Page 57 of Lucky Puck

But my inanity has the beneficial effect of restoring his grin in full force, if not diminishing the intensity of his eyes and their hold on mine.

He straightens away from me, releasing some of the grip he has on my control, and shrugs. Before he looks away, I see the change in his expression, the disappointment in his eyes, and it has a sickening effect on my deflated colony of butterflies.

“Tribute to Jerry Garcia, one of my all-time favorite musicians.”

“I never figured you for an old soul, a new generation deadhead. You’re really a deadhead?”

He nods. I see pride and not one bit of self-consciousness at my discovery. I wonder if it’s not a secret; then how did I not know?

“That fact wasn’t in your high school yearbook or anywhere else I looked to gather information about you. Nothing about it on social media that I ever saw, no photos of you at a Dead & Company concert.”

“That’s right. At least you didn’t bug my earbuds to find out what music I listen to.”

A flush of shame rises like a thermometer to my face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound invasive or stalkerish or anything. It’s my job to know…” I trail off because I can sense I’m veering back into professional mode—which is entirely too impersonal for our current, umm… whereabouts? In bed together. Sort of.

“I know it’s your job. You can’t seem to get away from that, can you? But I get it. I’m more or less obsessed with hockey.”

“I’m not obsessed with you.” I rush the words out and then realize instantly they’re not true—before he aims his beguiling grin at me. “I mean...” I narrow my eyes and mutter, “Jerk,” sounding as if I’ve been defeated somehow.

He laughs. Meanwhile, glancing at the giant TV screen, Jaws is in the process of swallowing the poor grizzly old captain whole. Why do I identify so much with that old captain right now?

“I can see why Jaws is one of your favorite movies.”

He laughs again, then puts down his half-eaten carton of Cherry Garcia and moves in closer to me. It’s odd, but I don’t panic or hyperventilate, and my heart doesn’t stop. I mean, it speeds up some because I’m human, but⁠—

Then he puts an arm around me and takes my almost empty carton of ice cream from my useless hands and puts it alongside his. They make a nice couple on the bedside table. That’s where I’m looking and what I’m thinking as my heartrate steadily increases, and I concentrate on maintaining my breathing.

I exhale. “There’s nothing better than chocolate and peanut butter together and chunks of cookie dough as a bonus.” The words rush out of my mouth fast, as if they’ll make more sense with speed.

His chuckle is so close to my face that I feel the disturbance in the wisp of hairs at my temple. He rests a hand on my fluffy comforter-covered lap, but I feel the burn of it all the way through to my thigh.

I turn to him, “Do you think this is what it’s really like to be married?”

His brows go up further than I’ve ever seen, hiding under a glorious shock of his abundant hair somewhere, and a blip of satisfaction at surprising him registers underneath my absolute mortification. I can’t believe I actually uttered those words out loud.

“I… don’t think about marriage. Recent events notwithstanding.” He recovers his easy expression, mostly, because I see some lingering wariness.

“Why not?”

“I never expect to get married.”

“Your answer was too quick.”

“Too quick for what?”

“Too quick for me to believe you.”

“What about you? You should be in love and on your way to the altar with some lucky guy by now. For real, I mean.”

I laugh and marvel at his ease and lack of self-consciousness about a subject that should be touchy for both of us. It is for me at least, but since he’s game, I jump in with both feet, giving free rein to my curiosity—to my obsession with him.

“Don’t change the subject. I was talking about you. Why haven’t you fallen in love⁠—”

“I don’t believe in love.”

Sighing, I shake my head. “Don’t confuse love with marriage. You don’t have control over love—so I’m told,” I add hastily and clear my throat. “Someday you might fall in love and reconsider your beliefs. You might even get married for real. Unless you’re commitment-phobic.”

“I have no problem with commitments. I’m committed to hockey all the way.”