10 Ways to Accidentally Fall in Love

Chapter 24

Joey

Brad and I stay out on the water for a good couple hours. Despite being on a speedboat and not a pirate’s brigantine, as I repeatedly remind him, Brad doesn’t let up on the “seamen” puns. Nor the occasional flagpole-related joke that’s distinctly dirty in nature.

Honestly, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

By the time we make it back to land, Brad voicing his enthusiastic approval of motorboating, we’re too tired to do much other than eat an early dinner with my mom, watch a movie— Dirty Dancing , of course—and head to bed.

And that’s precisely where Brad should be now. So when I roll over to find his spot empty despite it clearly being the middle of the night, I sit up and look around.

“Bub?” I call softly, noticing a person-shaped shadow near the kitchen.

He jolts slightly. “Oh, hey. Sorry, did I wake you?”

“The lack of you woke me,” I admit, swinging my legs out of bed. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Of course,” he says. “Just couldn’t sleep.”

I hum, scrubbing my face a little before standing.

Brad makes a soft sound. “You don’t have to get up.”

“I don’t mind,” I tell him, padding across the floor. “Please tell me you’re not drinking coffee right now?”

He snorts, setting down the cup in his hand, the clink of it soft against the countertop. “No, just water.”

Brad doesn’t object when I wrap myself around him. In fact, he leans into me, a sigh accompanying the relaxation of his shoulders.

“Want to talk about it?” I ask.

He shrugs, his hands worming under my t-shirt. “I dunno. I’ve never slept well. And it’s not the coffee’s fault, I swear. I quit it for half a year once to check, and it only got worse. I just…”

He makes a noise that’s almost a grumble, and it’s so unexpectedly surly, I have to keep my laughter in check.

“I tried therapy before?” he says, almost like a question. “And she said when a person grows up feeling…alone, without their needs for emotional support and safety being met, they may learn habits of self-sufficiency that aren’t always healthy in the long run. Like, meerkats have a system of defense, right? There’s always at least one on guard, even when the others are sleeping. I guess I just…didn’t have anyone to watch my back.”

My heart breaks at the casual way in which Brad explains his childhood abandonment. And, apparently, the ongoing problems that stemmed from his parents giving him away to a man who, by Brad’s own admission, tried his best but wasn’t the warmest. Did he not have anyone to comfort him when he had a nightmare? Was he afraid if he asked too much of his grandfather, the man might give him up, too?

“Is there anything I can do to help?” I ask, my voice hoarse.

“You already help,” he says softly. “You’re the best sleeping pill I’ve found, Joey. But… I guess no system is foolproof.”

I nod, throat tight. “Want to go for a walk?”

“Yeah?” he asks, pulling back, his face hard to make out in the dark.

“If you want.”

“I do. Let me grab some pants,” he says, practically skipping away.

The two of us get dressed in the dark, and I grab a flashlight in case a car comes along while we’re on the road, though I doubt there will be anyone around at this time of night. With our sweatshirts in place to ward off the chill, we head outside. The moon is a small sliver in the sky tonight, the private road dark without streetlights. But there’s just enough light for us to walk by.

I lead Brad in the direction of the park, figuring the swings might help. Maybe it’s a silly idea, but he seems to calm with motion.

We’re quiet on the way there, but as soon as Brad sees the small playground up ahead, he whoops and sprints toward the equipment. There’s the swing set—a large, metal-framed thing—and a solitary slide that gets too hot to go down when the sun’s out. Brad heads right for the swings, plopping onto one of the black rubber seats, his hands around the chains as he sets into motion.

“Shit,” he says, the one word happy and light. “I haven’t been on a swing in forever.”

“Figured you might enjoy it,” I admit, settling onto the one next to him and swaying in place. “Can I ask a question?”

“Oh boy,” he says, whooshing past me, his chains creaking slightly where they connect to the frame. “Sounds serious.”

“Only a little.”

“Ask away, my kangaroo.”

I huff a laugh. “Did it not help when you lived with Jason?”

He makes a small sound of acknowledgement, understanding I’m asking about his sleep, but it takes another few seconds before he answers. “It did a little. But Jason’s schedule was so sporadic while he was in nursing school. Some nights, he wasn’t even around. And when he was, I mean… It’s not like we slept together. He liked his space, which was fine. But knowing someone is there and actually feeling them is different, I guess.”

I hum, considering. “Should we make a schedule?”

“A what now?”

“A schedule for sleeping over,” I explain. “Some nights at your place, some at mine?”

Brad stops so abruptly, pieces of bark go flying in all directions when his shoes dig into the earth, his swing rotating violently before jerking to a halt. “ What ?”

“Would you not want to—”

“I want,” he says quickly. “I just… You’d really do that? Sacrifice your nights for…me?”

