Chapter 28
Josephine
Tucking my hair behind my ears, I follow Kylian up the garden-stone path illuminated by solar powered lights. “Are you sure we shouldn’t have brought something? Dessert? Or a bottle of wine?”
Kylian side-eyes me but doesn’t slow. “How would we bring wine without knowing what’s being served for dinner?”
Fair point.
“I just feel weird showing up empty-handed.”
He reaches for my hand and interlaces our fingers.
“Now your hand’s not empty,” he declares.
I laugh, but his literal view of the world soothes the holes in my confidence.
“You’ve already met my parents, baby. They invited you here tonight, so I assume they like you just fine.”
It’s not the most reassuring sentiment, but I get where he’s coming from. He’s right. I’ve already met Mr. and Mrs. Walsh, and I say hi to them at football games when I see them.
Sometimes it’s just a smile and a wave.
Other times we exchange pleasantries, or his mom catches me in a quick hug on the sideline.
But never has it been them welcoming me into their home for dinner.
I tug on my hand, the urge to free it and crack my knuckles taking over, but Kylian just grips it tighter.
“Why are you acting nervous?”
We stop on the stoop, and he immediately goes for the handle.
My stomach drops to my feet at the thought of crossing that threshold. “Wait.”
“Jo.”
I take a deep breath, willing my pulse to remain steady. “I just… I don’t know how to do this. I mean, I’ve never done this before.”
“Done this?” he questions, tilting his head to one side.
I shift my weight from one hip to the other and inspect the maroon door with the pretty fall wreath affixed to the front. Mrs. Walsh probably changes them with the seasons. I bet she does lots of little things like that to make her house feel like a home.
“I’ve never met my boyfriend’s parents.”
Kylian adjusts his glasses and assesses me. “The last time I checked, you have more than one boyfriend.”
“Exactly!” I throw my hands up. “What am I supposed to say about that to your parents?” A bead of sweat gathers at my nape and rolls down my spine in slow motion.
“Jo.” Kylian’s voice is stern, triggering my body to snap to attention. “I highly doubt my parents are going to ask about monogamy or the emotional and sexual components of our relationship.”
He’s right, but regardless, I feel thoroughly under-prepared for what tonight entails.
“And if they do?” I pull my shoulders back and stand a little straighter, tapping into a defiance I usually reserve for Decker. That alone is evidence of my anxiety level.
Dropping my hand, Kylian skims his knuckles up my back, tracing the path of that bead of sweat in reverse. He threads his fingers into the hair and tugs, then cuffs my neck and brings his lips to my ear.
“If my parents inquire about our relationship—which is extremely unlikely, based on the conversational topics they statistically stick to during meals, and because I already informed them that you are, in fact, my girlfriend—I will tell them the truth.”
“Which is?” I whisper.
“That I love you. That I’m in love with you. That I share you with my best friends, and that we’re all happier than we’ve ever been. Ever.” With that, he releases my neck and brings that one hand to the base of my spine again.
I blow out a breath and will my heart rate to even out. His words are the reminder I need.
His hold, his touch, his love? It’s always been a cocoon of safety against the torrential storm of intrusive thoughts and overwhelm.
Clearing the lump of emotion from my throat, I step in closer, prepared to tell him that I love him, too.
But before I can reply, the front door swings open.
“There you are!” Mrs. Walsh’s smile is bright. “I thought I saw the car pull up. Come in, come in!” She ushers us inside, giving Kylian space as he removes his jacket and takes mine as well.
“I’m so happy you’re here!” She clasps her hands at her chest and grins. She’s practically bouncing on the balls of her feet, looking from Kylian to me, then back again.
She’s holding back, I realize, as I watch her wring her hands and shift from hip to hip.
She’s keeping her distance, honoring the space she knows her son requires, but it looks like she just might burst with excitement if someone doesn’t hug her.
I take it upon myself to lean forward, arms wide.
“Oh, Jo,” she murmurs, wrapping me up in the tightest, most sincere embrace. “I’m so happy you’re here,” she whispers, smoothing over my hair with one hand.
The tender, affectionate gesture incites a swell of emotion inside me. It’s so unexpected and so genuine. I have to take a deep breath to keep the tears at bay.
“Mom.”
Mrs. Walsh pulls back, keeping her hands on my shoulders as she holds me at arm’s length. Her bright blue eyes are so similar to Kylian’s. Except right now they’re filled with unshed tears.
“Mom,” Kylian repeats, clearly annoyed with her gushing.
