Bang Theory Page 4

  I have done a very bad thing.

  And now I’m going to have to learn to live with the consequences.

  I eat another pint of ice cream and go to bed with a stomach nearly as achy as my heart.

  * * *

  Shep calls the day after the Sex Talk Tragedy, and the day after that, but I don’t return his calls or respond to his texts asking to meet for coffee.

  I can’t bear the thought of looking into his golden eyes and seeing pity.

  Or worse, further evidence of how completely gross-yuck-ick-gag-me-with-a-spoon I am to the opposite sex.

  Our friendship is ruined—or at the very least seriously damaged—and I’m so ashamed of myself that I don’t leave the Bed and Breakfast for three days, not even to buy blueberries. I make the Sunday morning scones with raisins, instead, proving that I’m a terrible hospitality provider who cares more about nursing my wounded pride than I do about serving raisin-contaminated baked goods.

  Raisins are awful, and so am I, and if I hadn’t already learned firsthand that running away with the circus isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be—I was thirteen and possessed by elaborate trapeze fantasies—I would be seriously considering joining up.

  I could be the bearded lady.

  If I tried hard enough, I could grow a beard, I bet.

  At this point, anything seems more manageable than staying here and running into Shep for six weeks. The month and a half before he goes back on tour with Lips on Fire stretches out in front of me, a minefield laden with shame-packed explosives I know I won’t be lucky enough to avoid.

  Still, I try…

  * * *

  For the next two weeks, I manage to steer clear of Shep—taking the long way to the farmer’s market so I don’t pass by his mother’s place, avoiding the corner of the square by his apartment, and making excuses every time Kirby invites me to hang out with her and the boys in the band.

  I’ve got to deep clean the kitchen at the B&B.

  I’m framing old watercolors to donate to the senior center’s charity raffle.

  Oh shoot, I’d love to come to scary movie night at your place, but I’m sorting through my drawers to discover which articles of clothing make my fingertips sizzle with joy and then refolding my T-shirts into pyramid shapes according to the ancient Japanese art of fold-i-gami and will be unable to attend.

  My sister is usually the first to spot a weird excuse, but she’s too wildly in love to notice my severe case of Post Head Injury Sex Talk Remorsitis.

  She and Colin are adorably smitten with each other, so deep in the love zone they’ve barely left her house for the past month.

  And I’m happy for them, I really am, even if my own attempt at adding “benefits” into a friendship ended with considerably less stellar results.

  But I love my sister, and I love love, and I’m so glad she’s finally found the real thing with her best friend.

  All this gladness lasts right up until Colin whips up a surprise to spring on Kirby at Theo’s chef booth at the annual Claw Down Lobster Festival. Up until two of Theo’s cashiers call in sick and she has to turn to friends and family for help. Up until Shep is the first to respond to her panicked group text asking for an emergency hand, promising—I’ll be there in ten minutes.

  Ten minutes.

  It’s not nearly enough.

  I’m never going to be able to triumph over shame and pull myself together in ten minutes!

  Again, I consider making a run for the nearest circus, but I’m too old to become a trapeze apprentice, I don’t trust my assistant manager to hold down the fort at the B&B for more than a couple of days at a time, and Theo needs me. It’s her first year as an official Claw Down festival chef, and she’s already a nervous wreck. If I bail on her, she’ll never forgive me, and I can’t afford to lose another best friend.

  So when she asks, “What’s wrong? Your face is whiter than my apron,” I force a smile and say, “Nothing. I’m just excited for you. You’re going to be amazing. Look at this crowd. Are you nervous?”

  “So nervous.” Theo chews on her bottom lip as she glances back and forth along the shoreline, where hundreds of people are already lined up, waiting for the ribbon cutting ceremony that will open the pier, and the food stalls lining either side for business. “What if people think it’s too spicy? That the curry overpowers the lobster or that the stew has too much eggplant or that cucumber foam on the side is pretentious instead of delightful and refreshing?”

  “Stop. It’s an incredible dish,” I promise. “The best curry I’ve ever had, and you know I’ve had my share of curry.”

