Chapter 44 Lex #2
Bill’s smile deepens, soft lines forming at the corners of his eyes. It’s a smile I’m not used to—a father’s pride, steady and unselfish. It catches me off guard, because it’s so far from what I know. My parents’ version of pride was always laced with conditions, a weapon to manipulate.
This is a man who’s proud not because of what he can get but because of who his child has become.
I’m still fumbling for a response when Stevie floats back into the living room, her face painted with a smile that could fix anything.
My eyes trail over her, from her thick mane of hair to her dark-brown ankle boots. A berry lipstick stains her mouth, complementing her eyes. She swishes the skirt of her dress, looking shy and nervous, like we’re on a first date. We kind of are—a real one anyway.
“Hey,” I say.
She smiles. “Hey.”
A moment later, Joplin and Chrissy join us with a stack of brown ceramic plates, silverware, and a platter of appetizers. I immediately stand, offering my seat to their mother, while Joplin takes the rocking chair and Stevie and I collapse on the rug.
Bill turns on the record player, and Pink Floyd serenades us as we pluck appetizers off the serving platter and slap them onto our fancy plates. My shoulder brushes Stevie’s when I lean back on one hand, catching a whiff of her coconut body mist.
This isn’t like any Thanksgiving I’ve ever had before—from overworked production sets to hostile family dinners with my parents and extended family to lonely holidays alone in my condo with a delivery order of cold burgers and french fries.
This is different—simple and strangely perfect.
Chrissy leans forward on the couch, eyeing me with affection. A smile blooms, but I don’t know what to say, so I just look over at Stevie, and she tangles our fingers together.
Joplin shoves a cucumber sandwich into her mouth, moving the chair back and forth with her turkey slippers. “Did Stevie tell you about my new cat? An absolute weapon.”
Stevie nibbles on a chunk of cheddar cheese. “Oddly, it never came up.”
“You guys should get a cat. Or a guard dog. You never know when another weirdo might strike again, armed with a hot coffee instead of iced.”
My smile fades at the memory—at the thought of going back to Hollywood with Stevie and reopening that door. I glance down at my crossed legs. “I’ve actually been thinking about it.”
“Really?” Stevie nudges me with her shoulder, her eyes lighting up. “Maybe a cow?”
I chuckle. “I was on the fence with my travel schedule, but I kind of want a dog. There was this old basset hound I bonded with on set when I was filming that sitcom years back. Winnebago. He used to sit by the craft services table and steal sandwiches when no one was looking.” My thoughts filter through the kinder memories, recalling all the animals I’d run around with on set and the young costars who played my siblings.
The ones I lost touch with over the years.
I wonder how they’re doing now. “I’d always take the blame when food went missing, and it was almost like he knew I was covering for him.
I’d find little scraps left by my trailer—bits of sandwich crust or a stray potato chip, like he was thanking me for having his back.
” I laugh, almost sadly. “Being a child actor was kind of lonely, so those memories stand out. Those were the highlights for me.”
The mood grows heavier.
When I lift my eyes, everyone is looking at me with a glimmer of softness.
Stevie gives my hand a squeeze. “I love basset hounds. They have those droopy eyes, like they’re in a constant state of deep, brooding thought.” She smiles before turning to look at her parents. “Speaking of highlights…should we start?”
Chrissy snuggles up to Bill, swiping a dollop of tzatziki sauce from her upper lip. “Who wants to go first?”
I glance at Stevie with a confused frown. “What are we starting?”
“We have this thing. At dinnertime, we go around the table and reveal the best part of our day. The highlight.”
“You do this every night?”
“Yep,” Joplin confirms. “I’ll go first and state the obvious: there’s a freakin’ A-list celebrity sitting in our tiny-ass living room, eating miniature hot dogs on the dirty carpet.
” She pivots to face me. “Dude. I can’t hold back anymore.
I literally watched every episode of Whispering Tails when I was seven and am unashamed to be fangirling right now.
Stevie, you’re great and all, but Lexington Hall is two feet away from me, and he smells like freshly cut cedar and a hint of leather.
A walking cologne ad for every human being’s fantasy. ”
A record scratches from somewhere in the distance.
“Joplin!” Chrissy scolds.
“Un-a-shamed.” She emphasizes each syllable.
“I hate you so much.” Stevie shakes her head, cheeks flaming.
Ducking my head, I mutter a small, “Thanks.”
Their mom goes next.
But I don’t hear a word she says.
Voices fade out, bleeding into one another, as I turn to look at Stevie, staring at her profile, at the smattering of freckles on her nose and the rouge on her cheeks.
Her mouth moves, offering a glimpse into her highlight.
A song. The lyrics. Something so simple, a quiet beat tucked inside a symphony of chaos.
And I realize it’s those fleeting snippets of joy, the underwhelming moments, that stitch our days together and carry the biggest weight.
Light-green eyes sparkle against the flickering fireplace, burning brighter when she looks at me. “Your turn,” Stevie whispers.
I don’t have a grand spiel.
Just a single word.
And it falls out effortlessly.
“You.”
***
“Your bed is really creaky.” I move inside her as candlelight bathes the room in a soft orange glow.
We’re buried underneath her white bedcovers, striped with ocean blue, the window cracked open and allowing rain-steeped air to drift inside.
Her skin smells like sugar glaze as I drag the tip of my nose along her throat and nibble her earlobe.
“Mmm. It’s, like, forty years old.” Her legs wrap around me, coiling with the covers. She gasps when I nip the soft skin of her neck. “Harder…”
“Any harder and your family is going to kick me out for defiling their daughter.” I pick up the pace a bit, my eyes rolling up when she squeezes her inner muscles, clinching me in a vise. “Is there a lock on your door?”
