Coda Books 04 - Strawberries for Dessert (MM)

And with a quiet sigh he slid across that expanse of clean white sheets and into my arms.
    His face was against my neck, one arm around my waist. Our legs tangled together. I tried to ignore the lightness in my chest, the quiet racing of my pulse. I told myself there was no lump in my throat. He didn’t speak, and I didn’t either. I wrapped my arms around him, buried my face in his soft hair, and held him tight.

    BY THE time I woke the next morning, he had moved away from me again. I kissed the back of his head as I got out of bed and headed for the shower. Although it was early based on Arizona time, in New York it was much later than I usually woke, and I decided to let myself slack on the jogging today.
    When I emerged from the bathroom, I found him awake. He was standing at the window wearing only his briefs, looking down at the busy street below.
    “Doesn’t your mother live in Manhattan?” I asked as I pulled on my own briefs.
    “Yes,” he said quietly, not looking at me.
    I waited for him to say more, but he didn’t. I walked over to stand next to him and saw the wary way he looked at me out of the corner of his eyes. “Are we going to see her while we’re here?”
    He didn’t answer me—just continued staring resolutely out the window. The curtains were open, but the sheers were closed. He found the opening in the center of them and tangled his slender fingers into the fabric. He leaned his forehead against the smooth glass of the window, allowing his hair to fall over his eyes, and pulled the sheer fabric around him, so that it was between us.
    “Are you going to call her?”
    He didn’t look at me. The soft sunlight through window and the thin fabric made glowing patterns on his caramel skin.
    “Cole?” I prodded gently.
    He sighed in exasperation, although I was pretty sure it was feigned. “I already did, darling.”
    “And?”
    “I’m afraid she’s terribly busy. She doesn’t have time to meet with us.”
    She was busy? Too busy to see her only son on his birthday?
    “Has she remarried?”
    “No.”
    “And she doesn’t work?”
    “Of course not.”
    “So,” I said, knowing that I should probably shut up, but unable to make myself do it, “what exactly is it that has her so busy?”
    It took him a second to answer me, but he said quietly, “I’m sure I don’t know, darling.”
    “She doesn’t even have time for lunch?”
    “Apparently not.”
    The quiet resignation in his voice was painful to hear, and I regretted having pushed him so far. “I’m sorry,” I said quietly.
    He let go of the curtain, letting it fall back to the window. “Please don’t feel sorry for me.”
    “Why not?”
    He shrugged. “It’s all terribly cliché, isn’t it? ‘Poor little rich boy’.” He pulled away from the window a little, although he still didn’t turn toward me. I could see him only in profile, and his hair still blocked his eyes from my sight. His voice was quieter, different than normal in some way I couldn’t quite pinpoint. “Everything about me is a cliché.”
    And then it hit me what was different: his affectation was almost gone, the sing-song pattern of his speech undetectable.
    This was a part of him I had caught glimpses of but never actually seen. It was as if some force field that normally surrounded him had disappeared, and instead of being strong and confident, I saw that he was terribly fragile. I knew he had no intention of letting me see him this way. If he realized that the walls were gone—that I could actually touch him—he would pull back, push me away, slam the walls back into place by cocking his hip out, batting his eyes at me through his hair, winking at me flirtatiously, and calling me “darling.”
    I wanted more than anything to grab him and hold him and make everything good for him, but I wasn’t sure how to even reach him without having him push me away. I was afraid even to speak. I slowly put my hand out. I was sure that when I touched him, he would crumble to dust beneath my fingers or vanish in a toss of his perfectly cut hair.
    I put one fingertip on his bare shoulder. He didn’t make any indication that he felt it, but when I slid it slowly down his arm, his eyes drifted closed, and his breath caught in his throat. I moved closer.
    I was moving slowly, quietly, desperate to connect with this secret part of him—to somehow own it and make it mine. I put my hand on the small of his back, and he turned his face toward me.
    I