Limits. Part 6

"I...can't." He smashes his palms against the steering wheel. "I just can't."

"Can't or won't?" I swallow hard and close my eyes. "Or don't want to?"

My ego is bruised. My fire is nothing but smoke and soggy ash. I want to cry, I want to scream, I want to kiss him. Kiss him until he changes his mind or I strip him down and press my body to his trying to make him.

"Genevieve," he says. And then he cups my face with his hand, his eyes burning with the kind of wild hunger I knew very well. I half expect him to say- "You need to go inside now."

Not that.

"Adam, what I said, what I meant-"

"Please." He pulls his hand away, letting his fingers trail down my cheek with excruciating softness. "Go inside."

I slide out of the car and rush into the house, closing the door softly and trying to hold the sobs at bay as I press my back to the door. The house is eerily quiet. I'd have to check the garage to be sure, but I can bet I have the place to myself.

I rush to my room and tug my skirt off, pulling a pair of jeans on instead. I tie my hair back, but I don't have the heart to change out of Adam's sweats.h.i.+rt. I know it would make things more confusing, but I've never taken the easy way out of anything anyway. I rifle around for my keys and get in my car, going to the one person who will understand everything, who always understands everything.

Luckily, Marigold is a total night owl, just like me. Even though it's late, her little house still glows with a warm golden light. When I knock at the door she opens it, takes one look at me, shoos Rocko to bed, leads me to the patio out back, and says, "Spill."

"I want something. I want someone." I pace back and forth on the plant-choked bricks in her little backyard oasis, catching scents of jasmine and lavender and mint depending on what flower or herb I brush by as I walk. I see her eyes, so sweet and heartbroken, and I shake my head. "Not Deo."

She drops her head into her hands and half sighs, half laughs. "Thank the G.o.ddess! Oh, honey, you know I love that boy with my whole heart, but if you came here tonight to tell me how right you two were for each other again, I'm telling you-I'm a pacifist, but I might have knocked you upside the head."

I break off a sprig of mint and chew the leaves, smiling at Marigold. "You couldn't hurt a fly, Marigold."

She tilts her head back and laughs. "Try me, why don't you. If it would have helped straighten your head out, I could have made you see stars."

"I think I am seeing them." I plop down next to her. "And I don't think the guy I'm with can admit that he's seeing them too."

She pinches her lips together before she talks to me. "Genevieve. I love you from the bottom of my heart. But this pattern isn't any good. You need to be with a man who sees you as an equal."

"Or a better?" I chew on another mint leaf, and Marigold tilts her head.

"I'm intrigued. Go on." She leans back and waits.

"There's a guy who I know, and I really respect him." She nods, I take a deep breath. "He asked me to think about leaving my parents' store." Just saying those words out loud makes me feel thrilled and strange. I notice Marigold's mouth hang open for a quick second before she remembers herself. "He asked me to consider what I'm majoring in. He always, without fail, pushes me to do more and better. It's like he knows when I'm about to give up, and he always reaches out and pulls me back up to go another round."

Marigold's smile stretches wide across her face. "I like this. I like this entire description. But, sweetie, I'm a red-blooded woman. This boy can be sweet as pie and Ghandi deep. Just tell me he has hands to die for and eyes you can sink into?"

I hold my hands out wide. "Shoulders like this." She closes her eyes and moan-sighs. "I can't look at his hair without wanting to run my fingers through it. I can barely hold his hands, they're so big. Like puppy-dog paw big. And sandpaper rough."

"It's like I can feel them," she says, pressing her own hands to her cheeks.

"And? He has green eyes. Like sea gla.s.s."

"You're killing me." She leans back on her hands and gazes at the stars, soaking in all these gorgeous details before she asks the big question. "But he's not...?"

"He's not open to what I want."

"Which is?"

I quirk a smile her way. "Everything. And I want it now. Right now."

