Page 53 of Tangled Up In You
Fitz was an enormous asshole.
He knew it. She knew it. Even this giant bed they were going to share knew it.
For a few seconds after Ren disappeared into the bathroom, Fitz stood on the other side of the door, fist raised, trying to find the nerve to knock. He didn’t hear water running, didn’t hear teeth brushing. There was only silence, and his mind filled with all the potential images on the other side: Ren glaring at herself in the mirror. Ren crying. Ren burying her embarrassed face in her hands. He stepped away, walking over to the bed and sitting down.
Fitz could remember his first Thanksgiving at the Fitzsimmons table. It was only two weeks after the adoption had been finalized, and in the previous ten years he’d gone from Mary’s to homeless to juvie to this; he knew it would be a long time before he stopped feeling like a vagabond in the pristine hallways, if ever. At the dinner, there’d been three forks at each place setting, servants bringing out food, clearing plates. He didn’t know to put his napkin in his lap, didn’t know which bread plate was his. When the food arrived, he reached for it, not knowing that they were supposed to say grace first, and after grace they were supposed to go around and say what they were thankful for, one at a time. Fitz didn’t know that his new father, Robert, expected Fitz to thank him and only him for bringing him into the Fitzsimmons home, that Robert would be sullen and withdrawn for the entire rest of the meal because Fitz had thanked Robert’s wife, Rose, first and longer.
But Fitz learned, quickly. He learned how to put on the mask, how to shower Robert with awe and deference whenever he was home. Fitz learned how to play Robert’s game, by Robert’s rules. It never brought them the true bond of a father and a son, but it brought them a delicate sort of peace. His father started taking Fitz to fundraisers, ball games, charity appearances, and staged photo ops out shopping in Seattle or Portland or Vancouver. No matter how often Robert screamed at his wife and kids, no matter what Fitz heard going on behind closed doors, Robert cared only that, in public, he came off as the perfect parent, and Fitz let him. He could be patient.
Even though Ren wasn’t patient—grabbing at life with both fists was more her style—Fitz wouldn’t expect her to know how to navigate everything on the first try either, and was amazed how fast she was learning. Whereas he’d spent his first year in his new world quietly observing, Ren was running forward, arms outstretched. He wanted to tell her how impressed he was, how hard and disorienting and intimidating he knew it must be. Most of all he wanted to tell her just how desperately he wanted to hold her hand—and much, much more.
But every time the instinct yawned awake in him, self-preservation slammed it shut. Ren didn’t need to know Fitz better. She didn’t need to be someone—the first someone in years—who he opened up to. Ren didn’t need all the baggage Fitz brought to the table. As much as he wanted to sit her down and tell her everything, it wasn’t smart. Their lives could not be more different. Ren had barely seen anything in the world, and Fitz had already seen too much.
He’d learned too many times that when you think life is going the right direction, you were probably only inches from a blind turn.
The worst thing about it all wasn’t even the effort it took to keep her emotionally at arm’s length; it was keeping her physically distant, too. It was obvious to them both that there was attraction here. Fitz had felt this often enough to know what it was: the adrenaline-flooded limbs, the heat in his blood, the desire to drink in her features like a heavy, sweet brandy. He’d look at her across the console, the table, the sidewalk, and all he wanted to do was touch her. He wanted to tug her hand at night and pull her over him, letting her figure out how her body worked. And if Ren had been anybody else, he would have done it already.
But Ren wasn’t anybody else; she didn’t even speak that language. Everything he wanted to do with her would be her first: first kiss, first touch, first time. Only the worst of men would take those firsts knowing he’d vanish right after.
Shit, but her sweet openness was the exact thing that was making him crazy, turning him into a turbulent sea: high tide, low tide, high tide. He couldn’t find a way to be normal with her anymore. And when it came down to it, why not open that door? What did he care if this was her first or one thousandth experience? What difference would it make? He could take, and take, and take, and what did he care if it messed with her head? Ren was an adult. She’d figure it out.
The problem was, he did care. And worse, maybe, was this: What if she wasn’t the only one who got hurt? Fitz had never known this kind of attraction before—one that was entwined with curiosity and amusement and a sense of companionship that felt too, too comfortable. Turned out, he hated it. Sexual chemistry in isolation was so much easier. His dream was to be a free man unbeholden to anyone. He didn’t want or need feelings.
They’d be arriving in Nashville soon—could easily make it tomorrow, if they wanted—and from there Ren was going to Atlanta. He’d drop her at the bus depot, and for all he knew, he might never see her again. Maybe she’d stay in Atlanta with her dad, maybe she’d head back to her homestead. Maybe she’d come back to school, and they’d awkwardly orbit each other for a few months before he graduated. He had no idea. But what he did know was that it’d only been four days, and this level of attachment was stupid. It was dangerous, even. This was when kids like him got hurt. The last thing he ever wanted to be again was the sucker who fell for the promise of more.
But when she came out of the bathroom, hair long and soft over one shoulder and cheeks so flushed she looked fevered, some resolve in him cracked. He could keep her at arm’s length physically, could keep his emotions in check, too. But he didn’t ever want to bruise hers.
“The bed is plenty big for us to share,” he said, silently begging her to look at him.
She glanced up and then quickly away. “Okay. If you’re sure.”
“I’ll stay on my side.” He’d wanted it to sound playful, but instead it came out tight, like a warning.
“Of course. I will, too.”
“That’s not—” He faltered because words about feelings and shortcomings and fears were not in his working vocabulary. “I wasn’t—”
“Good night, Fitz.” She cut him off gently, walking around the bed to climb in on the other side. The air stirred, and it smelled like honey. He wanted to press his nose to her skin, breathe her in. “I know it’s weird for two people who barely know each other to share a room, let alone a bed. I’ll never stop being grateful.”
Two people who barely know each other.
He’d said something similar to her, he knew it was true, so why did it sting when she said it back?
Ren reached up, turning out the lamp beside her bed, so he did the same, lying there in miserable silence.
“Ren?”
He caught the tiny, frustrated sigh that preceded her amiable “Yes?”
“If you want to drive tomorrow,” he said, “I’m cool with it.”
He was such a liar. Cool with it? Not even close. It went against every instinct, but he’d kept his word and handed her the keys on Saturday morning, watching begrudgingly as she unlocked the door and settled into the driver’s seat. She’d been quiet as they’d gotten ready to leave, but her subdued vibe transitioned to elation as he directed her out of the hotel parking lot. Ren opened up Max’s speed on the frontage road, letting out a giddy whoop.
“Ease him in gently,” he said, leaning forward and feeling oddly jealous from where he’d been banished to the passenger seat. “You don’t need a brick foot right off the line.”
Ren adjusted her grip on the steering wheel. “I told you I drive all the time on the farm. I know how to handle an old car.”
“An old—” The words sent him back against the seat, insulted on Max’s behalf. “This Mustang is a finely tuned machine. A classic.” He reached out and put a consoling hand on the dashboard. “Don’t worry, Max. She didn’t mean it.” The engine rumbled in reply.