“I’m not sure why you’re under the impression that spending my nights in bed with you would be a sacrifice, bub, but I’d be happy to share your bed whenever I’m able. Believe it or not, I kinda like knowing you’re close, too.”

He blows out a breath. “If it’s too much, you have to let me know.”

“I will. But it won’t be.”

“I might hog the blankets,” he points out.

“I know.”

“I’ll probably drool on you.”

“I know that, too,” I assure him.

“I might not always go to bed as early as you.”

“We’ll figure it out.”

“Yeah, okay,” he says, and then, “ Ooh , I’ll make a calendar! Color-coded, of course. You’ll probably want to keep some stuff at my place, right? I can clear out a drawer. And maybe I could have some space in your closet? You wouldn’t mind me stocking some better coffee beans in your kitchen, would you? Your stuff is okay, but honestly, Joey, you could do better. What are your thoughts on a Star Wars -themed alarm? I’ve always thought ‘The Imperial March’ had a nice ring to it. Joey, you coming? It’s bedtime.”

Chuckling, I follow after Brad as he makes his way back across the park. He keeps up a running commentary the whole way to the guest house about the proper way to turn down a bed and how it makes all the difference for that moment you slide under the sheets. I nod along, not minding whether my sheets are right-side up or crinkled all to hell, so long as Brad is between them.

As soon as we get inside, Brad kicks off his shoes, shucks his sweatshirt and jeans, and falls into bed. He makes a grabby hand I assume is meant for me, so I undress and climb in after him. I’ve barely made contact with the mattress when Brad forcibly rolls me to my back. He settles over me, legs outside of mine, the entire length of him slotted against me with his cheek on my chest.

There’s a stutter beneath his ear. One I’m positive he’d hear if he’s listening for it.

But neither of us says a word. In fact, with the way Brad’s breathing has evened to a slow, steady pace, I’m more than certain he’s out. Just like that.

I swing the sheet over us, knowing, if only he’ll let me, I’ll do my very best to keep all of his nightmares at bay.

“Here. Suck.”

I raise an eyebrow, but Brad simply thrusts his finger closer to my face.

“Suck me, Joey.”

“You should…maybe consider rephrasing that.”

Brad’s forehead wrinkles. “Put my finger in your mouth, suck off the cream, and tell me if I did good.”

“Oh good Lord,” I mumble, grabbing Brad’s hand and directing his finger to my mouth. I lick off the buttercream frosting, rather enjoying the way his lips pop open when I swirl my tongue around the digit. Tugging it free, I say, “You did good, bub.”

He preens, even as his cheeks flush.

And the man thinks he doesn’t have a praise kink.

Shaking my head, I pass over the dyes. “Pick a color.”

“What’s your mom’s favorite?” he asks before saying, “No, don’t tell me. Let me guess.”

Brad plucks out the blue and yellow dyes. By the time he’s done mixing, the frosting is a soft aquamarine. Honestly, it’s perfect.

“Did you get your mom a present?” he asks, starting to spread the frosting over the cake we baked.

“I did. A set of juice glasses with a floral design.”

Brad stills, looking over at me. “Am I supposed to be drinking my juice out of special glasses? Is this a thing no one told me?”

I snort. “It’s not a requirement.”

“Thank fuck,” he mutters, going back to the frosting. “At least we didn’t get her the same thing.”

“ You got my mom a present?” I ask in shock.

“Duh,” he mumbles, concentrating as he shifts the frosting knife to cover the corners.

“Want some help with that?”

He swats my hand away. “You do the flowers. I spread the cream. That was the deal.”

“You’ve gotta stop calling it cream,” I mutter.

“You said you like my cream.”

“That’s not… You know what? Never mind. Yes, I do love your cream.”

“Thought so. Aaand there.” With a flourish, Brad stabs the knife into the bowl of frosting and passes it over. “Your turn.”

Huffing a laugh, I transfer the rest of the frosting into a piping bag.

“Where is your mom, anyways?” Brad asks.

“Went to the market to grab some fresh crab,” I tell him, twisting the bag closed and carefully squeezing out a flower, one petal at a time.

“The fuck,” Brad mumbles. He watches me do another before saying, emphatically, “Those actually look like flowers.”

“Yes, they do,” I say around a chuckle.

“How… How are you doing that?”

I shrug, continuing to pipe the decorative flowers along the border of the cake. “I liked construction. My mom liked to bake. I picked up a few things.”

“Damn,” he mutters. “I think you just unlocked some sort of bakery kink I didn’t know I had. Hey, Joey. Joey. Joey-roo.”

“Yes?” I say, lips twitching.

He up-nods. “You can frost me anytime you like.”

I pause, pulling the bag away from the cake as I face Brad. “The one time you don’t say cream…”

His brow furrows, but then he gets it. “Fuck! Okay, okay. Hey, Joey—”

“I’m back,” my mom calls, the door closing behind her.