“It’s broken.”
I reach behind my back to drag the blankets up to my neck. Sweat glistens on our skin, the heat from our two-person cocoon like a sensual furnace. “You know, I totally thought about doing it in your bed.”
Her eyelids flutter open, pupils blown, nearly swallowing the green. “You did?”
“Yeah.” A groan falls out when she grabs my ass beneath the sheets, digging her nails in. “When we were teenagers. Thought maybe we’d make it here at some point.”
Her head cranes back, and her eyes slam shut when I go deeper, hitting a new spot. “I thought about it too.”
Fuck.
I thrust my hips as she moans. My hand brackets her neck, tipping her head back as our chests slide together, bodies in motion. “You’re so fucking gorgeous.”
“Lex…”
The mattress creaks louder, and I grip the headboard with one hand to keep it from ramming into the wall.
I can tell she’s close. Angling my hips, I lean over her, still clinging to the bed and pumping my hips.
When she cries out, I can’t keep the grin from breaking free as I cup a hand around her mouth.
My fingers catch between her lips. She takes one in her mouth and bites down as sweat slicks our skin and our bodies come together faster, harder. I feel her unravel, her walls fluttering and squeezing, taking me right over the edge.
She’s on the pill.
But someday, I think…I hope she’s not.
Collapsing beside her, I throw an arm over my eyes and catch my breath as she curls up beside me and starts tracing little designs on my slick chest.
Bliss.
Pure fucking bliss.
My eyes crack open, and I glance up at the ceiling, alight with partially glowing star stickers.
Her room looks almost the same as it did four years ago.
The posters, the colorful book spines, the hand-me-down desk topped with notebooks and knickknacks.
The only thing missing is the upright piano in the corner.
I think about playing it with her. Learning more songs.
A feeling pinches my chest.
Awareness. Knowing.
Stevie kisses my shoulder and snuggles closer. “Is it too late to change my highlight for the day?”
I chuckle, tucking her into the crook of my arm. “Nope.”
“How long did you want to stay?” she wonders, her voice a husky whisper.
“As long as you want.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. My work commitments can wait.”
She chews on her lip, lifting her head to look at me. “A week, maybe? I can show you around the farm. Maybe we can visit Mr. Hamlin at the piano bar. I know he’d love to see you.” Her eyes glow with jade embers.
I fucking loved Mr. Hamlin. He was one of the few men in my life who I genuinely respected. “Sounds perfect.”
A few minutes roll by in peaceful silence before Stevie speaks again. “Hey, Lex?”
“Hmm?” A drowsy smile tugs at my mouth.
“Will you do something with me?”
My eyes open all the way, and I glance at her. “Sure.”
A few minutes later, we’re properly dressed and padding our way down the hall to a closed door. My heart jumps when she stops in front of it and presses her palm to the wood face.
Morrison’s room.
Her baby brother’s nursery.
Her eyes are wide, tears reflecting against the hallway light. “I haven’t been in here. Not since…” She nearly chokes. “Not since that day.”
I don’t know what to say.
But I think all she needs is a hand to hold. It’s what we’d always do when words were hard to come by. I stretch my hand in the space between us and braid our fingers together. She squeezes tight, then slowly cracks open the door.
When the light switch flips on, Stevie almost buckles to her knees. I squeeze her hand tighter, offering her steadiness, balance, and strength.
“God…it looks the same.” Tears fall down her cheeks in little rivers. “It still smells the same too.”
Everything is blue-green.
Teal polka-dotted wallpaper borders the upper walls. Aquamarine furniture. A nursery lamp, the color of the sea, shaped like a dolphin. And tucked inside the matching crib set is an empty swaddling blanket spread out across the infant-size mattress.
Emotion burns the back of my throat, fracturing my voice. “Your favorite color.”
“Yes,” she chokes out.
“It reminds you of him.”
“Yes.”
His name is carved out in block letters above the crib. Her gaze trails the pieces , a small smile breaking through her tears, soft and bittersweet. The room is still, the love she had for him wrapping itself around every untouched toy and fitted sheet.
Stevie’s breath hitches, but she doesn’t collapse under the weight of it. Instead, she stands taller, the warmth of memory edging through the sorrow. The scent of baby powder and must lingers in the air, not as a reminder of what’s gone but of what remains.
“He was supposed to grow up,” she says quietly, stepping toward the crib and curling her hands around the wooden rail. “He was supposed to live.”
I swallow, watching as she gazes down at the vacant crib.
I can’t help but think about my mother. About the years I spent chasing her approval, the slow unraveling of everything I thought I knew. It hits me that I’d been clinging to something that had died a long time ago.
Death isn’t always tangible. Sometimes it’s a feeling, and sometimes it’s the absence of feeling. Sometimes it’s a weight added, and sometimes it’s a weight lifted. Mourning isn’t always funerals and headstones; sometimes it’s the silent realization that some things are better left to rest.
“He does live,” I whisper to Stevie, stepping forward and wrapping my arms around her waist from behind. “Not all things are meant to grow the way we thought they would. But that doesn’t mean we’re left with nothing.”
She turns to me, her eyes shining with something that looks like peace—like she’s found a way to carry the loss without it breaking her.
In a way, we’re both letting go.
Nodding, she turns back to the crib, presses a kiss to her fingertips, then gently touches the turquoise blanket with a final goodbye.
We crawl back into bed a few minutes later, with Stevie wrapped inside my arms, her tears drying, and her heartbeats lulling me to the other side.
Both of us sleep through the night.