Dangerous Boys

God, I’d loved it.

When Oliver had kissed me, there had been no hesitation or sweet, eager fumbling. His lips had been ruthless, possessive, hard on mine with a stony intent. I’d never been kissed like that before, taken so completely, and even now, with Ethan’s arms around me, I felt the imprint Oliver had left, shame mingling with desire in my bloodstream, glittering and dark.

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ My mom’s voice came, and I broke away to find her in the doorway, dressed in sweats and a dressing gown. ‘I didn’t mean to interrupt.’

‘That’s OK!’ I exclaimed quickly. ‘We’re fine. What’s up?’

‘The bulb went out in my craft room,’ Mom explained. ‘I was looking for that stepladder.’

‘I’ll get it.’ I made to move, but Ethan quickly cut me off.

‘Who needs a ladder? I’ll take care of it.’

‘Are you sure?’ Mom asked. ‘I don’t want to be any trouble.’

‘No trouble at all.’ Ethan grinned.

‘I’ll go get the bulb then,’ Mom said. ‘It’s just upstairs.’

She left and Ethan turned to me with a smile. ‘Craft room?’

‘It’s her new thing,’ I sighed. ‘I cleared Dad’s files out of the study and put the old TV in there with her knitting stuff. She never leaves. Just watches old movies and crochets these terrible sweaters all day long.’

‘It must be helping her,’ he said. ‘She seems much better. Hey, maybe she’ll be back at work soon.’

‘Uh-huh,’ I nodded brightly. ‘Maybe.’

He exited the kitchen and I took a breath. It wasn’t the knitting helping Mom, it was two hundred and forty milligrams of anti-depressants daily, but even that wasn’t enough to get her out of the house. She’d fought it, I knew she would, but I’d managed to get her to the doctor, and we’d tag-teamed her with the hard-sell. Just a few pills and she’d be right as rain. Wouldn’t that be nice? Didn’t she want to feel better? She’d relented, but still, progress was incremental. Sitting up all day instead of lying in bed; knitting for hours instead of staring blankly at the wall.

Small, expensive victories.

I turned back to the stove, checking the food. I’d asked Annette for her recipe, Ethan’s favourite, and baked garlic bread too. He’d been so surprised at the invitation, but I was wondering how much longer I could keep up the charade. How much longer I would be paying penance for my crimes. Maybe Oliver would go back to school, or take off on one of his trips soon, I thought with desperate hope. Then, everything could go back to the way it was, before.

The sound of the doorbell came.

‘I’ll get it,’ Ethan’s voice called. I quickly grabbed a towel to wipe my hands, emerging from the kitchen with it still damp in my hands.

‘Mmm. Something smells good.’

I froze.

It was Oliver, of course it was. Taking off his coat and hanging it in the hallway, like he was supposed to be here.

‘But . . . Why . . . ?’ I stuttered, painfully aware of my hair in a mess and the stained apron tied around my waist. ‘I mean, what are you doing here?’

‘Baby brother said you were cooking.’ Oliver sauntered towards me, an unreadable smile on his face. ‘I couldn’t resist. I know, I’m gatecrashing, but look, I brought gifts!’ He held up a bottle of wine, and a six-pack of beers. ‘I’ll put them in the fridge, OK?’

He brushed past me, leaving me with Ethan in the hall. ‘Sorry,’ he said, rueful. ‘I didn’t know he was coming. I could ask him to go, if you want?’

I caught my breath. For a moment, I was tempted to tell him yes, make Oliver leave, but that was impossible. I had no reason not to want him here, at least, none I could explain out loud.

‘What are you talking about? It’s fine.’ I tried to pull myself together. ‘There’s plenty of food. The more the merrier, right?’ I pasted on a smile.

Ethan kissed my forehead as he passed. ‘Thanks, babe. You’re the best.’

I stayed there a moment, alone in the hallway, panic taking flight in my chest. Why would he come here? Was he going to make a scene of it, let something slip?

No. I forced myself to take a breath. He wouldn’t do that, surely. This must be him trying to smooth over what had happened and act as if nothing had changed. And if he could do it, then I would too: pretend, the way I had been doing for weeks.

Simple.

When I joined them in the kitchen, Oliver was uncorking the wine with swift, expert movements. ‘Do you like red?’ he asked, looking up. ‘I got a great Pinot.’

‘I . . . don’t really know anything about wines,’ I replied. My voice came out forced, too high, and I blushed, feeling like our betrayal was written all over my face. But Ethan didn’t notice anything was wrong, he just helped himself to some chips and dip I’d left out on the countertop.

‘No?’ Oliver raised an eyebrow. ‘What a shame. Well, no better time to start than now. You’ll love this, I promise.’ He poured into wine glasses I didn’t even know we had, holding one out to me.

‘I don’t know . . . ’ I tried to avoid his gaze, busying myself with fetching silverware and plates.

‘I insist.’ Oliver closed the distance between us and I felt his hand on my arm. I froze, flinching back from his touch. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.’ His lips curled with amusement as he pressed the glass into my hand. ‘Here, try it.’

I took it, caught in his gaze. His eyes watched me, clear and blue, and I remembered the look in them as he’d strode towards me on the front porch, just outside. Full of intent.

‘Thanks,’ I managed. His fingers brushed mine and I fumbled. The glass slipped, shattering to the floor.

‘Are you OK?’ Ethan sprang up.

‘Yes, fine,’ I said quickly, stepping back. The wine pooled, dark as blood on the floor, glass shards scattered everywhere. ‘Just clumsy, that’s all.’

‘You should be more careful,’ Oliver said calmly. He stepped over the mess to the sink to grab the roll of paper towels. ‘You could hurt yourself.’

‘Here, I’ve got it.’ Ethan found the broom and swept the glass into the dustbin. ‘I’ll put it straight in the trash, you might cut yourself.’

He opened the kitchen door and headed out, into the dark of the backyard.