time.

Apparently he'd made it. He'd had all day Sat.u.r.day to return her call, and he hadn't done it.

Resulting in more crying.

"The damage is done," she said. "I'm in the ice-cream-eating phase. Give it back."

Janet pa.s.sed the carton over with her lips pursed like she was trying to keep herself from saying something. It was rare that her mother tried to keep herself from saying anything. Amber tried not to be curious but gave up almost immediately.

"What?"

Janet sighed. "I was only going to say that if he's the ordinary sort of messed up, and he's a man, he's probably just being an idiot. And if you like him, it doesn't have to be over unless you want it to be. But then I remembered that you invited him up to your apartment and his truck was still there when I went to sleep at twelve, and I thought, Why am I encouraging this kind of monkey business?"

Reluctantly, Amber smiled.

Her mother touched her hair. "Maybe you should talk to him," she said.

"It wouldn't do any good. It's not really about me. It's just ... him."

"Definitely being an idiot." Her mom glanced out the window. "If you do talk to him, be sure to make him grovel. They're always better in bed after a good grovel."

Shock forced the laugh out of her. "Mom!"

Janet gave her an amused sideways look. "You're old enough to bring men home and too sinful for church. Doesn't that mean we can do girl talk?"

"You're my mother."