What did we have before?
I swallow the question. He’s waiting for an answer, and I don’t know what to say. If I want to stop this—whatever it is—this is the perfect opening. Immediately I decide it’s too soon and that Mr. Frost will be worried about the breakup. But if I’m honest with myself, that’s an excuse. I just don’t want to, because Clay’s concern seems sincere and from what I can tell, he’s always completely honest. No secrets, no shadows.
I’m not ready to lose that.
It could be desperation and loneliness talking but the only time I’m anywhere close to happy in my new skin is when Clay is nearby. There are tons of reasons why this is a bad idea, selfish, self-indulgent, and possibly codependent, but I don’t have it in me to cut him loose. He shifts in the passenger seat, likely uncomfortable with the long silence; his long fingers tap out a staccato rhythm against his thigh.
“Would it be okay with you?” I ask finally.
“Is that what you’re worried about?”
“Are we this dedicated to answering questions with questions?”
I sneak a look to find him smiling reluctantly. The dimple plays hide-and-seek in his left cheek. His jaw is shadowed, dark stubble against his summer tan. In profile he’s beautiful, and … I can’t let myself be distracted. With effort, I focus on the highway.
“Fine, I’ll show my hand first. If you want to take things to the next level, I’m game. But … if we date for real, I have to pay you back.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I say automatically while my mind is whirling.
Every time I think I understand Morgan’s life, another layer peels away, leaving me with onion tears pooling in my eyes. What the hell is he talking about? But I’m sure Morgan wouldn’t care if Clay borrowed some money. Her spending habits suggest that she has no sense of scale and that fifty bucks, even a hundred, would be pocket change. The more baffling question is the phrase “if we date for real.”
“You might be fine with it,” he mutters, “but I’m not. I can’t keep three grand if we’re rewriting the agreement. I’m not a man-whore.”
Agreement? Three thousand dollars? Holy shit. The only thing I can figure is that Morgan hired him as her fake boyfriend, though for what reason, I can’t fathom. Does it have to do with her secret past with Nathan or is it intertwined with the investigation of Creepy Jack? Most frustrating, there is nobody I can ask. Unless …
I have to frame this just right.
With a quiet laugh, I murmur, “Didn’t you think I was crazy for suggesting this?”
I’m banking on that. There’s no way Clay would’ve gone to Morgan and asked for money in exchange for dating services. She’s pretty and tons of guys were after her, so it’s not like she had no other options. Logically speaking, she must’ve propositioned him.
“A little. But … I know how you feel about attachments.”
“They only hurt you in the end.” I’m quoting Morgan. This is why she cultivated mystique at school and didn’t let people close.
I’m one of the few who knew her at all, but I didn’t realize she’d go this far to present a normal image. With this much context, I don’t need Clay to explain. Morgan wanted a partner for dances and double-dates, so she could hang out with Nathan and me without feeling like a third wheel. Everything else was a front. And I bought it, even if I suspected it was a physical thing. Yet Clay seemed genuinely upset when I first woke up in Morgan’s body; I remember the feel of his tears on my skin.
“It wasn’t supposed to happen like this,” he’s saying. “But I can’t spend six months with someone and keep it all business. I’m not wired that way. So … sue me, I care about you. Lately you’re making me think it’s not just me. But … it’s up to you where we go from here.”
I’m quiet too long, so he adds, “Look, I get it if you’re not into someone like me.”
“Someone … who quit school to take care of his family? Someone who works his ass off?” I’m a little pissed that Clay doesn’t seem to think he’s good enough for me.
Morgan.
Whatever.
“We’ve definitely got a princess-and-pauper vibe going.”
“I don’t care about that.” It’s not my money anyway.
“It’s harder to dismiss on my end.” He’s trying to be cool but his jaw is clenched. “I’m not a charity case. Three thousand may be chump change to you, but it was enough to pay the back taxes on the shit box we call home, plus keep Nathan in shoes and shirts until graduation.”
