23. Ellison
Montana listens the whole way to The Backyard, smiling and asking me questions, squeezing my hand, and is simply engaged in what I’m saying. Blake had always listened but it was different. I was barely keeping myself afloat, and he had supported me because he knew the intricacies of our world.
Dreams and ambitions were second to survival.
Frowning, I turn to Montana as we park, completely ignoring everything else but him. “Hey, I need to tell you something before we go in there.”
Eyebrows crawling up his forehead, he turns in his seat and faces me, the hard set of his jaw the only thing that betrays the way he’s bracing himself.
“I told you that Blake and I ended things?—”
Montana holds up his free hand as the other one tightens its hold. “You don’t need to tell me anything. I know you were with him for a while”—he swallows hard— “as long as you’re not with him now, I mean.”
“Blake and I were—are—friends.” He blinks at me so I continue. “We tried actually dating at first but realized it just wouldn’t work between us.”
“But you were with him for years.”
A statement, not a question, because he’s right.
“We were. As friends. It was easier for us to just continue the ruse—appease our parents and prevent any matchmaking that would require additional painful dinners at the country club or out in town.”
“He was your fake boyfriend?”
I lift a shoulder and let it drop. “In a manner of speaking.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? All this time and I could’ve—we could’ve…” His voice trails off and he rubs his palm over his jaw as he looks away from me and out the windshield.
“I couldn’t,” I say quietly, and his head whips to face me, the intensity in his eyes making me question if I should have done this tonight. “I wouldn’t have survived that, Montana. I was still locked into working at the school, not just a couple of months but years. It was hard enough seeing you after Nan’s funeral and having to go back to Savannah. Being away from you was hard when we weren’t talking, but it was so much harder after that.” Wiping a lone tear from my cheek, I exhale a shuddery breath as I add, “I wouldn’t have survived if we constantly had to say goodbye knowing the crash would always outweigh those pockets of happiness.”
His eyelids squeeze shut, and I grip his hand harder, silently begging him to understand.
“I hate it,” Montana whispers, and those three little words are full of so much hurt, my heart squeezes in my chest.
“I didn’t know another way.” It’s my turn to stare out the windshield, taking in the adorable white painted brick building with peony bushes and a Dogs Welcome sign leading to the outdoor seating around the side. “I’m sorry I ruined things tonight.”
“You didn’t ruin tonight.” His hand tugs on mine until I pull my gaze back to his. “It’s just hard to hear that all that was going on—that you were so miserable you were fake dating someone just to make it through each day. I’ve never wanted that for you.”
“And now it’s over.” Blinking away the tears, I reach over and cup his cheek with my palm. “I’m home and that part of my life is done. I just didn’t want it hanging over us—me—tonight.”
“Need to work on your timing,” he murmurs, but a smile tugs at his lips as he turns his face to place a kiss on my palm.
“But you’re not mad?”
“I’m…not mad.”
“You’re not happy either.”
“Eddie,” he says, swallowing hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, “you’re gonna need to give me a minute to reconcile the fact that another man had years that could have been mine.” I open my mouth to speak but he shakes his head. “Part of me gets it—I do—but the other part wants to break shit with my bare hands. Do you still talk to him?”
“We’re still friends.” His eyebrows climb up his forehead, so I add, “Only friends. He knows how I feel about you.”
“He better—I don’t care how much money he has; I’ll still kick his ass all the way back to Savannah.”
Launching myself at him over the center console, I crush my mouth against his, my body awkwardly contorted at this angle. No one has ever defended me so passionately, and his indignation on my behalf is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.
Montana’s hand tangles in my hair, his fingers fisting the strands as he holds me in place and devours my mouth. It’s both pleasure and punishment and I can’t get enough. I’m just about to climb the rest of the way over and into his lap when he pulls back and rests his forehead against mine.
“Do you still want to do dinner?” I ask hopefully, but Montana shakes his head, the movement awkward with him still resting against me. “Takeout?” I try again, my voice kicking up an octave with the desperation pumping though my veins.
“Nah, I got something else in mind.”
* * *
Montana tradedhis baseball hat tonight for a cowboy hat he had in the backseat of the truck after we parked in the grassy lot owned by Jake Booker and home to the Brew, Q ’n Boogie. I’d never been here, but Montana had told me about plenty of nights comin’ down to support his friend and blow off some steam.
The field is packed, food trucks lining the perimeter, and I recognize a handful of people, but Montana just pulls me along to the end of the row to where a bright-blue truck sits, The Backyard scrawled in white letters along the side.
“See? Not all is lost,” he says with a sheepish expression and the lift of one shoulder.
“I like this,” I say, looking around and watching the people laugh and dance around us. It’s refreshing, and while a crowd isn’t normally my favorite, there’s something comforting about the simplicity of it all. A field is just a field, but add in a stage and a place to dance and it’s home.
