Chapter 12 #2
"The Thibodaux family is... complicated.
" He finally said, the words coming slow and heavy.
"Old money. Old expectations. My father wanted me to be a lawyer.
My mother wanted me to be a doctor. My eldest brother actually did both—law degree, then medical school, because one wasn't enough to prove he was better than me.
" His laugh was hollow, his hands gripping the porch railing until his knuckles went white.
"I was the disappointment. The one who'd rather play guitar than study.
The one who'd rather make people smile than make them proud.
" He shook his head slowly, his curls falling across his forehead.
"So you learned to charm them instead." I said it quietly, understanding clicking into place, the picture of him becoming clearer with each revelation, my heart aching for the boy he'd been and the man he'd become.
"Gold star for the pretty lady." His smile was sharp, self-deprecating, his amber eyes meeting mine with something like defiance.
"I figured out early that if I couldn't be what they wanted, I could at least be entertaining.
Make them laugh. Make them forget they were disappointed.
" He turned to face me fully, leaning back against the railing.
"You know what the worst part is? It worked.
It worked so well that I forgot how to be anything else.
" His voice cracked on the last word, something raw and wounded bleeding through the cracks in his armor.
I stepped closer, close enough to touch, but I didn't reach for him. Not yet. He needed to say this first. Needed to let it out.
"When did you leave?" I asked gently, my voice soft in the quiet of the clearing, moving to stand beside him at the railing, close enough that our shoulders almost touched, close enough that he could feel my presence without me crowding him.
"The day after my grandmother's funeral.
" He stared at a spot somewhere over my shoulder, his jaw tight, his eyes bright with unshed tears.
"Packed a bag, took her guitar, and didn't look back.
" He swallowed hard, his throat working.
"I told myself I was chasing my dreams. Pursuing music.
But really?" He met my eyes, and the honesty there took my breath away.
"I was running. I've been running ever since.
" He finished, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Running from what?" I asked, even though I already knew the answer, wanting him to say it, wanting him to hear himself say it, my green-gold eyes steady on his face as I watched him wrestle with truths he'd been avoiding for years.
"From being real. From being seen." He reached up and scrubbed a hand over his face, his shoulders slumping. "If I'm always moving, always performing, no one can look too close. No one can see that underneath all the charm, I'm just..." He trailed off, shaking his head.
"Just what?" I stepped closer, reaching up to cup his jaw, turning his face toward me, forcing him to meet my eyes. "Tell me." I kept my voice gentle but firm.
"Just scared." The words came out broken, barely audible. "Scared that if anyone sees the real me, they'll realize I'm not worth the trouble." His amber eyes were wet now, tears he was fighting not to let fall, his whole body trembling with the effort of being this exposed.
"Remy." I said his name soft and fierce, holding his gaze.
"Look at me." I waited until I had his full attention, until those amber eyes were locked on mine.
"I see you. Right now. The real you. Not the charm, not the performance.
Just you." I stroked my thumb across his cheekbone, feeling the dampness there.
"And you know what I see?" I asked, holding his gaze without flinching.
"What?" The word was barely a breath, hope and terror warring in his expression, his amber eyes locked on mine like I held the answer to a question he'd been too afraid to ask, his hands trembling slightly where they hung at his sides.
"I see someone brave enough to stop running, even though it scares him.
Someone who loved his grandmother enough to keep this place, even though it hurts.
Someone who's been breaking his own heart for years trying to be what everyone else wanted.
" I let my voice soften, let him hear the truth in it.
"You're worth the trouble, Remy Thibodaux.
You're worth everything." I finished, watching the words land, watching something in him shatter and reform.
He kissed me.
It wasn't like Harper's kiss—desperate and hungry.
This was different. Softer. Shakier. His hands came up to cup my face like I was something precious, his lips trembling against mine as a sob caught in his chest. He tasted like salt and honey and something sweet underneath, and I kissed him back gently, carefully, letting him take what he needed.