Oh man. I recall Clay saying that his mom has been gone for two years. I wonder how long it’s been since the woman took care of their bills? No wonder he was willing to fake couple-up with Morgan. It had to seem like a miracle from above.
His pride is at stake, so I can’t be insensitive. “Can you do installments? I get that you don’t want to feel bought and paid for, though you have to know I don’t feel that way.”
Since I just found out about the money changing hands.
“No need. I sold the Corvair. Insurance paid out the total value of the car and then I found a collector willing to buy it on salvage title. So I have money now. If you want to be my girlfriend for real, you need to take what I owe you.”
“Okay,” I say. “Write me a check.”
“Seriously? You don’t have anything else to say?”
God. I’m so confused that I hardly know what’s happening in my own head minute to minute. But he deserves something.
“I don’t know what’s going on with us,” I tell him honestly. “But I’d like to find out. No deals, no rules. Let’s just … be together and see how it feels.”
“Okay.” He settles a hand on my neck, sifting through the long hair until his warm palm rests on the nape of my neck and then he just … strokes. I didn’t know I was knotted there until Clay started working out the kinks.
It’s a real effort to keep my eyes open. Damn. I want to lean forward and stretch like a cat, have his hands all over me. As delicious tingles start, I nudge him away.
“Don’t distract the driver. We’ll be at the mall soon.”
So maybe that’s an overstatement. The needle noses upward on the speedometer, though I’m careful not to exceed the posted limit. Twenty minutes later, I pull into the parking lot and as soon as I park, Clay reaches over and touches my cheek.
“You sure? I mean, you told me before there was no point in starting with someone when you’ll be off to Europe for university in a few months.”
Damn. I haven’t contemplated Morgan’s future, mine now. I don’t want to study art in Paris, which was her dream. My ideal school is Johns Hopkins, though my parents probably couldn’t have afforded it. That’s no longer an issue, but I don’t have the academics I need on record anymore. While the knowledge is still in my head from those classes, like the rest of Liv’s life, I have no way to prove it was real.
That I was somebody else.
“We have almost a year,” I point out. “That’s long enough to make some memories. And I won’t let you break my heart.”
“It’s not you I’m worried about.”
“Huh?”
“I’m the one who’ll only be a shadow in your rearview mirror when you drive off.”
If anyone had told me that Clay could be this vulnerable, I’d have said they were insane. But I take him seriously because his expression is unmistakable. “Then … are you sure?”
He laces our fingers together, lightly rubbing his thumb against my skin. “Are you crazy? Life’s rarely offered me anything good without immediately following it with a kick in the face. You’re the only beautiful thing that’s ever been mine, free and clear.”
My heart dips. Not me.
Morgan.
But he said I’ve been throwing him. And the way I act made him ask if I was trying to make him fall for me. So maybe it’s Liv he likes; he just doesn’t know it.
How could he?
I should tell him.
I can’t tell him.
My pause makes him think I’m hesitating, so he adds, “If it wasn’t clear, yeah, I’m sure.”
Then he’s kissing me, or I’m kissing him. Either way, it’s the best way to make me stop caring about anything but Clay’s mouth and Clay’s hands. Clay, who never actually hooked up with Morgan. That means he’s mine, not hers, and this is okay. Right? His lips are hot, rough, and soft at the same time, and it’s all brand new. He likes it when I sink my hands into his hair, and he tries to pull me into his lap, across the gear shift and emergency brake.
I whimper because I’m still sore and the angle is bad. Right away he realizes it’s not a good noise and lets go. “Damn. Sorry.”
“It’s okay. The VW isn’t made for this.”
“That’s probably why your old man bought it for you. Hard to get down and dirty in a Barbie car. In fact, I feel kind of wrong just picturing it.”
“In a good way?” I tease.
Clay grins, and my heart does this flippy, clenching thing. Then he bounds out and races around the car to open my door for me. “No comment. Come on.”