She narrows her eyes at me. "I like this new Genevieve. I think you should be persistent. Go for Mr. Broad-as-h.e.l.l-Shoulders. Don't let him go. And live up his expectations."

"You think?" I feel that fire, the one that went soggy just a little while ago in Adam's car, start to reignite.

"Sweetie, your life is now. Now. I think you've spent a lot of time waiting and watching and promising to get started as soon as...what? As soon as nothing! I can't remember the last time I've seen you this on fire. Harness that. Grab on and ride it right out of this funk."

"Yeah." I'm caught up in the cyclone of Marigold's words. "I will."

"From what you just described to me, you found the partner who's going to crack your life wide open and give you a jump-start to get moving." She sits up and slaps a hand on my a.s.s.

Hard.

"Ouch!" I rub my bottom. "Poor Deo! Your spankings must have been brutal."

She winks at me. "I only look sweet." Marigold wiggles her eyebrows. "That was meant to spur you on, sweetie! Go get what you want. Don't you dare make the mistake of waiting around for what's leftover. Every good thing is worth the fight. And a really good man? He's worth a whole d.a.m.n smack down."

I lean over and drop a kiss on her cheek. "Thank you."

"Thank you, sweetie." She holds me close for a few heartbeats. "If I couldn't have you as a daughter-in-law, I'm forever grateful to call you a friend."

I tamper the lump in my throat and squeeze her hand, blotting my tears with the sleeve of Adam's hoodie as I walk back to my car, buzzed with total determination to get exactly what I want.

7 GENEVIEVE.

The cheap Formica table top is cold and smooth under my palm. I want to press my face to it and dull the thumping in my head. The never-ending drum solo kept me awake all night, thinking about Adam...and what I'd said to him.

Or, literally, proposed.

"Thanks for meeting me," he says, sliding into the cracked booth. His dark hair is still shower damp and tousled. I think about what it would be like to wake up and watch Adam get ready to take a shower. Or, like every frisky newlywed couple in a Hollywood rom-com, maybe follow him into the bathroom and step into the hot spray. For a second, my dirty mind imagines the entire soapy, wet scenario, and I feel my cheeks-and other places-go warm. His voice brings me back from my totally inappropriate domestic fantasy and into the present. "I guess I could've picked something a little...nicer."

He makes a good point. The place is a dump, but I'd be surprised if it isn't exactly halfway between my parent's house and Adam's place, and I'm sure he knew that when he picked it. Because he's precise like that. Thoughtful.

I'm not.

"This place is great. The coffee is good," I lie, tipping my cup to examine the sludge with a lump of coffee grounds floating around in the bottom. There's no amount of sugar and cream in the world that could tame this brew. I force a smile and it seems to relax Adam. He s.h.i.+mmies out of his sweater and then folds his hands, short-nailed and long-fingered, on the table top.

"Did you order?" He nods at the laminate menus that are stuck together with the remnants of other breakfasts' syrups.

I shake my head. "No, I was waiting on you. Are you hungry?"

His eyes flash to me, then he tugs the menu over and unsticks the pages, flipping through without really looking. "Yeah, starved. I could really go for some Eggs Benedict. Do you think they have that here? Probably not."

It's polite small talk. And it's not necessary. It also has nothing at all to do with why we're here.

I can't do this with him. I can't sit in this diner and pretend what happened the other night never happened. The thing is, I kept waiting to regret those words, wish them into a deep, black hole where they'd be forgotten forever. But that never happened. In fact, the minute I saw him walk in, I felt like-as crazy as it sounds-I felt like I was looking at my future.

And it felt d.a.m.n good.

I can't explain it, and I don't know if I want to. I just know what I feel and that it feels so d.a.m.n right.

"Look, Adam, about last night. I know you think I'm crazy-"

"I don't think you're crazy, Genevieve," Adam says, his voice clear and steady. He pulls his eyebrows together and tilts his head like he's choosing his words carefully. "I think you're... impetuous. It's a good thing, you're young-"

"You're, like, the same age." I shake my head, annoyed. My next words are barely a whisper. "Why does everyone have to treat me like I'm such a child?"