When he pulled back, his eyes were red and his cheeks were wet and his smile was the most real thing I'd ever seen on his face.
"I'm sorry." He laughed, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand, embarrassment coloring his cheeks. "This is probably the worst date you've ever been on. I'm supposed to be charming you, not crying on you." He sniffled, trying to pull himself together, his usual mask flickering at the edges.
"This is the best date I've ever been on." I said it firmly, catching his hand and lacing our fingers together. "Because it's real. Because you're real." I squeezed his hand, holding his gaze. "That's all I ever wanted from you." I let the words sink in.
He stared at me for a long moment, something wondering in his expression.
"You really mean that, don't you?" His voice was soft, almost disbelieving, like he couldn't quite trust what he was hearing, his amber eyes searching my face for any sign of deception or pity and finding none, his hands coming up to cover mine where they rested against his cheeks.
"Every word." I tugged on his hand, pulling him toward the rocking chairs.
"Now. Tell me about your grandmother. Tell me about learning to play guitar on this porch.
Tell me about the real Remy Thibodaux, the one who existed before he learned to hide.
" I settled into one of the dusty chairs, pulling my feet up and looking at him expectantly.
He stood there for a moment, looking at me like he'd never seen anything like me before. Then a real smile spread across his face—slow and sweet and so different from his usual dazzling grin that it made my heart flip.
"Her name was Odette." He said, settling into the chair beside me, close enough that our knees touched.
"And she was the most stubborn woman I've ever met.
" His amber eyes went soft with memory, his voice warm with love.
"Present company included." He added with a glance at me, a hint of his old teasing warmth returning.
"I'll take that as a compliment." I smiled, settling deeper into the chair, the old wood creaking beneath me.
"You should. She'd have liked you." He reached over and took my hand, threading his fingers through mine like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"She always said I needed someone who could see through my bullshit.
" He laughed, the sound easier now, lighter.
"Guess she was right about that too." He squeezed my hand gently.
We sat on that porch as the sun set, his voice painting pictures of a childhood I could almost see—fishing in the bayou with his grandmother, learning to paddle a pirogue before he could ride a bike, sitting on this very porch with a guitar too big for his hands while she taught him chords and told him stories about the old days.
"She's the one who gave me this." He pulled something from under his shirt—a small silver medal on a worn leather cord, tarnished with age.
"St. Cecilia. Patron saint of musicians.
" He turned it over in his fingers, his expression tender.
"Said it would protect me as long as I stayed true to my music.
" He tucked it back under his shirt, the gesture reverent.
"Have you?" I asked softly. "Stayed true to it?" I watched his profile, the way the fading light caught in his amber eyes.
"I thought I had. Playing in bars, writing songs, making people feel something.
" He was quiet for a moment, staring out at the water.
"But somewhere along the way, I started playing what they wanted to hear instead of what I needed to say.
" He turned to look at me, something determined flickering in his expression.
"I want to change that." He said it like a promise.
"What's stopping you?" I asked, genuinely curious, my thumb tracing patterns on the back of his hand, my body angled toward him in the rocking chair as the last light of day painted everything in shades of gold and rose.
"Fear, mostly. Fear of being vulnerable. Fear of people seeing the real stuff and deciding it's not good enough." He squeezed my hand, his jaw tight. "But tonight... talking to you..." He trailed off, shaking his head slowly. "You make me want to try." He finished, his voice rough with emotion.
"Then try." I brought our joined hands up and pressed a kiss to his knuckles, my lips lingering against his skin, tasting the salt of his earlier tears. "I'll be listening." I promised, holding his gaze with a certainty that seemed to steady something in him.
The look he gave me was so soft, so open, that it made my chest ache.
"You want to see something?" He stood abruptly, tugging me to my feet, nervous energy suddenly crackling through him like lightning before a storm, his amber eyes bright with something that looked like anticipation mixed with fear.
"Always." I let him pull me toward the cabin door, curious and charmed by the sudden shift in his energy, my sandals scuffing against the worn porch boards as I followed him into the unknown.