Preservation (The Walshes, #7)

by Kate Canterbary

My stomach growled at the sight of avocado. I could exist on avocado alone. Well, avocado and eggs. And chocolate. And toast. Okay, so not just avocado but close enough.

I wasn't about to take the lead. I was only going out on that deck if I was following Riley. I wasn't dragging any man anywhere. I wanted him dragging me.

Riley: Drinks say a lot about a person. Alex: What does a lemon drop say about a person? Riley: It says she thinks she's a vodka girl but should stick with rum.

"Batman would've been nothing without Alfred." Tiel stepped back and ran her hand over Dave's mostly bald head. "I'm sure Batman would've been fine," she said. "But it never hurts to have a boost from someone who loves you."

Riley: How do you feel about football? Alex: Ambivalent. Riley: That's a terrible way to feel about football.

"And just so you know, it only looks like I have a lot going for me. I've got a lot of shambles here too."

It never escaped my notice that Riley was dealing with some shit. He wanted the world to believe he was all easy smiles and goofy commentary, but those were the layers he used to gain distance. No one stopped to look under the surface when he was recapping sports highlights with his wonky brand of wit, or diffusing situations with self-deprecating humor. But it was all there, right under the radar.

"Be careful," the waiter interrupted as he set plates of every shape and size between us. "This one is very hot." Oh, you have no idea.

"Uh, okay, I guess. I've been better." If there was a list of the wrong things to say after drunkenly having sex with your maybe-fake-but-maybe-real girlfriend, that response would be on it.

Once again, I was the fool. The one with the willful blindness and the undying desire to be wanted. That was it, all I needed. Just to be the girl someone chose. The one wanted more than any other. And once again, I wasn't that girl. Every time I'd wound up in this spot, I promised myself that I'd stop trying so hard. Stop begging for scraps. Stop looking for affection, validation, love. I was going to let it all come to me because I knew I couldn't force anyone.

Too bad lust was a fucking idiot who didn't know what was good for her.

Because he was stuck on his ex-girlfriend. He wasn't last night. Because he was a man-child who hadn't outgrown his clumsy. Except in bed. Because he wasn't my type. Like that stopped anything.

If I was being honest with myself—really, really honest—I could admit that I was hurt, and it was more than some wounded pride. I'd thought there was something between us. Something significant. I'd allowed myself to believe that Riley had climbed over the wreckage left by previous relationships and found it in him to reach out for more…with me.

I could also admit that, just once, I wanted to be the one. Maybe not the forever one, but at least the right now one.

"How long until your wife gets home?" Sparing a glance at his watch, Nick replied, "Twenty-seven hours, thirty-nine minutes." What a splendid treat, being loved all the way down to the minute.

"I'm taking you home. I'm spending the night with you, and I'm not going to give you a single reason to regret any of it in the morning," he said. "Then I'm taking another night. And another. I'm taking it all, Aly. Everything you'll give me."

This was what I did. I pushed. Pushed away anyone who couldn't make me the top priority, and perhaps that was selfish or immature or something I should've outgrown by now, but it was my move.

I wasn't worried about my pudgy belly or thick thighs, or even my most intimate places because the desire in his eyes canceled out my every doubt.

I wanted to touch every inch, memorize his skin in this moment, absorb his scent, and stow it all away for the day when I wasn't the source of his pleasure anymore.

Alex was strong and capable—she was my Shortstop for a reason—but she was also a woman. Tender and lovely, and deserving of some deference. I wanted to open the door for her, bring her flowers for no reason, kiss her in the middle of the grocery store, buy her soft and delicate things.

"Don't stand there watching me, boys. Pick up those pens and pencils. Come on. No one is paying you to have a tea party this afternoon." Grumbling, Matt, Sam, and Patrick set to collecting the spilled items from the floor. Patrick wanted to separate out the Chartpak from the Prismacolor markers, Matt wanted to get rid of the cheap mechanical pencils I preferred to his fancy ones, and Sam wanted to run antibacterial wipes over everything.

"What's her nickname?" she asked. "What?" I asked, my voice still raspy and raw. "Her nickname," Shannon said. "You always find the perfect nicknames for the people you care about, so I'm just wondering what you chose for her." Gastro Girl. Shortstop. Honeybee. But that wasn't it. I couldn't force Alex into the narrow mold of a comic book heroine or fairy tale princess. She wasn't a handful of conveniently aligned characteristics. She was my Elektra, my Mystique, my Leia, my Katniss, my Daenerys, my Agent Carter, my Elizabeth Swann, my Arwen Evenstar, my Buffy, my Beatrice, my Catwoman, my Dorothy Gale, my everything, my… "Aly," I said. "She's my Aly."

"You're not ready," I said, almost to myself. "I'm not going to be the runner-up. I've done that my entire life, and I'm not doing it with you."

The one thing I knew to be true was that I needed to be loved all the way through. I wasn't accepting anything less.

"He's a fascinating guy." And there it was. The indomitable charm of Riley Walsh. People couldn't help but be taken with him, what with his odd, artsy ways and occasional stutters and unzipped pants.

"I don't want her. Not now, probably not ever. I wanted the idea of her, and you have to know that the reality of you is far better than any idea I've ever had."

"I'm not good at too many things," he said. "Don't say that—" He waved me off. "Let me finish. It's true. I can't speak eloquently and I knock shit over all the fucking time. I have a narrow subset of skills that mostly involves reciting song lyrics, knowing which sandwiches are best with chips in the middle, redesigning old homes, and giving people nicknames." He took a step closer, right into my space, and the absence of that distance crushed the last of my resolve. "I'm not good at many things. But I'll always be good to you."

There was a time for tidiness with laundry, and it was known as not right now.