“I’m never letting you go again, Tate,” I whispered, almost desperate. “I’m your friend forever, and if that’s all I get, then that’s what I’m taking, because only when you’re here”—I took her hand and placed it on my heart—“do I feel like my life is worth a damn.”
Her eyes pooled with more tears, and her chest rose and fell faster.
I cupped her face, rubbing circles on her wet cheek with my thumb. “Just let it go, babe. You wanna cry? Then, let it go.”
She looked up at me, the tears in her eyes shaking as she searched mine, and I hoped like hell that she could find some trace of the boy who loved her unconditionally.
And then, as if seeing it, she sucked in a breath, closed her eyes, and dropped her head, shaking with her despair and letting it all go.
I sat down and pulled her into my chest, lying down and holding her tight enough to convey that I would hold her forever if she wanted me to.
Her head rested in the crook where my arm met my shoulder, and her hand lay hesitantly on my stomach as she shuddered with the tears. I brought up my legs and just held her, suddenly warm with the realization that nothing had changed. I’d first shared a bed with her about ten years ago—two kids finding an anchor in each other when life had thrown us too many storms—and lying here, with the familiar shadows of the tree’s leaves dancing across the ceiling, I felt as if it was yesterday.
She sniffled and wound her hand all the way around my waist. I rubbed circles on her back.
“It’s so stupid,” she mumbled, the ache making her voice thick. “I should be happy, shouldn’t I?”
I just kept rubbing.
She inhaled a short, shaky breath. “I like Miss Penley, and my dad won’t be alone,” she cried. “Why can’t I be happy?”
“Because you love your mom,” I said, taking my other hand and lightly brushing the hair away from her face. “And because it’s been just you and him for a long time. It’s hard when things change.”
She tipped her head up and looked at me, her eyes still wet and sad but calmer now.
I caressed her face. “Of course you’re happy for your dad, Tate.”
“What if he forgets my mom?”
“How could he?” I retorted. “He has you.”
She looked at me, her eyes softening, and I pulled her in closer, tucking her head under my chin. Threading my fingers through her soft hair, I grazed her scalp and then dragged my hand down the strands over and over again.
Her body relaxed into mine, slowly melting like it always did.
“You know I turn dumb when you do that,” she grumbled, but I noticed the drowsy tease in her tone.
I closed my eyes, loving the feel of her slender leg sliding up over the top of mine.
“I remember,” I whispered. “Now go to sleep. Tatum.”
I might’ve heard her say, “Asshole,” but I couldn’t be sure.
Chapter 10
Tate
Cheesecake.
I flopped onto my back, the pillow under my head feeling as soft as a cloud in a Disney sky after sleeping so well, and I was strangely desperate for cheesecake.
Sweet and creamy and heavenly, and I swallowed, suddenly starving to indulge.
What the . . . ?
I glanced over at the other pillow—empty, but the remnants of his body wash had lingered, and I was glad he was gone. The smell that he’d left behind was so succulent that my mouth was watering for chocolate-covered cherries, champagne, cheesecake, and . . .
Him. God, I was hungry.
It had felt so good to be in his arms last night that I’d slept better than I had in months and awoke feeling calm and excited at the same time.
Heading into the bathroom, I brushed my hair and put it up into a ponytail, washing and rinsing my face afterward. Grabbing the mouthwash, I gargled, ridding myself of the leftover bitter taste of the glass of wine I’d had when I came home last night.
I walked back into my bedroom, taking a second glance out the French doors, which were now closed, and noticed that his old bedroom window was still open.
Hesitating only a moment, I jetted down the stairs, ready to ravage the refrigerator and cabinets to make pancakes and eggs and bacon and maybe some fresh bread. And maybe a BLT.
For some reason a BLT sounded really good.
Why was I so hungry?
I jumped the last two steps and immediately straightened, hearing music coming from the dining room.
Taking a left, I rounded the entryway and halted when I spotted Jared.
The tree on his naked back stretched taller as he reached up and rolled paint in a long strip on the wall and then returned to normal as he came back down, the taut muscles in his back and arms flexing and accentuating the fact that he hadn’t gotten lazy during his time away.
He was still wearing the same black pants as last night, but with his shirt off now, and I noticed his hands were splattered with drops of the café au lait color the painters were using as he rolled the thick paint onto the linen-colored walls.
“What are you doing?” I blurted.
His head turned to the side, and he glanced at me and then back to the wall, almost dismissive.
“We helped your dad paint this room, like, ten years ago, remember?”
I dug in my eyebrows, weirded out by how calm he seemed. “Yeah, I remember,” I said, still confused as I walked over and turned down Seether’s “Weak” coming off the iPod. “We’re paying people to do it now. They’ll be back to finish the job tomorrow,” I told him.
He glanced at me again, a playful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
And then he turned his attention back to the wall, dismissing me again, to continue painting.
I stood there, wondering what I was supposed to do. Go make a breakfast that I was no longer hungry for or kick him out?
He changed hands, putting the roller in his left as he absently smeared the paint that had dripped on his right hand on his pant leg. I almost laughed. The pants looked expensive, but of course, Jared wouldn’t give a shit.
I folded my arms across my chest, trying to restrain my smile.
Jared was painting my dining room. Just like ten years ago. He wasn’t grabbing me, fighting with me, or trying to get in my pants, either. Very well behaved.
Also like ten years ago.
Patience and peace radiated off of him, and my heart skipped a beat, finally feeling some semblance of home for the first time in forever. It was a summer day just like any other, and the boy next door was hanging out with me.
I buried the knot of despair I’d been carrying around and walked up behind him, picking up the second roller in the tray. Stepping up to the wall perpendicular to his, I rolled on the paint, hearing his uninterrupted strokes continue behind me.