Adam stares awkwardly out the window, running one hand over the five o'clock shadow p.r.i.c.kling his wide jaw. I've probably made him really uncomfortable.

Though I guess it's not any more uncomfortable than last night, when I all but got down on one knee.

"Are you two ready to order?" The waitress's question makes me jump in my seat. She moves to refill my coffee, but I cover the mug with my palm and shake my head.

"I'll just have toast," I say with a weak smile.

"Same," Adam says, pus.h.i.+ng the menu into place behind the napkin holder. The waitress slips her notepad back into her ap.r.o.n pocket and walks away. "So, I called because I didn't want to talk to you on campus about this. Not on your tutoring time for sure. I'm really sorry I bailed last night after..." He clears his throat and looks right at me, his eyes locked on mine. "I just thought maybe you needed some time to cool down. After we talked in the car, you seemed pretty upset, and then it turned into...uh, the proposal. I just wanted you to feel like you could take a step back, you know? And I understand if you want to. More than that, I expect you to."

Adam weighs the salt and pepper shakers in each hand. It's a nervous act, but he contradicts it by not breaking eye contact with me the entire time, and I feel sucked into his stare.

"I appreciate what you offered, Genevieve," he continues. "But, obviously, I can't accept. I'm sure every man in San Diego County would think I'm a complete fool, but I can't marry you. Not that you meant it anyway. I know you were just trying to be nice. And you are. So nice. That's actually-"

He's talking in nervous circles and letting his eyes linger too long on my face.

"I am impetuous," I interrupt, and slide my hand across the table top. Almost touching his fingers, but just a shade too chicken to go all the way. Funny I'm not afraid to present the idea of marriage, but I can't get up the guts to hold his hand. "I am. But I meant what I said...asked...whatever. I meant it. I think-" I take a deep breath and smooth my hair behind my ears. "I think we should. We should get married."

"Genevieve, I appreciate that you want to help." He leans forward over the little battered table, his eyes soft, his hands almost ready to take mine, but holding back. Because he doesn't want to encourage me, I'm sure. "But marriage isn't a joke. It needs to be for other reasons...and none of those reasons should be because you feel sorry for me."

"I don't feel sorry for you," I protest. I want to explain what I feel about him, about me, about love and life and the way nothing makes sense and then, sometimes, something does out of nowhere, but not for any reason you can explain. Not without sounding like a lunatic. So I try to just stick to the facts, give him a reasonable, logical argument, even if that's not quite what I mean. "And I do want to help. You don't deserve to have your entire career flushed away because of some s.h.i.+tty timing and stupid, uncooperative yeast. Plus, it doesn't just help you."

This muscle high up in his jaw pulses and he shakes his head, about to answer me. He pulls back, stares down at the patterns on the Formica like he's trying to figure out how to say what he needs to say. How to let me down, I'm sure.

"And what do you mean by that? What could you possibly gain from marrying me? You're beautiful and bright and don't need to be in a joke of a marriage, tied to me-forever, Genevieve." And then his entire face changes. His eyes go dark, his mouth is hard and tight. There's something fierce in his expression, something that makes me draw a quick breath in and hold it in my lungs. "Because that's what I want my marriage to be whenever it happens. Forever."

I push away from the table and sigh.

"What?" Adam asks, the intense expression loosened with a grin. "Did you just roll your eyes at me?"

I crack a smile. "You don't really have many choices here, Adam. You can marry me, go back home...or what? Any other options that I don't know about?"

Our waitress sets the toast in front of us, but neither Adam nor I move toward our plates.

"No." He shrugs. "But that doesn't mean that this is a viable option."

I square my shoulders and straighten my back. I realize this may not be the most rational solution, but it's a d.a.m.n workable one. One that isn't all that weird. "I'm not going into this thinking of it as a joke, Adam. In fact, my parents talked to me this fall about meeting men. You know. Um, meeting men they...would help me choose."

