44. Paxton
44
PAXTON
I t’s been two weeks. Two weeks since I love you first crossed my mind. Two weeks since I looked down at Tatum in my shirt, the ocean rolling in behind her, the smell of warm, buttery lobster rolls filtering through the air, and I knew she was it for me. Two weeks since Tatum kissed me, pouring every unspoken feeling into it until I nearly fell on my ass and proposed right then and there.
Two weeks of knowing she isn’t ready for that step—or the dozen before it—and if I’m not careful, she’ll run away. But I wouldn’t change these two weeks for the world, even if I’m forcing myself to take things slow. To let her set the pace.
I’ve always chosen the hard route. Maybe it’s because my dad left. Maybe it’s because of Rafe or my mom. But I’ve never shied away from the heavy shit, and even though Tatum’s yet to even fully commit to what she knows I want, she’s letting me in. Slowly. And I refuse to take any minute baby step for granted.
Tonight, we’re at her place, despite her reminding me that my place is bigger and more private. I told her I don’t care. I want to be in her space, too. I figure the more time I spend infiltrating her life, the less likely she is to want to push me out of it.
As Tatum invites me inside, I rock back on my heels, taking it all in. I’ve only been here once or twice, but the studio apartment is nice. Small, but nice. It kind of reminds me of my childhood home. If there was more trash on the counters and it smelled like my mom’s cigarette smoke.
It feels more like Rory than Tatum, though. I glance at Rory’s perfectly made bed and the mess of sheets covering Tatum’s. The comparison makes me smile.
“Make yourself at home,” she announces. “I need to go to the bathroom, but I’ll be right back, then we can pick a show or whatever.”
“Sounds good. I’ll be here,” I return when my phone rings. As I pull it out of my pocket, Tatum disappears into the bathroom, and I answer the call. “Hello?”
“You know, when we mentioned entertaining the paparazzi, having nude photos leaked and an arrest connected to you wasn’t exactly what we had in mind,” Dodger mutters.
With a low laugh, I walk around the room, perusing the photos hanging on the wall. “Isn’t this old news at this point?”
“Maybe for you, but they just posted the article, and Mindy’s pissed,” he adds, mentioning the head of our PR firm.
“Sorry.”
“Yeah, whatever.” The amusement in his voice fades, replaced with concern. “She okay?”
“Yeah, man. Tatum’s good. Like I said, this is old news.”
“Good. Mindy asked if you’d give her a call, though. Just to make sure she’s in the loop.”
As I collapse onto Tatum’s bed, something hits the ground with a quiet thump. I look over the edge, finding a worn notebook. “Sure thing. I, uh, I gotta go. I’ll talk to you later.”
“See ya, man.”
I hang up the call and reach for the open notebook so I can put it back on the bed. When my attention catches on the name Archer written in swirly, girlish handwriting, my adrenaline spikes.
What the…?
Before I can stop myself, I begin scanning the words on the page. It’s a letter. A letter to Archer. How old is this? It must be new, considering it was opened to this page. Unless Tatum was rereading it, but why would she? Shoving my questions aside, I focus on the words, my heart thumping faster and faster with every line.
Hey, Archer.
I miss you.
Shit.
I miss you a lot, just like always. But a little less today. And more. Which is strange, you know? How can someone miss someone more and less than usual? It’s almost like…I miss you more because I catch myself not thinking about you and that feels…wrong. But also kind of good, which makes me feel guilty. Surprise, surprise. And round and round I go. It’s confusing and annoying and distracting.
I don’t know.
I kind of met someone.
My breath catches, and I reread the sentence. She met someone. Me. She’s writing about me? Talking about me with him? The realization hits harder than a blow with a baseball bat, and my fingers dig into the worn pages.
And I kind of like him, too. I also kind of hate him because I think he’s the culprit behind my whole missing you conundrum.
Fuck, Birthday Girl. I would hate me, too.
Is that weird? It feels weird. Lots of things feel weird. Kissing him doesn’t, though. Feeling guilty afterward does. I know I don’t owe you anything. But choosing to forget you? Choosing to be happy and to focus on my…whatever…with someone who isn’t you? It’s like a sore tooth. You know what I mean? Like, I can’t help but pick at it. Add pressure to see if it still hurts or if the initial pain is going away. Maybe it’s why I’m writing you. To see if it still hurts. Spoiler alert: it does.
“What are you doing?” a soft voice whispers.
I snap the journal closed, my neck practically spraining as I look up to find Tatum staring at me.
She looks…she looks fucking perfect. A pair of boyshorts play peekaboo beneath an IndieCent Vows hoodie. It’s the same one I caught her in when I showed up after the naked photo leak. Her long legs look like they go on for miles. But her eyes? They’re guarded and unsure, which I’m not sure is any better than the daggers I expected.
Fuck. What the hell was I doing?
Guilt stabs between my ribcage. I set the journal on the edge of her bed, standing slowly. “Tate?—”
She raises her hand. “Stop.”