“Oh, leave me alone,” she counters with a lighthearted laugh. “It’s not often someone actually wants to hug me,” she quips.
Kylian takes the comment in stride. “Nicky hugs you every time he sees you.”
“True,” she admits. “How is he?” she asks, softer. “I invited him, but he said he hasn’t been feeling well.”
I nod, choosing my words carefully to avoid walking into the line of questioning Kylian assured me wouldn’t come up tonight.
“He’s had more bad days than good lately.”
She studies me, her lips pressed together, and I hold my breath, trying in earnest to hide the truth of just how much it hurts me when Nicky’s in pain.
Understanding washes over her features, and her smile softens slowly.
It’s then I realize maybe I don’t have anything to hide at all. At least not from her. She cares about Nicky, too. Loves him like a son. That love, though, doesn’t mean she cares for her biological child any less.
Maybe the concept of loving them both isn’t that outlandish after all.
“I’ll send you home with food for him.” She nods her head once, resolute. “Oh, where are my manners? Come in! Come in!” The smile is back. “Dinner will be ready in about half an hour.”
She turns and heads toward the kitchen, and I follow, but Kylian catches me by the belt loop before I make it more than three steps.
“I love you,” he murmurs into my ear, wrapping his arms around me from behind.
When we arrived, he didn’t hug his mom. Based on their exchange, it seemed like she didn’t expect him to.
Yet Kylian lavishes physical affection on me generously and frequently. He knows I love it, and he knows that the reassurance and reminders help keep my anxiety at bay.
I sink into his arms and smile, extra grateful for his embrace.
“How long has this been happening?” Kylian questions, examining the two devices in front of him as his dad peers over his shoulder.
“Well, uh, a couple of weeks? Right, honey?”
Mrs. Walsh looks up from the sink. “At least,” she offers. Then, to me, she murmurs, “He doesn’t like bothering Kylian to ask for help with these things.”
“Fixed.”
“What? How—”
“If it happens again, let me know immediately,” Kylian states, standing from the table and handing the devices back to his dad.
“How long until dinner?” he asks his mom.
The table is set, and she keeps insisting she doesn’t need help. The house smells amazing—savory and homey, like she’s been cooking all day. I’ve already decided Kylian and I will do the dishes. It’s the least we can do.
“Another fifteen or twenty minutes. Why?”
“I want to show Jo something upstairs. We’ll be down in twenty.”
He grabs my hand and marches out of the kitchen, around the corner, and up the stairs.
He doesn’t look back and he doesn’t slow until we reach the end of the hallway. Even then, he only pauses to turn the handle, push through a door, pull me into the room. Then he closes and locks that door behind us.
“What’s gotten into you?” I laugh, breathless from scurrying up the stairs.
In answer, he pins me against the door and kisses me.
Hard. Fast. Deep.
It’s an urgent kiss—one meant to banish doubt and soothe anxiety.
One I so deeply appreciate. One I’m happy to return in earnest.
Gripping my waist, he pulls me closer, teasing my mouth with his tongue and nipping at my bottom lip.
He shuffles backward, and I follow him willingly.
I’ll follow him anywhere. I’ll follow him always.
When he stops, he bends at the knees and crashes into a seated position, taking me with him, his hands on my ass, grinding my hips against his.
“Is this what you wanted to show me?” I tease, shifting in his lap as he grazes both hands up my back under my sweater.
Without answering, he unfastens my bra, then leans back on his elbows.
“Did I say I wanted to show you something?” he asks. His gaze is hot, intense, and predatory, but there’s a hint of mischief in his tone. More and more, that humor appears, and every time, I want to stop and savor it. “I meant I needed you to show me something.”
My heart rate spikes, but now is not the time or the place.
“Kylian,” I hedge.
“Jo.”
He flips me until I’m flat on my back on a buoyant surface, practically floating.
“What is this?” I crane my neck and take in our surroundings.
“This is my childhood bedroom.”
My stomach tumbles at the notion of being in this space.
Predictably, every item in the room is classic Kylian.
The walls are painted a navy so deep it’s almost black.
One is covered in schematics and diagrams of electronics.
A small computer is set up at a clean desk.
The double bed is pushed against the opposite wall.
The entire space smells like him: citrus and eucalyptus, with maybe a hint of spice that makes me think of the body spray teenage boys are so fond of.
The ceiling is painted a soothing Caribbean blue: The color of the sky. The color of his eyes.
But the most remarkable feature is whatever the hell is below me that makes me feel weightless, like I’m floating, or maybe flying.