She looks so torn.
“Please? We don’t need an audience. I might even give you a bite of the ice cream I bought if you’d leave us alone for a bit.”
“A bite? I need at least a tub.”
“Fine. A tub.” I have four more in the freezer.
She makes a finger gun and points it at me. “You keep that promise, buddy.” She stands. “I’ll just go look for Killian. He’s probably huffing and puffing somewhere around here.”
When she’s gone, I turn to Becca. “So what is the right thing you were going for?” I’ll let her tell me all the excuses she’s come up with—only because she’s Max’s sister, and I don’t want any hard feelings between us that I didn’t give her a chance to make her case. Then I’ll kick her out, go find my phone and organize a groupie orgy, like any well-functioning, productive human being would.
“Can I come in first??
?
Killian’s home is pretty private, but this is a small town. Kingstree could have a secret Facebook society just like Drover, where people gossip.
I motion her in with my chin. And when she’s inside, I slam the door shut.
Chapter Forty-One
Becca
I walk into the house, then go to the couch and stop for a second when I feel something crunch under my boots. I look down and see crackers on the floor. Hopefully I stepped on one of those, not a roach big enough to make that sound…although I wouldn’t be surprised if there were roaches around. The place is a mess.
But I don’t complain and navigate my way through the cracker bags and empty beer bottles. A laptop is whirring on the table, and I close it, to protect the privacy of Killian and his wife.
I sit on the couch, close to the armrest so Dev can sit down, too. He does, holding his tub of ice cream like it’s some kind of shield.
“So. Say your piece.” He waves the spoon at me, then pauses. “Actually, shouldn’t we have our lawyers talk? We don’t need to be married anymore if you don’t want the house.”
“No! We do need to be married more!” I blurt out in panic. “Because it’s more than just about getting the house now!”
“I don’t understand what that means.” He eats some ice cream. “There’s no money. You signed on it.” He licks the spoon, then points at me with it. “Did you poke holes in my condoms? Is that what this is about?”
“No! There’s no baby!” Where is he getting these wild ideas? Hasn’t he been thinking about how things might not be how they look? Does he not want us to be together at all? My heart flutters with panic over the possibility that he really hates me now, but I plow on. I can’t give up until I say everything I drove here to say. “I realized I don’t really want the house or the studio. I wanted what they meant to me.” I stop to gather my thoughts. He’s already in a surly mood, and I don’t want to say the wrong thing and make the situation worse.
“Investment? Wealth creation? A real estate portfolio?”
“No!” I say again. “Nothing like that. It’s more personal.” I look at Devlin’s face hard, but of course I can’t read him at all.
He isn’t saying anything, but he isn’t eating more ice cream either. He’s just staring at me.
Shit. He probably doesn’t believe me. My heart races as anxiety spikes, and I wipe sweat-slick hands on my jeans. “And what happened with that guy… It isn’t what it looked like. I have prosopagnosia, which is also known as face blindness.” I take a quick breath, to shore up whatever courage I can because silence is killing me right now. I need to talk fast and get it all out before he decides I’m lying or I lose my nerve. “I wasn’t born with it, but I developed it after a car accident when I was a kid. So it’s hard for me to tell people apart. My doctors say there’s no cure for it. I just have to find a way to deal with it, so I cope by using the way they generally look—like their height, body type, hair style and color, clothes and voice and so on. That’s why I thought you were the guy I hired to marry me for a year in Vegas. You showed up in a Batman shirt, which the other guy was supposed to do. And the guy in the house was tall and had wide shoulders and he smelled like the body wash I bought for you, and I just… Devlin, I thought it was you.”
He doesn’t respond immediately. I clutch my hands together, praying he doesn’t scoff or disbelieve me the way Grandma did. Or demand that I prove it to him right now. I don’t know what I’ll do if he reacts that way, but I know it’s going to be hurtful to be doubted for something I’ve been struggling with, especially when my struggles have left a lot of emotional scars.
“You have pros…prog…this face blindness?” he asks finally.
I nod, hating that I’m not getting a hint of what he’s feeling from his tone. It’s so flat and dry.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Um…” I swallow, then wipe my damp hands on my pants. He’s probably mad I didn’t tell him sooner, but at least he isn’t outright calling me a liar or demanding proof. That’s a positive sign, right? “Well. I didn’t think it mattered. We were going only to be together for a year, and I didn’t want you to think I was making things up, or pity me or anything like that. Most people react weirdly when they hear that I have prosopagnosia. They want me to prove that I have it or want to test to see how bad my condition is or something.” I look down at my fingertips, suddenly sad. I sound pathetic. It didn’t seem this bad in my head when I rehearsed all the things I needed to say to Devlin. “I hate how that makes me feel…like I’m some kind of lab monkey. Not that you would necessarily be like that, but at first, I wasn’t sure. And later, I didn’t really have an opportunity to tell you. It isn’t something you just bring up randomly, if you know what I mean.”
He still doesn’t say anything. Maybe he wants to ask me to prove it, but can’t after what I said. Or maybe he thinks I’m full of shit.
The silence stretches, and the urge to squirm becomes almost unbearable. But I stiffen my resolve and stay still…until the tension gets to be too much and I have to break the silence. “Anyway, about my childhood home being more personal… My parents always loved and supported me no matter what. It didn’t matter to them that I wasn’t normal or had this condition. And I thought I could have that sense of being unconditionally loved and accepted if I had their house again. But I was wrong. It’s not about the place—it’s about the people.”