  She huffs. “I think you ate dinner at my house more often than I did growing up.”

  “And your parents are the King and Queen of Curry, so I know what I’m talking about.” I give her two unwavering thumbs-up. “You’re going to kill it today. No doubt in my mind. Now get back there and get your team psyched. The mayor’s whipping out the giant scissors.”

  “Thanks, Mama.” Theo pulls me in for a quick hug before heading for the cook line to give her team last-minute instructions. On her way, she tosses over her shoulder, “Get Shep set up with a drawer when he gets here, will you?”

  “O-okay. Yeah, sure thing.” Shit. Shep. I’d nearly forgotten, but now the terror comes sweeping back in.

  I swipe my suddenly sweaty hands on my apron and consider trotting down to grab a glass of Chardonnay from the wine tent—I don’t usually drink at eleven a.m., but perhaps it’s time to embrace alcohol as the answer to my problems—when a deep voice behind me rumbles, “Hey, Bridge. Good to see you.”

  I turn, my heart jerking as I lay eyes on Shep for the first time since I set a bomb off in the middle of our friendship.

  Somehow, in the past two weeks apart, he’s gotten even more beautiful. It’s his eyes, I decide. The broad shoulders, buff drummer’s arms, calloused hands, and neatly trimmed beard are all lovely, but it’s his eyes that make my bones go gooey in the center. Those golden eyes that beat into mine, telegraphing everything he’s feeling in a code only the two of us can decipher.

  Or so I’d thought.

  Now, all I know for sure is that being in his presence is painful.

  “I’m good, thanks for coming to help out. Theo really appreciates it,” I say briskly, determined to keep this all business. It’s the only way I’m going to get through the day without hurling myself off the edge of the pier. “I’ll get you set up with a drawer and an apron and we’ll be ready to rock.”

  “Bridget, please,” he says in a husky voice that makes my traitorous nerve endings tingle and my lips hungry for a taste of his, proving I’m never going to be able to be “just friends” with this man again.

  “All the plates are eight dollars.” I focus on the cash register, the ocean, the seagulls circling like sky rats, ready to swoop for scraps as soon as the trash hits the bins—anywhere but at Shep’s sad eyes. “And tax is already factored in, so the math should be easy enough. Any questions?”

  “Can we talk?”

  “Any questions other than that question?” I ask tightly.

  When he exhales and shakes his head, I nod, pretending I’m not dying on the inside. “Okay. Then let’s get to work. We’re going to have company soon.”

  And we do.

  So much company, in fact, that the Shep-inspired ache in my chest eventually fades to the back of my awareness. My heart still hurts like a band of rogue seagulls played Stab-the-Beak-Through-the-Brunette with it, but I can handle this.

  I’m not going to fall apart.

  I’m going to get through this, be here for my best friend and my sister, and then I can run home, binge watch Instant Hotel, and forget I’m a weirdo whose brain is full of nonsense and bad ideas.

  But then Colin proposes to Kirby—at least I think that’s what’s happening, and by the time I realize that they’ve just decided to live happily ever after without formal vows, I’m already overly emotional. And then Shep lets it slip that Colin
’s going to ask Kirby to go on tour with them, leaving me alone for six months without my sister, and even though I’m so happy for her, I’m also going to miss her like crazy.

  But I can’t ask her to stay here.

  She’s growing, evolving, as she should be.

  It’s my problem that I stay the same while the word changes around me, that I can’t seem to get out of my rut, no matter how hard I try or to what ridiculous lengths I’m willing to go.

  It’s my problem that I can barely make it through the rest of the Claw Down without falling apart, and that meeting Shep’s gaze makes me feel like my soul is a slug getting repeatedly dashed with salt. Every moment in his presence hurts. It hurts so much that by the time I close out my cash register and hand the envelope of money and receipts to Theo, my hands are shaking.

  “Hey, you okay?” she asks, frowning up at me. “Did you forget to eat again?”