Now is not the time for me to mention that I was completely horrified and screamed that I would never, ever do that, that there was no way I'd let them arrange something that huge. My point is that plenty of smart, rational people still have arranged marriages, and no one bats an eyelash.

Well, very few people bat their eyelashes.

Er, none of the Jewish parents or grandparents bat their eyelashes, anyway.

"Are you talking about using a Shadchan?" I'm not sure if he thinks the idea is hilarious or horrifying.

"Of course not," I huff, though Miriam Spektor has arranged a half dozen totally happy marriages in our synagogue, and n.o.body laughs about her skills. Lydia was next on her list, before her partner's divorce helped her snag a guy all on her own. "This isn't Fiddler on the Roof."

"No, it isn't."

"Anyway, you only need a Shadchan if you can't find someone on your own. We've already met."

Adam sits back, arms crossed and stares at me. "Genevieve, you could have anyone you wanted. Even if you were going to go ahead with an arranged marriage, you'd have folders full of applicants. You could pick and choose, not get stuck with some washed-up loser with too many degrees and no way to support you." A flash of embarra.s.sment clouds his eyes.

I take a breath, get my thoughts under control, and try hard not to ramble.

"Adam. If I could choose a husband, I'd choose someone kind. Someone hard-working. Someone smart and funny and...um..." I gesture at him. He raises one eyebrow high. "Handsome!" I wind up yelling. I lower my voice and ignore the way his eyes widen in...shock? Humor? Terror? "I would choose someone like you. I'd be lucky to have the chance to choose someone like you. And I will go into it like I go into everything: I'll give it my all, and I won't quit when things get hard."

"You're not going into it like anything because it's not happening. I'm not going to let you ruin your life because I bet my chances on a stupid thesis project that didn't wind up working out." He runs a hand over his face.

"You aren't 'letting' me, Adam. I'm not a child. I want to. I want to help you if I can. And it would honestly help me, too. I know you think I'm just a spoiled brat, but it's not like that. I-"

"Gen," he says. He reaches across the table and covers my hands with his, finally, and they're as strong and warm as always. These are definitely hands I can hold for a lifetime. "I don't think you're a spoiled brat. I really don't. I think you're pretty d.a.m.n amazing. But marriage? There are laws against this kind of stuff. You could get in a lot of trouble. With the government."

I wave my hand around at him, brus.h.i.+ng off his threats of danger and doom. "Only if it weren't for real. We can make this real, Adam. I know we don't know each other all that well, but we could get to. I'm pretty adorable, if I do say so myself." I catch his eye and he smirks. Then he smiles. Then he full on laughs.

I know I'm winning my argument and it feels amazing.

"My place is a dump, Genevieve. Where would we live? I make next to no money. I have nothing to offer you."

"You'd be saving me just as much as I'd be saving you," I say lightly and look away from him. I don't know how to convey to Adam what's got my insides twisted into knots and the loneliness that somehow feels like my only company lately.

I look up from the sludge in my coffee cup and meet his eyes again.

"Marry me, Adam. Today. Don't think about. Don't a.n.a.lyze even angle. Let's just get in your car and go. There's nothing and no one stopping us, and we've already agreed you don't have any other options to stay in the country. You can sit here and argue with me all day, but I promise I'll wear you down. Better to just quit now, pay the waitress and Google Map the Justice of the Peace because you and me? We're going to get married."

Adam looks up, his eyes blazing, and I hold my breath and cross my fingers under the table. Suddenly he nods and reaches for his wallet.

"I'm meeting with your parents first. And I'm not taking you to Justice of the Peace, Genevieve. If we're going to do this, it will be in front of your family and friends. I have some money set aside. I'm happy to spend it on a real wedding."

I lean over and kiss him softly on the lips before he can say anything else or change his mind. It's just a celebratory kiss, just a brush of the lips. At first.