Читать книгу Blame It on Chocolate - Jennifer Greene, Jennifer Greene - Страница 12

SATURDAY MORNING, just after ten, Lucy opened the bathroom door in a rush and ran smack into Russell—or, more specifically, her forehead rammed into his. Both winced.

Lucy recovered quicker, but her sense of humor was starting to slip on the subject of her cousin. God knew she loved him. Totally. The way you can only love good family—through their bad habits and the good stuff both. But damn. Ever since he’d shared his revelation with her, he seemed to think talking about it with her every spare second was going to make the subject easier to deal with. It wasn’t that far a drive for him to commute from school in Mankato, but he was starting to become a dust catcher at her place. Last night he hadn’t gone home at all.

When she’d first moved into her own place, she’d imagined—she’d actually totally believed—that she could go to the bathroom by herself. Indulge in her wickedness, by herself. Run around naked if she wanted to, by herself.

“I know you want to talk some more, Russ, but honestly, I just can’t right now. I told you. I’m having lunch with my mom—and it’s a solid hour and a half drive from here—”

She flew past him toward her bedroom, still zipping her favorite black jeans and toweling her hair dry at the same time. Russell, who seemed to think his announcement about being gay meant she wouldn’t mind dressing around him, followed as far as her doorway. “I just don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have you to talk to.”

“That’s crazy, Russ. You spent all last night talking to my dad, you get on with him like a house afire. You know you could tell him—”

“No. He’s great, but I couldn’t tell him this. Or anyone else.”

“I’m just not sure why you picked me. I love you. You know that, but honestly, I know nothing about this kind of thing.”

“That’s not the point. The point is that you’re the one person on the planet I completely trust. Not just trust that you wouldn’t tell, if I asked you not to. But also trust that you wouldn’t condemn me.” He watched her pull on the white sweater with black stripes, a gift from her mother, and then attack her hair with a dryer.

“Are you sure you’re gay?” Lucy asked over the dryer’s whine.

“I admit I’m not dead sure. But I think I am.”

“Did you actually sleep with another guy?”

“No.”

“Kiss another guy, make out?” Cripes, she couldn’t hear over the dryer so she switched it off, opened some pots, did the cheek and lip thing, then the earring thing, then grabbed her hairbrush. Somewhere she had some pull-on black boots. Dress boots. Soft kid leather. Heels.

“Well, no. But the feelings are there.”

“Well, everybody gets feelings. When I see a beautiful woman in the movies, I notice her, and believe me, I’m not gay.” The boots were in the very back of her closet. She rubbed off the dust, then backed out and hopped on one foot to pull the right one on. “For Pete’s sake. I think everybody notices their same gender and can respond to their attractiveness and looks—without automatically thinking you’re gay. Or that there’s anything weird at all.” She pushed hard—they were those kinds of boots that fit great once you had them on, but it took ages to get them on right.

“You think?” Russell asked. He still stood slouched in her doorway when she pushed past him toward the kitchen. He was wearing what he’d worn last night, when he’d claimed he wasn’t sleeping over—the oversized shirt, the canvas pants, the no socks.

“Come on, Russell, you know that. It’s just common sense. Only the homophobic types get hysterical if they have a feeling now and then. But I think you should ask someone with some life experience in this—”

“No,” he said in a panicked groan.

“Okay, okay. But I knew one homosexual person pretty well. She’s a woman. I met her in college. She was a good friend then, we just kind of lost touch after graduation. But I could try to track her down if you want me to ask her for some information or advice.” She almost choked when they walked in the kitchen. Her pristine white counter and gleaming sink had disappeared. All she saw were beer cans. Coffee mugs. Leftover pizza. Crumbs. Mysterious and scary stains on the floor.

She had a fond memory from a few weeks ago—before the Night of the Chocolate—when the kitchen was still hers, all hers, and even the corners in the cupboards had been spotless. Even the corners of the top cupboards. Even under the refrigerator. Even behind the trash bin.

“Did you actually do anything with that friend? You know, experiment or anything?” Russell was now leaning in the doorway to the kitchen.

“No.”

“But did you want to experiment? Did you think about it?”

“No. Cripes, Russell. It never occurred to me. I don’t think it occurred to her, either. She was just a regular kind of friend.” She grabbed her fringe bag, passed by the fresh round of messes in her living room, and shot a passing, desperate look at her picture over the fireplace. The only thing still normal in the whole place seemed to be her picture of the lone eagle flying over the lake. Her life was starting to feel like it had moved ten points off center and was never going to come back in focus again. Except for the eagle. The eagle was still all hers. She grabbed her coat. “I have to go. I’ll be late for lunch with Mom as it is.”

“But you’re not getting…impatient…about talking with me about this, are you?”

“Of course not. We’ll talk whenever you want.”

“I know your dad’s at the store. But I may stick around with him today. If he wants to go to a movie or something.”

“Sure, sounds great. Only if I come home to find this place even more of a sty, I’m going to kill you both.”

“Sure, Luce. Sure.” He stood motionless and woebegone as she smooched his cheek.

She ran outside, only to feel a startling gush of wind. The ground was a muddy, soggy mess from all the melting snow, but even though the day was ugly, the sky polka-dotted with clouds, the breeze had a cocky scent to it. A springlike whisper of sweetness. She wanted to savor it, only damnation, guilt kept biting her conscience, so she ran back in the house. “Russell,” she said irritably, “I love you. And you’re going to be okay. All right?”