  “Yeah, but I’ve got lobster curry to go in my bag.” I smile thinly and back away. “Gotta run. Have to check in at the B&B. Talk to you later.”

  “Okay, but I wanted to ask you if—”

  “Sorry, I really have to go, babe,” I say, spying Shep approaching from behind her and knowing I won’t survive another close encounter with his eyes. “Call me. I’ll be around. Great job today! I’m so proud of you!”

  I spin on my heel and bolt at a speed-walk, dimly aware of Theo behind me thanking Shep for helping out, but mostly I’m focused on putting as much distance as possible between me and a certain golden-eyed drummer.

  But I should know better than to think I’ll get away that easily.

  Nothing is easy these days, especially not anything remotely involving Shepherd Strong.

  Chapter Five

  Shep

  I catch up to her near the end of the pier. She’s hiding between two port-a-johns, standing so still that if I hadn’t caught a flash of sun off the metal clasp on her bag, I would have walked right past her.

  I grind to a halt, turning to face her with my hands propped low on my hips.

  I arch a “Seriously? You’re lurking by the port-a-john to avoid me?” brow her way that she answers with a sigh as she emerges from between the none-too-fresh-smelling blue sheds.

  “There are worse places to hide,” she mumbles, dragging the tops of her red tennis shoes across the graying wooden planks.

  “Why are you hiding?” I ask, hating that things have gotten so messed up between us. “You don’t have to hide from me.”

  “You know why, and yes I do.” She’s still literally dragging her feet as she crosses to meet me. “I don’t want to talk. Ever.”

  “That’s going to make being friends kind of hard, don’t you think?” I lean down, trying to catch her eye, but her gaze stays fixed on the ground. “We are still going to be friends, aren’t we?”

  “Of course,” she says softly. “I’m just…so embarrassed.”

  I take a breath, but a burst of laughter from our left disrupts my already fragile focus. Conversations like this are always hard, but they’re ten times harder with an audience. “Want to step behind the ticket booth?” I ask, nodding over my shoulder. “It should be quiet over there.” I force a tight smile. “And probably smell a little fresher.”

  Bridget nods stiffly. “Sure.”

  I start to reach for her hand but stop myself and cross my arms instead. She notices and winces like someone in steel-toed boots stomped on her bare foot.

  And that someone is me.

  I’m the asshole in the steel-toed boots.

  If only I hadn’t run away. If only I’d stayed in the garden and found a way to turn her down without hurting her feelings. But I didn’t, and now there’s an acid bomb in my stomach, one that gets fizzier and heavier every time Bridget refuses to answer my calls, respond to my texts, or so much as look me in the eye.

  The past two weeks have been hell. I can’t go on like this or I’ll drive myself crazy.

  I have to make things better.

  Now.

  I follow Bridget around the ticket booth to the quiet patch of pier on the other side. The view of the seagulls swooping over the bay is as pretty as ever and the cool autumn breeze is the perfect contrast to the sun warming my shoulders, but I can’t really appreciate any of it.

  Not until Bridget and I are back on solid ground.

  “First up, I’d like to say I’m sorry,” I say, keeping my arms crossed as Bridget sets her purse on the ground and leans back against the pier railing, her hands braced on the middle rung. “I handled this badly.”

  “It’s fine.” She shrugs, still avoiding my gaze.

  “No, it’s not fine. I ran away like a chickenshit, and that’s never okay.”

  “So did I,” she says. “And is there really a good way to tell a friend you’re not interested in kissing them?”

  I shake my head. “Bridget, that’s not—”

  “Seriously, it’s fine, Shep,” she cuts in. “You don’t have anything to apologize for. I’m the one who should be apologizing. I put you in a horrible position, and I’m really sorry about that.” She lifts her eyes skyward. “And for avoiding you. I’ve just been so mortified.”

  “You shouldn’t be mortified.” I step in. “You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “Yes, I do,” she says, with a humorless laugh. “So many things. Not the least of which is that I was so desperate to get a steady date that I risked our friendship for it.” She finally meets my gaze, sending a sharp stab of pain through my chest. She’s really hurting, and even though I know I’m not the sole person responsible, it sure as hell feels that way. “I’m sorry about that,” she continues. “And I promise, I won’t ever do it again. I’m just not sure I can be around you right now. Not until the embarrassment wears off a little. Okay?”

