APRIL
Whirlwind.
It’s hard not to use that word to describe my relationship with Eddie, but every time it comes into my head, I remember Bea, meeting Eddie on vacation.
She called it a whirlwind, too.
But maybe that’s just what being with Eddie is like. Maybe every woman who’s ever come into his life gets swept up in the same way because once he’s decided he wants you, it’s the only way he knows how to behave.
I give Eddie the second chance he wanted, but set it on my terms. No dates in Mountain Brook. Neutral territory. He thinks it’s because I’m worried about the other people in Thornfield Estates finding out. I don’t want them to know about us yet—and I don’t want to risk another fuckup like the thing with Chris—but it’s not because I’m worried about my job. My dog-walking days are ticking down so steadily I can practically hear the click.
No, I don’t want anyone to know yet because I like having this secret. The biggest piece of gossip in the neighborhood, and it’s mine.
They’ll find out eventually, I know, but I’m determined that when they do, I’ll be so deeply entrenched there won’t be shit they can do about it.
So as February slides into March, March into April, we go to fancy restaurants with menus I can barely read. We walk through parks, our shoulders and hips touching. We go to movies, and sit in the back, like teenagers. His hand is always on me, resting against my palm, tracing the line of my collarbone, a warm weight on my lower back so that I can feel his touch even when we’re apart.
That’s the strangest part to me, really. Not the dates, not the idea that someone like Eddie Rochester might want to spend time with me. It’s how much I want him, too.
I’m not used to that.
Wanting things? Sure. That’s been a constant in my life, my eyes catching the sparkle of something expensive on a wrist, around a neck; pictures of dream houses taped to my bedroom wall instead of whatever prepubescent boy girls my age were supposed to be interested in.
But I’ve been dodging men’s hands since I was twelve, so wishing a man would touch me is a novel experience.
I think I like it.
The first time he kissed me, it was beside his car outside a restaurant. His mouth tasted like the red wine we’d shared, and his hands holding my face hadn’t made me feel trapped, but … safe. And beautiful.
I’d liked the clear disappointment in his eyes when I pulled back. Because, of course, I pulled back. Timing is everything here, and I’m not about to fuck up something this big by being an easy conquest for him.
So, any intimacy is limited to kisses for now and the occasional heated touches, his palms sliding over my upper arms, my thighs, my fingers resting on the hard muscles of his stomach but not going lower.
He hasn’t had to wait for anything in a long time, I think, so he can damn well wait for me.
But it isn’t just the kissing, the desire I feel for him that has my head spinning. It’s how much he notices things. Notices me.
On our third date—sandwiches at a place in Vestavia—I pick a bottle of cream soda from the cooler, and before I can stop myself, I’m telling him the story of a foster dad I had early on, when I was ten. He was obsessed with cream soda, bought giant cases of it from Costco, but never let me or the other kid in the house at that time, Jason, touch any of it—which, of course, meant that cream soda was all I ever wanted to drink.
It surprised me, how easily the story poured out. It hadn’t been that exact story, of course. I’d left out the foster care part, just saying “my dad,” but it was the most truthful I’d been about my past with anyone in years.
And Eddie hadn’t pried or looked at me with pity. He’d just squeezed my hand, and when I went to his house the next day, the fridge was stocked with the dark glass bottles.
Not the cheap shit Mr. Leonard bought, but the good stuff they only sell in fancy delis and high-end grocery stores.
I’ve gone so long trying not to be seen that there’s something intoxicating about letting him really see me.
John knows something is going on, his beady eyes are even more suspicious than usual as they follow me around the apartment, but even that doesn’t bother me now. I like keeping this secret from him, too, the smug smile I wear, the different hours I’m keeping.
But all of that—kissing Eddie, fucking with John—is nothing compared to how I feel now, crouched in front of Bear’s crate as I put him back after his walk, listening to Mrs. Reed on her cell phone.
“Eddie is dating someone.”
I allow myself a small smile. I’d been waiting for this, but it’s even more satisfying than I’d imagined, the thrill rushing through me similar to how I feel when I swipe a ring or put a watch in my pocket.
Actually, it might even be better.
“I know!” I hear Mrs. Reed exclaim from behind me. There’s a pause, and I wonder who’s on the other end of the phone. Emily, maybe? They go back and forth between friends and enemies, but this week, they’re on the friends’ side of things. All it will take is one snide comment about someone’s yoga pants being too tight, or a passive-aggressive dig at the lack of kids, and then they’ll be feuding again—but for now, they’re besties.
And talking about me.
Except they don’t know that it’s me, and that’s the fun part, the part I’ve been waiting weeks for now.
I smile as I turn back to Mrs. Reed, handing over Bear’s leash.
She takes it, then says, “Girl, let me call you back,” into the phone. Definitely Emily, then. They do that “girl” thing with each other constantly when they’re friends again.
Putting her phone back on the counter, she grins at me. “Jane,” she practically purrs, and I know what’s coming. She’s done this before about Tripp Ingraham, squeezing me for any stray info, anything I’ve picked up from being around him. It kills me that she thinks she’s subtle when she does it.