“Tatum—”
“I said, stop,” she repeats.
My stomach clenches, and I fight the urge to rush toward her. To pull her close and to apologize and to do anything I can to erase the haunted look in her eyes and the hurt I know is there. But I don’t. Instead I stand there. Helpless.
“Tatum,” I murmur. My tone is softer now as I clench my hands at my sides to keep from reaching for her.
“Answer my question.” She looks…numb. Her throat constricts on a swallow before she repeats, “What are you doing?”
My attention falls to the worn black notebook. “Invading your privacy,” I answer. “And betraying your trust.”
I’m not sure what else she was expecting me to say, but her brows raise. “Well, at least you're honest.” She folds her arms. Not angrily. More in an attempt to keep her from falling apart. It only kills me more. “Want to tell me why?” she asks.
“It was an accident.” I scrub my hand over my face. “I know you don’t believe me, but it’s the truth.”
“We’ve already established you’re not a liar.” She sucks her lip into her mouth, but I don’t miss the way it trembles before her attention falls on the journal. “What did you…” Her fingernails dig into the fabric of the hoodie covering her arms as she shifts back on her heels. “What did you read?”
Fuck.
She looks petrified. Like she’s seen a ghost. I wipe my hands along my jeans, caught between a rock and a hard place. I want to fix this. I need to fix this. But how? What do I say? How do I tell her that I impulsively, and a hundred percent accidentally, stole a piece of her. A piece she may or may not have been willing to give. Scratch that. A piece she wasn’t willing to give. If she was, she would’ve told me herself. Instead, I took the opportunity from her, and she’ll never get it back.
How do I fix this?!
“I, uh,” I take a slow step toward her, anxious to fix this. To erase the tension in her body. The fear and unease radiating from her. “I read about a girl in love.”
Something flashes in her eyes, but she doesn’t look at me, choosing to stare at the notebook instead. “I told you I was taken.”
“I know,” I rasp. “I’m sorry.”
Her eyes snap to mine. “For getting caught?”
“For invading your privacy and betraying your trust despite it being an accident.”
A sheen hits her pretty gaze as she forces a smile, holding my stare and breaking my heart in the process. “You’re, uh, don’t mention it.” She lifts a shoulder, her sad, broken smile never moving, while looking more guarded than I’ve ever seen. “And I mean that literally,” she adds.
Forcing my movements to stay slow and controlled, I move toward her, one step at a time. I want to run. I want to tug her into me and never let go. But the same fear as before—the fear I’ve been carrying since the moment she broke down in my bathroom all those nights ago—holds me back, so I keep my pace in check. When I reach her, I lift my hands, leaving an inch of space between her and my touch as I inspect her expression, searching for any clue or hint telling me she wants me to stop. Surprisingly, I don’t find it. The realization hits harder than I expect, and I cup her face. Carefully. Slowly. Hell, it’s barely a touch, but it’s enough. Enough to give me hope. That I didn’t fuck this up beyond repair. That she’s still here. Still willing to talk this out. To let me fix this.
“Tatum, I’m sorry,” I rasp.
She doesn’t look at me, choosing to focus on the logo printed across my T-shirt instead. “You already mentioned that.”
“About Archer,” I clarify. “I can be sorry for more than one thing.”
“You already mentioned being sorry about Archer, too, remember?”
“The night you stayed over.” I nod. “I’m sorry.”
Her shoulders sag. “What for this time?”
“For making you feel guilty.”
She rolls her watery eyes, choosing to stare at my chin instead of meeting my eyes, but it’s closer to the target, so I count it as a win. For now. Even though it kills me.
“Who says I was writing about you?” she whispers.
A low, sad laugh escapes me, and I pull her into a hug, gently caressing her back as I rest my cheek against the top of her head. “You’re right. No need to make my head any bigger.”
With a quiet sniffle, she reaches for the hem of my shirt at the base of my spine. “Exactly.”
“Do you forgive me?” I murmur. As the words slip out of me, I swear my heart fucking stalls, and so do my lungs. Because if she says no. If she holds this against me. I don’t know what I’ll do.
Please don’t hold this against me, Birthday Girl.
“Forgive you for having a big head or for reading my journal?” she whispers.
“Both.”
Letting out a quiet, shuddered sigh, she pulls away and peeks up at me. “Yeah. Yeah, I think I do.”
My spine curves as I kiss her softly, careful not to push her if she isn’t ready for physical intimacy after our first…whatever this is. “You look beautiful,” I tell her.
“I know.” She smiles, and even though it’s forced, it’s enough of a glimpse of the girl I’ve fallen for that the vice around my chest eases, letting me breathe easier. “But it’s nice hearing you agree with me.”
I chuckle and shake my head, dragging my hands along the hoodie once more before tangling our fingers together. “And you say I’m the one with the big head. Come on, Birthday Girl. Let’s watch a show.”