Brad’s eyes widen. “Cream me, Chef,” he says quickly and quietly, leaving me to choke on absolutely nothing as he turns toward the front of the house. “Welcome back, Mama D! Don’t come in the kitchen, please. Not because we’re naked. Just because there’s a surprise we don’t want you to see. Promise, we’re not naked.”

My mom laughs softly while I attempt to get my lungs working again. “How about I leave my bag out here and you come grab it?” she says. “It needs to go in the fridge.”

“Will do,” Brad says, jogging off to intercept the crab.

“Good grief,” I mutter. “I guess I asked for it.”

Brad brings the crab into the kitchen, putting it in the fridge as my mom makes a show of passing with her hand over her eyes. It doesn’t take long for us to finish decorating the cake. Once the flowers are done, I pipe a border along the bottom edge, and Brad adds three candles on top, one for each decade of life, as he tells me.

“Because surely your mom can’t be older than thirty,” he yells.

“Number one, I doubt she can hear you all the way outside,” I tell him, carefully putting the cake under a large dome to help keep it hidden for now. “Number two, I’m twenty-nine. Which makes that entirely impossible.”

He pshts . “Your mom is lovely, and she should know it. I’ll miss her when we go back.”

“Yeah,” I say, my chest feeling tight. Not only because yes , I’ll miss my mom, too. But because of the effortless way in which Brad adores her and has from the beginning, as if there was never any doubt. As if, maybe, he loves her simply because I do. “Why, uh…why don’t we let her know the kitchen is open?”

Brad nods, and, after one final check to make sure everything is put away, we head outside. As my mom makes dinner, telling us under no circumstances are we to help because we’ve done enough, Brad and I take a seat under the shade of the gazebo, him with an iced coffee, me with an iced tea.

“I always wanted to visit the ocean,” he says almost wistfully, the breeze ruffling his hair. “Thanks for making that happen, Joey-roo.”

“We can come back anytime you’d like,” I tell him, meaning it and hoping beyond hope there’s a reason for Brad to continue coming back with me after this. After we pass our one-month mark when Brad and I will decide whether or not this is working.

It has to work. It already is, isn’t it? I refuse to believe it’s only me.

My mom finds us out under the gazebo before long, dinner in tow. Accompanying the crab cakes is a lemon, feta, and tomato orzo dish. As always, the food is delicious, and Brad compliments my mom with genuine appreciation.

Once we’re done with our meal, Brad and I clean up the dishes and bring the cake outside. I leave the dome on and jog back into the house for the lighter I forgot. I’m rooting around in the kitchen drawers looking for it when my mom steps inside.

“I love him,” she says.

I close a drawer and try another, my heart beating fast. “So you told me.”

“And I’m telling you again. He’s perfect for you, Joey. He’s a light. He’ll make you happy.”

“He already does,” I admit, trying another drawer. “Where’s the lighter?”

My mom walks around the counter, opening a cupboard. “Here.”

“You moved it.”

She shrugs. “Reorganized. You’re in love with him.”

I nearly fumble the lighter at her blunt assessment, managing to catch it just before it falls to the floor.

“I’ve never seen you look at anyone the way you look at him,” she goes on, her voice soft. “When are you going to tell him?”

I let out a slow breath, holding on to the countertop for support. I could tell her it’s complicated, that Brad is more than a friend but not quite a boyfriend—which she knows, if not in precise detail. I could tell her this is new for him, and I don’t want to rush him in any way—a fact she also knows. I could try to deny her claim altogether, feign ignorance, but I know there’s no use.

The only thing I can say is what I know to be true. “Soon.”

She nods, an approving smile on her face. “Come on. Let’s not leave him waiting.”

Brad gives us a grin when we rejoin him inside the gazebo, and I feel as if my heart might take flight. Before we unveil the cake, my mom opens her presents. She gushes over the petite glassware I got her, tracing the flowers with her fingers and demanding a hug. And then it’s Brad’s turn. My mom seems just as surprised as me by the gift card to a local restaurant acclaimed for its seafood. Brad gets his own hug and a heartfelt thanks for the thoughtful gift, which has him beaming in response.

When I finally lift the dome off the cake, Brad watches my mom closely, looking as if he might just jitter right out of his skin.

“Oh, what a lovely color,” she coos.

Somehow, Brad manages to smile harder.

I light the candles on the top of the cake, Brad and I singing “Happy Birthday” to my mom. It’s such a simple thing, a small celebration for a woman who deserves the world, as far as I’m concerned. But being here with these people, the water lapping at the shore and the sun starting its descent in the sky, I feel immeasurably content. Happy in a way I don’t remember being since I was a child.

So when we finish the song and my mom says, “There are three candles. Why don’t we all make a wish?” I don’t hesitate.

I wish…

That I never have to give this up.