“Yeah?” he asks, and I nod before wrapping my arm around his waist and resting my cheek against his chest. “I wasn’t gonna be able to sit long enough to be polite back there.”
He hitches his thumb toward the parking lot, and I roll my lips inward and take a steadying breath before turning my face up to meet his. “What’s good here?”
Ten minutes and two containers of takeout later, we find ourselves at the picnic table on the far side of the field. Montana pulls a burger the size of his face out and takes a bite, sauce dotting the corner of his mouth. His smile is playful and he seems so young like this—like this is a place, with the music and chaos, that settles his nerves and calms his soul.
We should all be so lucky.
I open my own container and grab my fork and knife before dumping an unhealthy amount of syrup on top of my chicken and waffles. I’d had it in Savannah, but it wasn’t the same, and one small bite confirms what I already knew—there’s no place like Tennessee for comfort food.
For me at least.
We eat in silence, only commenting on the band or topics less likely to stir up any kind of trouble because I’ve already done enough of that for one night.
“I’m still gonna take you out on a real date,” Montana says with a final wipe of his hands before discarding his napkin in the now empty container.
“What are you talking about? This is a real date.” I look around like his logic will suddenly make sense.
“No, a real date where we eat inside with cloth napkins and I get to pull your chair out and you get to order a bottle of wine because I don’t know the difference.”
“This is a real date,” I repeat because I’m still trying to process what he said while keeping my blood pressure in check. “I don’t need cloth napkins and bottles of overpriced wine. I just need you and the way you look at me like I hung the moon and you couldn’t fathom bein’ anywhere else than here with me.”
“Fine, but I still want to take you to a nice dinner.”
“And that’s great,”—I wave a hand toward the stage— “but this is great too.”
We stare at each other, the band hitting the opening chords of “Sideways” by Dierks Bentley and it’s exactly what we need. Ditching our trash, I can barely contain myself as I grab Montana’s hand and find an open spot in the crowd. He chuckles but guides me with ease, moving us around flattened grass like we do this all the time.
Because we used to.
And now he’s better.
Better than I remember.
Better than he was with me.
I push the thought away because it doesn’t matter. I could spend the rest of my life comparing and wishing instead of living and enjoying the moment.
Montana’s body is hard and unyielding as he spins me into him before pushing me out and spinning me until I might be sick. I laugh and he smiles as the song transitions into something slower and he brings me in close.
“You still got it, Eddie,” he murmurs as the band croons the words to “Play it Again” by Luke Bryan.
“I hate that you’re better,” I say without thinking.
“Why?” he asks as his palm presses against my lower back, eliminating any and all distance between us. His length is hard against my belly, and when he knows I can feel him, he asks again.
“Because I don’t like thinking about you spinning some other girl around or what happens after.”
“And what do you think happens after?” His emphasis on the last word sends a shiver racing down my spine. I want this man beyond reason, and even though I was the one asking for space, it’s the last thing I want or need right now. At my silence, he continues,“There have been girls, Eddie. But this,”—he rocks his hips into me— “only you do this to me. Did I show them a good time? Yeah—I did because I’m a god damn gentleman, Eddie, but I get you out here for one fucking song and I want to strip you outta your clothes and bury myself inside you.”
“Then why are we still here?”
“Because I wanted tonight to be perfect—show you what it can be like with us. Together.”
“I already know we’re perfect together, Max. That’s never been a question.” His heart hammers against my chest as he presses us tighter together.
“But we never got to do this—to be out here and let everyone know you”re mine.”
The song changes and so does the beat as the band jumps into a lively version of Russell Dickerson’s hit, “MGNO.”
Montana spins me out, his body controlling mine until I’m panting and turned on and pulled tight against his again. I can feel people watching us, but I can’t make myself care when his eyes are absolutely blazing and his jaw is set like he’s tryin’ not to lose control.
There’s no question who he belongs to—who I belong to.
But it’s not enough. I want to see him snap, and I want him unhinged like he was before we’d gotten the call about Grandad. He’d been wild and I want that side of him back—to see what we could really be like if he’d just let go.
“Montana.”
“We shouldn’t do this tonight.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not the way I?—”
“You what, Max? Wanted to lay me down on a bed of roses and make love to me all through the night?” His jaw clenches and his nostrils flare, his fingers digging into the small of my back.“Do you have any idea how bad I want this, Max? How desperate I am to feel you lose control?”
“You wanted to slow down—we agreed we’d slow down.”
“And maybe we agreed for the wrong reasons. Maybe we’ve been trying too hard to fit into the past while still trying to lock down our future.”
“Yeah?” he asks but it’s more like a threat than a question.
“Yeah,” I toss back with the same level of sass as I press my chest firmly against his, my nipples hard and pebbled and wanting. “I don’t want to recreate our first time. I don’t want someone else’s version of what a perfect relationship looks like.”
“So, what do you want?”
“You, Max. I want you.”