“Oh, you found his new drawings. Aren’t they beautiful?” Mallory comes up behind me, setting her hands on my shoulders and squeezing lovingly like I’m her own child.
I nod, distracted. “They really are.”
Sawyer has sketched a view from one of the hiking trails in the mountains on the outskirts of town. I can practically feel what it’s like to stand right there, atop the grass and stone, that’s how vivid this drawing is. I’ve always known how talented he is when it comes to sketching, but since we barely like to look at each other, I haven’t seen his sketches in a very long time. Something in me loosens as I look at this, maybe it’s because someone who could draw something so beautiful could never hold so much malice in their heart.
“He’s so talented. Sometimes, it scares me.” Her voice is low.
“Why?” I glance up at her.
Her face grows sad. “Because sometimes I think that another firm, a larger, more flashier one, is going to up and steal him away. I want that for him, but I also want my baby close.”
At this moment, I think I hear my heart audibly crack down the middle. If only my mother wished the same about me.
Whisking away the sadness, because it’s Mallory’s birthday and I won’t break down here, I smile. “You’re the best mom ever.”
She squeezes my shoulder again. “That’s because both of my kids are so wonderful.”
I don’t miss the way she lumps me into part of her family.
We rejoin the group, and everyone begins cutting into the pie. It’s another hour or so of Sawyer not even uttering a word to me, and me trying to get in on the adult conversation. One, because I’m bored, but two, because I’ve always related to people way older than me rather than people my own age.
As everyone winds down with the eating, and coffee and tea cups empty, I can feel the night coming to a close.
“All right, you know the drill. Kids do the dishes.” Thomas claps a hand over his stomach.
It’s an age old tradition in the Roarke house, but one that hasn’t been implemented since Sawyer and I became distant. Maybe Thomas forgot that his son and I despise each other. Maybe he just doesn’t care anymore. Or maybe this is a plot. With the way Mallory’s eyes are twinkling in my direction, I’d say it’s the latter.
“I’ll do them. Alone.” Sawyer speaks for the first time all night.
I finally chance a look at him as he rises from the table. His right eye has a gnarly purple and green bruise under it, and I know now that Laura wasn’t bluffing about the fight. But other than that, he’s his usual gorgeous self. So tall that I have to tip my head back to inspect him from my seated position. Hair thick and wavy, and a little wet on the ends like it’s still clinging to the last drips of the shower water. Green eyes, blazing with hatred in my direction. He doesn’t want me to help, that much is clear. Sawyer would rather clean a million dishes alone than enlist my help.
He walks out of the room without a backward glance, and two seconds later, on impulse, I get up to follow him. I can feel the adults’ eyes tracking me, but they don’t say anything.
My eyes fall to the very defined globes of Sawyer’s butt in his jeans as he stands with his back to me, elbow-deep in suds. The amount of times I’ve thought of Sawyer naked over the last two years, and admittedly before that, is shameful. I shouldn’t even say the real count. It almost makes it worse, hating the boy you’re so clearly attracted to. It sharpens everything, makes it all that much more intense. Both the lust, and the loathing.
“I told you I’d do it myself.” He practically growls as I step up next to him, dish towel in hand ready to dry.
“And I’m a guest of your mother’s and won’t disrespect her, so you’re stuck with me.” I give the smart-ass response with a snarky grin.
“Story of my life,” he grumbles, slopping a pan into the sink so that the water sprays up and hits me.
I flick some of the soap from my shirt, a white short-sleeve sweater, and when I look back up, Sawyer is staring right at the tiny damp spots on my boobs. My cheeks burn, and I notice the way his eyes linger and then jump to the side when he knows he’s been caught.
We wash and dry in silence for a few moments, the jolts of electric chemistry between us running like live wires about to spark.
“You really got into a fight with Matt in the lunchroom?” I ask, because I can’t help myself.
It sounds absurd, even as I say it aloud.
Sawyer’s eyes slide to the side. “Guess the rumors have been running rampant.”
“When you sucker punch your best friend in front of the entire school, that’s probably bound to happen,” I respond. “Why did you do it?”
Because I don’t really want to get the gory details of the fight. More of our fellow students were foaming at the mouth to the watch the videos of the fight, whereas I wanted to know the motive behind it. I’ve never known Sawyer to be violent, even if he could be cruel. And to fight his best friend? Well, something must have happened.
“He said some dumb shit.” Sawyer’s body ripples with tension.
A glass serving bowl passes from his hands to mine, and my towel dries off the droplets. “Like what dumb shit?”
My ex-best friend looks thoroughly annoyed by my pushing this line of questioning. “It doesn’t matter.”
Sawyer takes the sponge over a pan smeared with chicken leftovers. He gives it to me to dry, but our fingers end up touching and we both pull away.
“It seemed to matter enough to get a black eye over,” I point out.
A bunch of silverware clatters into the water with
