Chapter 31 #2
He kisses me. Not soft this time. This is the kiss of a man who’s been teasing himself with touches all afternoon. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, claiming, while his hands tangle in my hair, sending my ponytail elastic flying. The sound I make would be embarrassing if I could think right now.
“Fuck the pizza,” he growls against my mouth.
“That’s unsanitary.”
I hear him laugh as I’m yanking at his shirt, desperate for skin. Needing to feel the way his abs contract under my touch, the way his breath catches when I scrape my nails down his sides.
“Sophie.” The way he says my name should be illegal. All gravel and want and barely-leashed control. “Been thinking about this all day.”
“It’s only been two hours since?—”
“Too long.” He lifts me onto the counter in one smooth motion, stepping between my thighs. “Always too long.”
My legs wrap around him instinctively, pulling him closer. His hands slip under my shirt, palms rough against my ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts through my bra. I arch shamelessly into his touch, my body recognizing his the way lungs recognize air.
“Mike, the pizza,” I manage weakly, even as my fingers attack the button of his jeans.
“What pizza?” He catches my earlobe between his teeth, sending electricity down my spine.
Then my phone rings.
Not a text. An actual call.
And, instantly, the sound cuts through my arousal like ice water. We freeze, bodies pressed together, breathing hard. My heart hammers for a different reason now.
I look at the screen, and the word congeals my blood.
Dad.
Mike pulls back immediately, reading my face. My Dad and I don’t call. We text about crossword clues and Hazel’s crayon masterpieces and who’s on the hook to pick Hazel up today. We don’t call unless?—
“Answer it,” Mike says quietly. His hands gentle on my waist, no longer sexual. Just… there.
I slide off the counter. The phone weighs a thousand pounds in my flour-caked hand. My thumb hovers over the green button while my mind races through possibilities—each one worse than the last.
“Hey, Dad.”
“Sophie.”
One word. Two syllables. But the careful way he says it—like he’s handling something fragile, like he’s already bracing for impact—drops my stomach through the floor.
“We were at ShopRite.” Dad’s voice has that forced calm that makes bile rise in my throat. “Your mother…”
His words blur together. Started shaking. Couldn’t stand. Some customer caught her before she hit the tile. EMTs. Sirens. Hospital. North wing. Room 302. Neighbor is getting Hazel and will bring her to the hospital. Drive safe.
“Sophie? Are you there?” he says.
“Yes.” The word comes out mechanical. “Yes. See you soon.”
The line goes dead. I’m still holding the phone, staring at the sauce splatter on Mike’s shirt. Five minutes ago I put that there. Five minutes ago we were laughing. Five minutes ago my biggest worry was too much garlic and now?—
“Sophie?” Mike’s in front of me, hands cupping my face, thumbs brushing my cheeks.
“Fuck it,” I say, with a sob, not realizing I’d started crying, my silent tears cutting tracks through the flour on my face. “Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it.”
I pitch forward into his chest. His arms come around me instantly, solid and sure, trying to hold me together while everything inside me fractures along familiar fault lines.
“What happened?” His voice rumbles through his chest where my ear presses against him.
“My mom.” The words taste like the bile I’m fighting to keep down, explaining what happened, like in every nightmare I’ve had since her diagnosis made real.
“OK. OK.” He’s moving, turning off the stove, grabbing his keys from the counter, his movements quick and efficient. “We’re going. Right now.”
“You don’t have to?—”
“Sophie.” He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes. His are fierce and determined, with no hesitation at all. “I’m driving you.”
I should argue. Should insist I’m fine. Should protect myself from depending on him because depending on people when things get hard only leads to empty promises in hospital corridors. But I’m not fine. And I’m tired of pretending I am.
“OK,” I whisper.
He kisses my forehead, quick but tender. “Let me grab us clean shirts.”
I nod, already pulling off my destroyed shirt with shaking hands. Mike notices—of course he notices—and comes to help, his touch infinitely gentle as he guides the clean shirt over my head.
“We’ll get through this,” he says quietly.
“You don’t know that.” My voice cracks. “What if this is?—”
“Hey, we’ll get through this. Whatever it is. Together.”
“You can’t promise that.”
“I can promise I’m not going anywhere.” His thumbs brush away fresh tears.
He takes my hand, lacing our fingers together. I let him lead me out of the apartment and let him be the steady thing when everything else feels like it’s crumbling.
Because I’m not doing this alone anymore.
And that’s either the best thing that’s ever happened to me, or the scariest.
Probably both.
Definitely both.
But right now, with Mike’s hand in mine and my mother asking for me and my little sister needing to be collected from a birthday party she’ll have to leave early, I’ll take scary over alone.
I’ll take Mike.
I’ll take this.
Even if it hurts. Even if depending on him means risking the kind of pain that comes from having someone to lose. Because the alternative—facing this alone, being strong alone, breaking alone—suddenly seems so much worse.