  I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Um…no. It’s not okay. We’re going to find a better solution.”

  Her brows lift. “Like what?”

  “You said you wanted help feeling sexy.” I know I’m playing with fire, but I also know it will be worth it if it puts our world right again. “I’m pretty sure I can teach you everything you want to know in two minutes.”

  She huffs. Clearly a skeptic.

  “I can,” I insist, bracing my hands on the pier railing on either side of her, fingertips digging into the weathered wood. “Close your eyes.”

  “But I…” She trails off, blinking faster as she searches my face. I don’t know what she sees there, but it’s enough to make her shoulders relax and her chin lift. “All right. But will you answer one question first?”

  “Shoot.”

  “Do you hate me?” she asks in a pained whisper. “For ruining things between us?”

  “Nothing’s ruined.” I lean in, close enough that the wind won’t steal my words away, but not close enough to give her the wrong idea. This lesson isn’t going to be that kind of lesson, no matter how much I want to kiss her again. “And I could never hate you. Never. No matter what.”

  Her brow remains furrowed. “What if I started stabbing people? For fun?”

  “You would never stab people. Especially not for fun.”

  “But what if I did?” she insists, her focus sliding down to my mouth, where it lingers for a gut-twisting moment before dragging back up again, as slow and sexy as fingernails skimming across my bare skin, making me shiver despite the sun hot on my back. “Would you be mad at me then?”

  “Disappointed, I guess. But not mad.”

  “Because you don’t get mad?”

  “Not at you.” She starts to speak, but I cut her off with a finger pressed to her lips. “You want to learn the secret to driving men crazy or not?” Eyes wide, she hesitates a beat before nodding. “All right then,” I say, my voice rough. “Then close your eyes.”

  Her lashes flutter closed, finally giving me a chance to catch my breath.

  Her eyes are my fucking undoing. They’re so beautiful and so completely incapable of hiding a thought th
at drifts through her head. And her thoughts about me lately have been enough to test even my considerable control.

  I’m the oldest of ten kids. Ten. And my parents aren’t even Catholic.

  I don’t know exactly why Mom and Pop couldn’t seem to figure out how babies were made or how to slow that shit down, but by age six I realized they were never going to keep our family ship afloat without help. They’re great people, my folks, but they’re dreamers, hippies with their heads so high in the clouds they don’t see trouble coming until it’s too late.

  By the time I started first grade, I was in charge of baby proofing the house, ensuring none of the diaper crew choked on one of my toys or stuck a pudgy finger in a light socket. By ten I was packing lunches for everyone old enough to go to school and diaper bags for the preschool set. By fifteen, I was teaching Vance and Finn, the brothers closest to me in age, how to use power tools, running Gretel to the emergency room when she ripped her knee open doing stunts in our backyard skate park, and maintaining the file folder with everyone’s shot records, birth certificates, and passports arranged in alphabetical order for easy access.

  By eighteen I was so ready to leave home I could taste it, sharp and desperate in my mouth like the thirst that comes on you at the end of a long day out in the sun, when you feel like you’re going to die if you don’t get a tall, ice-cold glass of water in you, stat.

  But I stayed in my parents’ house, anyway, paying rent for the room above the garage and watching out for my little sisters and brothers. If I hadn’t, someone would have gotten hurt. In my house, there were just too many small people and not enough grown-ups to keep them in line.

  By the time Lips on Fire scored our first major traveling gig, opening for Love Riot on their North American tour, I was twenty-one. During the first six months I was gone, Gretel lost a fingertip in a boating accident, Troy fell out of a neighbor’s tree house at one in the morning and broke his hip, and little Seraphina, who was only eight at the time, started telling everyone in second grade to “fork the hack off,” which was apparently close enough to cursing that her teacher suspended her for three days.