22. Come Inside
COME INSIDE
FAITH
T he air’s turned soft again.
It’s late spring, and the cold has no bite; it’s just a breeze, lingering.
Cain waits for me outside Nectar, leaning against his truck, hands in his pockets, eyes catching mine.
This is a thing now—him driving me to work and home.
Ever since I moved into the little apartment above Let’s Read, he insists. Says it’s no trouble. Says he doesn’t like me walking alone at night.
I don’t argue.
I like it.
Too much.
He opens the passenger door for me. I slide in. His truck smells like cedar and coffee. Like him.
We don’t say much during the ride. But when we pull up in front of the bookstore, he cuts the engine and turns toward me. I ask, “What’s wrong?”—because I can feel something is.
He runs a hand over his face. “It’s been a day. Paula came by, and then Melody accosted me. I’m just so fucking tired of them.”
I nod. Wait. He needs to get something off his chest..
“Paula for…money. Said no one will hire her. And, she feels she has the right to what I earn running Ripley’s.
” He gently taps his forehead on the steering wheel and chuckles when he sees my amusement.
“Yeah. I know. When it comes to Paula, I’m banging my head against…
well, the steering wheel. She’s not going to change, is she? ”
I give a helpless shrug. “Only if she wants to.”
“Melody was shoving her tits at me and?—”
I glare at him. Jealousy sprouts, raw and furious.
He grins. “Don’t like that, do you?”
I swallow. Where did that come from?
Come on, Faith, be honest. You think of Cain as your boyfriend. You think he’s yours .
“No,” I whisper. “I don’t.”
He strokes a finger down my cheek. “I only want you.”
Tears prick my eyes. My heart begins to beat faster.
I only want him, too .
“What did Melody want besides in your pants?” I ask, trying to lighten the mood.
This makes him smile. “What else? They both want me to foot their bill. Apparently, the money they stole was spent on makeup. How much money can a woman spend on that shit?”
I give him a wry look. “As someone who shops at CVS’s sales bin, I may not be the right person to answer that.”
My makeup routine is simple: the cheapest moisturizer I can find—my skin gets dry—plus eyeliner and tinted lip balm. All together, it costs me less than fifteen bucks and lasts at least a couple of months if I’m careful.
Cain leans back in the seat and rubs a hand over his jaw, the tension etched deep in his face.
“She blames me. My little sister. Told me she hates me. And the worst part is…I believe her.” He exhales hard.
“My parents have told her not to expect anything from them. They’re handling it better than I am—stoic, detached. ”
“It’s easier for them,” I say gently, “because she’s not showing up at their doorstep. She’s not in their face.”
He nods, slowly. “Still…I feel like I failed her. Like I should’ve done more. Been better. Raised her different.”
“She’s not your kid, Cain.”
He turns his head, looking at me, eyes dark with guilt. “Then why do I feel so damn responsible?”
“Because you always have,” I say, then add with a soft edge of teasing, “She’s only five years younger than you, Cain. She isn’t your child—she’s your sister. You didn’t raise her. That was never supposed to be your job.”
He looks at me intently, like he’s searching for something steady in the middle of all the things he can’t fix.
“She’s a grown woman. She made her choices,” I continue.
“I feel like I enabled her.”
I reach over, touch his hand. “You did what you did out of love. She took advantage of you, and that’s on her.”
He nods slowly. Silence falls again. Softer this time.
“Come inside,” I say, surprising both of us.
He doesn’t move at first, like he’s making sure he heard me right.
Then he does.
He follows me up the narrow stairs, through the creaky door.
My apartment is small but warm, cozy in a way that feels lived-in. Books are everywhere—stacked on shelves, windowsills, even the kitchen counter—because my landlord is a total badass who lets me borrow anything I want from the bookstore downstairs.
The apartment came furnished, and I love that about it. It’s the nicest place I’ve lived in…by myself. Jamie’s place was nice. Fancy. A prison. My mausoleum.
“Sweet thing?—”
“I’m tired, let’s get some sleep.” I take his hand in mine and tug him inside.
He’s sad, and I want to comfort him. Not with sex. Not sure if we’re ready for that, but with love. With affection. A hug.
I give him a spare toothbrush and tuck him into bed before I use the bathroom.
He’s lying on his back when I return.
I’m in a T-shirt and panties. He’s sleeping in his boxers. I know he usually sleeps in the nude. But it’s safer if he’s got some clothing on. The chemistry between us is still potent—we both feel it when we touch, kiss.
He holds his arms out. I get under the duvet and into them.
I rest my head on his chest.
“Thank you,” he whispers close to my ear. “I know this isn’t easy for you.”
He gets me. He understands how trust is challenging for me. But he’s earned it back. Day after day. He’s become my friend. My confidante. And, yes, my boyfriend.
“It’s easier than you think,” I admit.
After that, we don’t speak.
His heartbeat is steady.
We just breathe.
And then, we sleep.