So when she asks, “Have you noticed anyone new around the Rochester house?” I give her the same bland smile as always and shrug.
“I don’t think so.”
It’s a stupid answer, and I take pleasure in the way Mrs. Reed blinks at me, unsure what to do with it, before moving past her with a wave of my fingers. “See you next week!” I call cheerfully.
There are Chanel sunglasses on a table by the door, plus a neatly folded stack of cash, but I don’t even look at them.
Instead, the second I’m on the sidewalk, I pull out my phone to text Eddie.
If Eddie was surprised that I actually initiated a date—and that I suggested we “eat at home”—he didn’t show it. He had texted me back within minutes, and when I’d shown up at his house at seven that evening, he already had dinner on.
I didn’t ask if he’d actually cooked it himself or if he’d picked up something from the little gourmet shop in the village that did that kind of thing, whole rows of half-assed fancy food you could throw in the oven or in some gorgeous copper pot and pass off as your own.
It didn’t matter.
What mattered is that he could’ve just ordered takeout, but instead, he’d put some effort into the night, effort that told me I was right to take the next step.
I wait until after dinner, until we’re back in the living room. He’s lit a few candles, lamps spilling warm pools of golden light on the hardwood, and he pours me a glass of wine before getting a whiskey for himself. I can taste it on his lips, smoky and expensive, when he kisses me.
I think of that first day we were in here, drinking coffee, dancing around each other. These new versions of us—dressed nicer (I’m wearing my least faded skinny black jeans and an imitation silk H&M top I found at Goodwill), alcohol instead of coffee, the dancing very different—seem layered over that earlier Jane and Eddie.
Jane and Eddie. I like how it sounds, and I’m going to be Jane forever now, I decide. This is where all the running, all the lying, was leading. It was all worth it because now I’m here with this beautiful man in this beautiful house.
Just one last thing to do.
Turning away from him, I twist the wineglass in my hands. I can’t see out the giant glass doors, only my own reflection, and Eddie’s, as he leans against the marble-topped island separating the living room from the kitchen.
“This has been the loveliest night,” I say, making sure to put the right note of wistfulness in my voice. “I’m really going to miss this place.”
It’s not hard to sound sad as I say it—even the idea of leaving makes my chest tighten. It’s another strange feeling, another one I’m not used to. Wanting to stay somewhere. Is it just because I’m tired of running, or is it something else? Why here? Why now?
I don’t know, but I know that this place, this house, this neighborhood, feels safe to me in a way all those other stopgaps never have.
In the glass, I see Eddie frown. “What do you mean?”
Turning to face him, I shrug. “I’m just not sure how much longer I’m going to be able to stay in Birmingham,” I tell him. “I don’t want to walk dogs forever, and my roommate is a nightmare. I’ve been looking at grad school programs out West, and…” I trail off, thinking about another shrug, but settling on a melancholy sigh instead.
“What about us?” he asks, and it’s everything I can do to hide my smile.
I give him a look, tilting my head. “Eddie,” I say. “This has been really fun, but … I mean, it’s not like there’s a future for us, right? You’ll eventually want somebody more … polished.” I wave my free hand. “Sophisticated. Prettier.”
And then I take a deep breath. “I haven’t even been totally honest with you about my past … about my life before this.”
He stands still, watching me, waiting. “Okay,” he says, and his voice is soft, patient. “Want to start now?”
I nod, and then I take one of the bigger gambles of my life. I tell him the truth.
“I was in foster care from the time I was three until I aged out of the system. That dad I mentioned the other day … he wasn’t my real dad, he was my foster dad, and not a very nice one at that. I don’t even know who my parents were. I mean, I know their names, but just on paper. I have no memories of them. I don’t even know who I really am. Is that actually someone you want to be with? Someone who comes from nothing?”
He sets his glass down on the counter and crosses over to me in a few strides.
“Yes,” he says. His voice is low, and his hands are resting on my bare arms. I feel that touch all the way down to my toes, and when I tug my lower lip between my teeth, I see the way his eyes follow the motion.
“Thank you for sharing that with me, Jane. Knowing that about you, imagining all that you must have gone through…” He trails off, his eyes searching mine, and there’s so much empathy and kindness there, my legs buckle a little. “It doesn’t make me want you less. It makes me want you more,” he finishes, and it is the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.
“Eddie,” I start, and his grip tightens.
“No,” he replies. “If I wanted an Emily Clark or a Campbell Reed, I’d be with them. I’m with you because I want you, Jane.”
Eddie lowers his head, and his lips brush mine, just barely. A sharp sting, his teeth biting lightly, desire flooding through me so hard I nearly shake with it.
“My Jane,” he says, his voice low and rough, and I swallow hard, nothing feigned now, no illusion.
“I’m not yours,” I manage to say. “I’m free as a fucking bird.”
That makes him smile, and when he kisses me again, I use my teeth this time, nipping at the same place on his mouth where he bit mine.
I’m not leaving tonight, and we both know it.
I’m not leaving ever again.