He wasn’t going to magically start seeing me as a sexual being instead of some stupid little girl.
Maybe he was concerned about me, sure.
I was Cary’s little sister, after all.
But when he’d warned me off him in his car that night, he really meant it. He wasn’t coming on to me. When he suggested fucking my mouth or bending me over the seat… he was just driving home his point—that I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing, and I shouldn’t be in that bar.
Or in his car.
He was trying to warn me about men in general. Trying to save me from getting hurt at the bar, with the wrong kind of guy.
For Cary.
There was no dirty subtext to his words. No filthy come-on.
Not like I’d fantasized there was.
How fucking naive was I?
I just kept getting everythingwrong.
I heard people in the kitchen, and I thought of Mrs. Delacroix, fixing me a latte in one of her cute aprons with the ruffles on it. Pink gingham, maybe. She seemed to have a new one every morning of the week.
So I dragged my ass up, made the bed neatly, and got dressed. I packed up my bag, too, because I knew that after breakfast I’d have to get my shit together and go home.
I could only hide out for so long.
I was supposed to be looking out for Cary, being there for him if he needed me.
Not moping around because his best friend rejected me.
When I walked into the kitchen, sunlight was streaming in. Angie was seated with her dad in the breakfast nook, in front of the big bay windows that overlooked the lush backyard.
“Good morning, Courteney,” Mrs. Delacroix said, smiling warmly at me as she wiped her hands on her apron. Not pink gingham; today’s apron had bright yellow lemons on it. “Your coffee is on the bar, honey.”
Angie’s mom always called mehoney. She said it was because of my “beautiful eye color.”
“Thanks, Felicia,” I said, addressing her by her first name, as she always asked me to. “It smells so good in here.”
I took my coffee and went to sit in the breakfast nook, as Angie’s dad cleared away his newspapers to make room for me. “Sleep well?” he asked. Both of Angie’s parents were, as always, totally welcoming. They’d never ask me to leave.
It just made me feel more guilty for taking advantage of their generosity.
“Really well,” I said. “Elle’s bed is awesome.”
I’d told them so every morning.
“Pancakes?” Angie passed me a tray of them as her dad poured me a glass of orange juice from a carafe on the table.
“Thanks.”
“Mimosa?” he offered, indicating the bottle of bubbly that sat open on the table.
“No, thank you. I have to drive home after this.”
I was pretty sure I saw him exchange a concerned look with his wife, but I pretended not to as I filled my plate. There was whipped cream and maple syrup for the pancakes. Back bacon. A cheese plate with about eight cheeses on it. And fresh fruit.
I’d never had a family, or a life, like this.