“I’m here,” I say. “I’m always here.”
His mouth is at my ear. “You don’t know what you do to me.”
I close my eyes. “But I know what you do to me.”
I wait for him to say something else, but he falls silent. Still, he refuses to let me go. His shoulders are rigid beneath my hands, his muscles tight. It breaks my heart to see him like this, but I don’t know what to do. He won’t speak to me about his family problems, and he won’t let me comfort or distract him in the best way I know how.
We stay like that for some time, until my stomach starts to audibly rumble.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s go eat.”
We turn and head back up the path through the trees. I’m not sure whether I feel better or worse for our last conversation, but I force myself to focus on the small, beautiful things around us: the birds singing in the trees, the breeze sweeping through the branches overhead, the dead leaves crunching beneath our feet. Calder takes my hand and twines his fingers through mine. His grip is steady, secure. Our fingers don’t believe that anything is wrong, and I trust the language of our bodies more than I trust the insecurities running around in my head.
We’re nearly back to the green when Calder suddenly flinches, turns, as if he’s spotted something startling out of the corner of his eye. I follow his gaze, but I only see trees and, in the distance, some children playing.
“What is it?” I ask.
His hand tightens on mine, but he shakes his head.
“It’s nothing. Come on.”
We continue down the path, but the tension doesn’t leave his body. Something’s wrong. He keeps glancing around, but I don’t see or hear anything out of the ordinary.
And then, all at once, it’s clear: ahead of us, where the path enters the green again, there’s a crowd of people waiting for us.
Well, not people. Reporters.
They come at us all at once, like a cloud of mosquitoes, digital recorders and microphones outstretched, cameramen trailing behind.
“Mr. Cunningham!” they cry. “Mr. Cunningham!”
Their questions come like an assault, one missile after another.
“Did you know about your father’s financial troubles?”
“Have you lost everything?”
“What happened to the three million dollars your family promised the Red Cross?”
“Did your father have a gambling problem?”
Calder keeps his head down and his arm tight around me as we try to move through them, but they’re everywhere. All around us.
“We need to run,” he whispers in my ear.
And then, without any further warning, he takes off, dragging me by the hand behind him. We race across the grass, back through the trees, down toward the lake.
It’s not until we reach the edge of the water that Calder pauses, and only then do I turn and look behind us to see if anyone dared to follow. And indeed—some w through the wrought iron.gshay back, but clear as day in her bright aqua pantsuit—at least one of the reporters is coming after us. For all I know the rest could be close behind her.
We’re too far from the car, which means our only chance is to hide out somewhere for a while until they give up and go away.
“Under here,” Calder says.
There’s a rowboat lying upside down on the bank. It was clearly abandoned some time ago—the wood is gray and weathered and spotted with pale green lichen—and I wouldn’t dare test it on the water, but it’s long enough for both of us. Calder has bent and lifted it up by the side.
“Are you serious?” I say, but even I know that our options are limited. I duck under the boat, and Calder follows, then lowers the boat over our heads.
It’s a little tighter under here than I expected. The only way Calder and I can both fit is if we’re basically on top of each other, and we wiggle around for a minute until I end up beneath him. He holds his weight over me, and his mouth is by my ear, his breath hot against my skin.
“This is cozy,” I murmur.
“Indeed.” He sounds distracted, and I realize he’s straining to listen for the approach of the reporters.
I knew this would happen—feared it, prayed it wouldn’t—but it was inevitable that the Cunninghams’ secrets would come out, that those scheming, bottom-feeding tabloid reporters would catch wind of it eventually. Our culture thrives on this, on watching the privileged fall apart, and we applaud when they tumble down to earth with the rest of us.
The worst part is there’s nothing I can do to help him. Things are going to get even worse for him now that this has exploded, and there’s nothing I can say to make it better.
“Ignore them.” It’s a feeble attempt, but it’s better than nothing. “We’ll stay here until they go away.”
I can’t see his face. His cheek is pressed against mine.
“It might be hours,” he says finally.
“I before pulling away.He chuckles at that, though it’s a humorless sound. I feel the vibrations through my chest, and my nipples harden against my bra.
Of course my body would betray me at a time like this.
I bring my hands up, skimming them across his side and up across his back. He’s stiff, tense, and I begin moving my fingers in slow circles, gently massaging the muscles. Calder starts to relax beneath my touch. He lets out a sigh, stirring my hair.
“Lily…”
It doesn’t sound like a protest, so I continue to rub his back. He shifts, lowering a little more of his weight onto me, and my heartbeat quickens in my chest. I slide my hands down the length of his torso and tug at the hem of his sweater.
“Lily.” This time there’s no ignoring his tone.
I’m all innocence, even as I slip my fingers beneath his shirt. “What?”
“Stop teasing me.”
I’d rather him be annoyed at me than worrying about the swarm of journalists outside.
“Are you not tempted at all?” I whisper, arching my back to press my body against his.
He sucks in a breath before catching me by the waist and pushing me firmly against the ground again.
“Temptation has nothing to do with it.”
“No?” I slip my hands beneath his sweater once more and dig my nails into the bare flesh of his back. A tremor courses through him.
“I know what you’re doing,” he says, his voice low and throaty. “We’ve played this little game before, tried to see who could make the other break first. If I recall correctly, you lost that time, too.”