Lesson #Whatever: There is so much more to him than I ever thought.
“Happy birthday,” are the first words he says Tuesday morning, handing me a mug of orange juice. It smells sweeter than usual.
“What’d you do to it?” I ask. We’ve gotten along fine the past few days, but now I wonder if all along, he’s just been waiting to get back at me for the tainted lattes.
“Drink. It’s good for your immune system.”
I take a small sip, wincing at the strong taste. “I think champagne’s the opposite thing they recommend for a cold.”
He smirks, then clinks his mug to mine.
We feast on birthday mimosas and mocha-chocolate brownies for breakfast. My cell blows up with texts and voicemails and notifications from friends and family. Summer Prescott even took time from her spring break to email me. She’d sent a photo of a sea turtle from a rescue center in Miami with the message—This one looks kind of sassy. I named it Walsh.
After I take calls from my parents, followed by each of my sisters, I turn my phone on silent and throw it to the foot of the mattress.
Spencer refills my cup with the last of the champagne. Diluted with the juice, it doesn’t hit as hard, but since my tolerance is nonexistent, my cheeks feel warm and my body feels a little loose. I lay back on our bank of pillows, sipping my drink.
“I haven’t felt like this since my sister Aileen’s wedding.” And when he raises an eyebrow in question, I tell Spencer all about Ashton and I sneaking drinks at my sister’s nuptials. I don’t mention Ashton giving me an orgasm that night. Only because Spencer has long since obliterated his record. Without the assistance of alcohol.
He’s silent, and I peek at him over the brim of my mug. His sweats, slouched on his hips. The way his hands cup his mug, and even sick and crampy, my body stirs at the memory of them caressing my breasts.
“I thought you were saving yourself? For your twenty-first,” Spencer speaks, and I snap out of it. Blush and thank my forethought at wearing a thick sweater because I haven’t worn a bra in days and my nipples strain against the fabric.
“I have been,” I tell him. “Since that night. My sisters have been planning my twenty-first since I turned eighteen. We were supposed to go bar hopping tonight. Deirdre even had a birthday sash and a tiara for me.”
He grins, so free with his smiles when it’s just the two of us. “Princess.”
“Don’t make me dump this on you,” I shake my mug.
“Deirdre—she’s the one getting married?”
I shake my head. I’d given him the rundown on my sisters the other day, pointing out each in the collage of photos above my desk. “Brigid. Deirdre’s the lawyer. I know, three siblings, it’s hard to keep track.”
Spencer’s quiet. Then, “I have five.”
He keeps his eyes on the TV, another basketball game on the screen. His team had lost last night, but we’d kept watching, since Morris’s is up against Grayson’s in the second round.
When he doesn’t say anything else, I open my mouth, unsure if I should ask, but also needing to know since he just dropped this bomb on me that he has five siblings and he’s never so much as mentioned one.
Then, he says, “Younger. Half-siblings. Four boys, one girl. My mom’s got three. Dad has two.”
“Your parents…”
“Divorced.” He says it so blandly, like a simple recitation of the facts, but his temple twitches. “Two people who never fucking should have married in the first place. Let alone had a kid.”
But that kid was you.
He doesn’t say anything else about his parents. Or his siblings. Doesn’t mention their names or ages or special memories with them. I have a feeling if I ask, he won’t have answers for me. Four boys and one girl. He doesn’t call them brothers or sister. From his terse description of his parents’ relationship, his childhood probably hadn’t been a happy one.
“Spencer,” I venture. “Where would you have gone for spring break, if Florida wasn’t an option?” If you hadn’t stayed with me, I don’t say.
“Here,” he says, then expands. “On campus. Main Desire.”
I chug the rest of my mimosa for courage, grimacing at the overabundance of champagne. “Not with either of your parents?”
“Which one would I have stayed with, Kennedy?” he asks, scowling at me, but not at me. “The one that cancelled camping trips at the last minute when something better came up? Or the one that constantly forgot it was their turn to pick me up from football practice? Because it was both.”
I set down my empty mug, not caring when it falls to its side on a blanket. Clasp his wrist, his pulse rapid under my fingers, and tell him to breathe. Inhale deeply with him. Count to four out loud. Then again on the next breath. Until he relaxes. He turns over his palm and twines his hand with mine, staring at that connection as he speaks again. “They pawned me off on the other whenever they could. Even after the separation, they’d argue all the fucking time. About whose weekend it was. Who had to take me to the doctor when I got sick. Which holidays they didn’t want to spend with me.”
“When I got old enough, I just…” He glares at my hand, tightening his grip. “Stopped letting them pass me around. Stayed with friends, teammates, then…”
He shakes his head. Lets go of my hand to grab our mugs and the empty brownie container. Leaves the solitude of our blanket fort for the kitchen. I follow him, wrapping a blanket around my shoulders. “Then what?”
Spencer turns on the faucet and starts washing dishes so he can’t look at me when he says, “Meegan.”
I know part of this from Natalie. And I can piece bits of
