“For now I will, but I’m not making any long-term promises on that one.” He grins, and I shake my head. “So what’s the deal with you and Happy Days? I did a little research, and no one I know grew up running home to watch that shit.”
Do I choose honesty and tell him that between the ages of four and eight, when my parents were looking to score their next fix, they’d leave me unattended for hours on end with nothing but a bag of Doritos and VHS tapes of Happy Days to keep me occupied, or do I go with the classic lie?
“My parents worked a lot, and the babysitter had a thing for Henry Winkler.” I shrug, trying to downplay the only good memories I have of being left alone. “She was a bit of an outcast in the social department.”
He smiles, suspicion glimmering in his eyes. “Right.”
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Because you were the one who had the crush on Henry Winkler. Not the babysitter. Nice try.”
I might’ve grown up with Henry keeping me entertained, but that’s about as far as my noncrush went. “Are you nuts?” I ask over a laugh, positive he lost his mind long before I stumbled into the picture.
“I’m as close to crazy as they get, darlin’. But come on,” he urges, lightly elbowing my ribs. “You like that I’m a little out there. Admit it.”
“I’ll do no such thing.” And I won’t.
Though he looks as though he belongs on the cover of a magazine, has a cute sense of humor, and is trying hard as hell to get into my panties, Brock has another thing coming if he thinks I’ll admit to anything this early on. If ever. It’s as if he’s trying to open me up and read the torn pages of my heart. To be honest, I don’t like it. I’ve already reduced myself to acting like an excited ball of anxiety around him, and I have no intention of letting the situation get out of hand.
Well, at least not the mental part. I’m all for the physical, though.
“I can’t figure you out,” he says, searching my face.
“What do you mean?”
“Never mind.” He looks out at the water, his expression distant.
“No. Tell me,” I press, nudging his arm.
He brings his attention back to me, a million questions floating behind his eyes. “From you not giving me your number, to making it close to impossible to get you to go out on a date with me . . .” A pause, a shake of his head. “I don’t know. I just can’t figure you out.”
“Why are you trying to figure me out?” I ask, my concentration turning to the light tug on my line.
“You’re like a jigsaw puzzle.” He shrugs, his voice soft. “One that’s in desperate need of being put together.”
I swallow, my heart rioting in protest. “I don’t need your pity, and besides, maybe I don’t want to be put together.”
Another lie.
I think I want to be put together, but I’m pretty damn sure no one can accomplish that without losing their sanity along the way.
He licks his lips and stares at me a long moment. “I’m usually not a pity-giving dude, believe that, but something’s telling me you might be worth it. What if I leave you no choice?”
“Huh?” Thrown by his response, I pull my attention from what I’m sure is a fish murdering the worm on my hook. “I don’t understand.”
“Ah, sure you do. You heard what I said, Ber. What if I leave you no other choice but to let me put you back together?” He shrugs again, his eyes alight with challenge. “I’m all for nicknames and figuring out people who I think need something more in their lives. Especially ones who I’m pretty fucking sure stepped into mine for a reason.”
Though his declaration comes out as a soft whisper, the conviction in it torches my ears. I clutch the fishing pole tighter and stare at him, my heart pounding as my mind replays his words. I don’t say anything. I can’t. Instead, I look at the water, wishing I weren’t so handicapped about opening up to others.
“You deny having an accent,” Brock says, reeling in his line a little, “but seriously, which West Coast state are you from?”
Persistent—I can’t deny I like it . . . sometimes. I sigh. “Washington.”
“I knew it.” A triumphant smile stretches his lips. “So why Maryland? Did your parents insist on Hadley U?”
The question flares old wounds, opening the levee guarding my memories. “My parents are dead,” I say flatly, my attention honed in on a canoe pulling up to a dock. I watch a couple stumble out, their laughter thundering over the sound of ducks fighting for their next meal.
“That blows,” Brock notes without a hint of solemnness.
“What? You’re not gonna go into the whole sorry for your loss, I understand what you’re going through, and if you need someone to talk to I’m here spiel?” I bite my lip, realizing what a bitch I sound like.
Shock jumps over Brock’s face, but he sobers. “To answer your first example: Yeah. I’m sorry you lost them, but I told you I’m not a pity-giving dude, and that seems to be what you want. You’re closing yourself off to me; I can feel it. I sensed it the moment we met. So fuck pity, right?”
I open my mouth to speak but snap it shut. I can’t form a coherent thought. Nothing’s there. I’m blank.
He continues. “To answer your second example: No. I’m not gonna say I understand what you’re going through because I don’t. I’ve never had anyone close to me die, but I know I will one day. When that happens, then we can live bitterly ever after.”