Chapter 19
Jamison
“You don’t have to miss me.” Sadie’s thumb rubbed along the edge of her other hand fisted in her lap.
My toes curled and uncurled inside of my shoes, but otherwise I didn’t move.
Her quiet sentence pummeled inside my head, tumbling over and over, leaving me to wrestle with knowing she was at least interested in something more with me, and the truth that I wasn’t the kind of man she needed, despite how badly I wanted to be.
“I don’t think I can give you what you want,” I admitted.
Her spine stiffened, the vertebrae locking into place and making her seem to grow a few inches. She was still much smaller than me, but there was no question that she held a power capable of ruining me.
“What do you think I want?” she asked in a steely tone.
“You might not remember, but you asked me once what brings my life meaning. I told you my job—”
"—I remember,” she interrupted.
I swallowed. “Well, that was the truth. But . . . it’s kinda because . . . I don’t think I can have anything else.”
She softened, tilting her head. She considered me with enough compassion to make my chest ache. “Would you want anything else?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Why not?”
Flashes of the weeks and months after my dad died lit inside my mind.
Each one carried a different sting of emotion.
Mom was barely able to get out of bed to get Mike to school in the mornings.
Mike’s grades dropping, and spending all of his time in his room with angsty music pouring from his walls into the hallway.
Managing my school load, keeping food in the fridge, and paying the bills with the life insurance money.
Feeling like I was underwater with a straw to breathe from, barely keeping myself and everyone else going.
Just remembering it filled me with overwhelm.
I thought I was maintaining a placid expression, but when Sadie entwined her fingers with mine it was clear she saw something I usually kept hidden.
I squeezed her fingers. She was soft, and her nails stood out a pale purple against our skin.
Her hold was strong and firm. What would life be like with her hand to hold?
Just having someone to help carry the load on occasion would have made the loss of my dad easier to bear. It would make it easier now.
But what would life be like if I had her and then lost her?
“I wasn’t enough,” I finally forced out, my voice wooden.
“When?”
“For my mom and brother after Dad died.” I’d never told anyone before—admitting it was one of the hardest things I’d ever done.
“That’s . . . I’m surprised by that.”
“I wasn’t,” I assured her.
She raised one long dark eyebrow. “Were they enough for you?”
“It wasn’t their fault.”
“It wasn’t your fault.” She tugged my hand to her chest, pressing the knuckles just above her heart.
“You needed your dad, you all did. And Mike doesn’t remember it the way you do.
When he told me about how you transferred schools and moved back home.
He understands now how young you were and the responsibility you took on.
That’s one of the first things he told me about you. ”
I scowled, swallowing down the knot in my throat.
She gently pushed her knee against the interior of mine. “He said he didn’t know how he would have made it through without you there.”
“That’s all I could do,” I whispered. My nose stung as I fought back tears that wanted to fill along my bottom eyelashes.
“You were there for each other. Isn’t that all there is?” Her shoulders sagged, and she let our hands fall to her lap. “No one can be everything. That’s too much. Someone who’s willing to be there . . . I don’t know. Isn’t that enough?”
Fear was a vise around my chest. It slicked my palms in a clammy damp and made my mouth dry. I licked my lips and forced out, “Is it?”
“I think so.”
If that was true, then this love I had for her could find its home.
There was a possibility that someday she could love me back.
She’d implied that she’d be open to continuing something with me when we got home.
Wouldn’t I be a fool not to take the chance?
Even with all of the ways I could do it wrong?
Sitting in that white plastic chair with her watching me as if something mysterious had just become something she understood, it felt possible.
“I don’t have to miss you?” I asked breaking the weighted silence.
A slow apprehensive smile grew on her lips. It reached up until it touched her eyes. “Not if you don’t want to.”
“I don’t want to,” I admitted. “But I’m . . . freaked out.”
“Me too.” She nodded chewing on her lower lip. “What if we took it slow?”
My feelings for her were not slow. They were urgent and loud and overwhelming. But I leaned forward, cupping her chin in my hand. Her knees fit in the space between my thighs. “You’ll have to show me what that means.”
“We might have to figure it out together.” Her lips brushed mine as she spoke, and her eyes fluttered closed.
I kissed her, savoring the way she sank into me. For the first time, as I cataloged the tickle of her hair against the scruff of my jaw, I let go just a little bit. Reassuring myself that this was not the beginning of the end. But just the beginning.