Chapter Forty-Four #2
“You’re not. She’s been gaslighting you your entire life.
No one would blame you for doubting her.
But maybe I can take your mind off it.” He brings my hand to his lips.
Kisses each of my knuckles. The inside of my wrist. My palm.
When he looks up at me, I lean toward him and our mouths come together.
His other hand slides into my hair and grips the back of my head.
Our tongues speak wordlessly about other places on our bodies they’d like to be.
The rain falls harder, coming down in thick torrents that coat the truck’s windows, obscuring us from the outside world.
I move my hand to his thigh and run my palm up to his crotch.
His cock is already swelling, and I rub it slowly through the denim.
A low, agitated sound rumbles from deep in his throat.
Moving a little closer to him, I unbuckle his belt.
Pull it through the loop. Slip the button of his jeans through the hole.
Inch the zipper down. His erection springs free, and I fist it, working my hand up and down his hot, hard flesh.
“Mila.” He’s breathing hard. “You don’t have time.”
“Stop micromanaging my schedule.” I give him a playful smile before lowering my head to his lap.
He groans as I swirl my tongue around the crown, then suck the tip. “Then again, this might be over inside a minute.”
When I pick up my head to laugh, he lifts his hips just enough to shimmy his jeans down his legs.
The sight of his muscular thighs, his gorgeous cock, and the sculpted V on his lower abdomen make my insides quiver and my underwear feel hot and sticky.
Immediately, I lean forward and take him in deep, sliding my wet mouth all the way down his shaft until I feel him tap the back of my throat.
He growls, his hands moving into my hair, gathering it in his fists so it’s out of the way.
I work my hand and mouth together, alternating long, slow strokes with tight, hard pulls.
Outside, the downpour grows more intense, battering the truck with a relentless roar.
Inside, the sound of Everett’s breathing is jagged and quick, and his hips begin to lift as he thrusts up into my mouth.
I struggle for air, but when I taste him, I only want more.
The sounds I make are greedy. Messy. Indecent.
I sense him nearing the edge.
“Fuck. Mila.” His words are a warning.
I don’t stop. His hands tighten in my hair, his guttural moans drowning out the rain.
He falls silent for a second, like he’s holding his breath, before exhaling in ragged bursts.
He comes at the back of my throat, but I feel the pulse of his climax throughout my entire body, and I don’t stop until he lets go of my hair.
Easing him from my lips, I swallow the salty warmth of him and pick up my head. Wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.
He stares at me in utter disbelief. “It’s a crime that I came and you didn’t.”
“You could try taking that up with my mother, but I doubt she’d see it your way.”
“I’ll make it up to you next time we see each other.”
“Hey.” I wag a finger at him. “This wasn’t a favor. This isn’t transactional.”
Laughing, he zips, buttons, and buckles up. Then he pulls me toward him, hauling me across his lap so I’m wedged between his chest and the steering wheel. The interior of the truck feels warm and cozy.
“You’re not really going to be gone in two weeks, are you?
” He plays with my hair. “Because I want more than this with you, Mila. More than just stealing time when we get the chance. I want movie nights and Sunday dinner at my mom’s house and lazy winter mornings where we just stay in bed because we feel like it.
I want to give you the cherries from my old-fashioneds and watch you knot the stems with your tongue.
I want to step on your toes every Founder’s Day on the dance floor.
I want to kiss you hello and goodbye and good morning and good night and sometimes, just fucking because.
I want a thousand little everyday things. ”
My hopes rise like bread dough. “That sounds beautiful.”
“Then come back to Hart’s Landing for good,” he urges. “I know I’m asking you to upend your life to be with me after you told me you didn’t want to be in a relationship. It’s not fair. I’m the asshole.”
I laugh. “You’re not. It’s just a really huge decision.”
“What’s holding you back? Is it about work? Is it about your mom? Are you worried about us? Talk to me.”
“I don’t think work would be too much of an issue.
I can design from anywhere. I would have to let the college know I wasn’t returning after first semester, but I think they could replace me.
” At the thought of my mother, I grimace.
“My mom is definitely a deterrent, no way around it. But it feels wrong to let my inability to maintain healthy boundaries with her get in the way of what we could have.”
“You’ve come a long way. Look how you stood up to her the other day.”
“That did feel good,” I admit.
“How are you feeling about us?” he asks quietly, his brown eyes warm as melted chocolate. “Do you have doubts? Because I don’t.”
“You don’t?”
“No.” He cradles my face with his hands and brushes my lips with his thumb. “I’m in love with you, Mila. Every part of you, every version of you, every minute of the day.”
My heart drums as loudly as the rain on the roof. Chills blanket my arms.
“I’m not saying that to put pressure on you. I’m just used to running right at a thing when I’m scared of it. And right now I’m scared of watching you walk out of my life again and always wondering if I could have worked harder to keep you close.”
My eyes fill. “You mean that? What you said?”
“Yes. For the first time, I can see forever with someone, and it’s you.”
“I love you too,” I tell him, and it feels deeper, more real, more honest than it’s ever felt before. “And maybe we’ve both wondered enough.”
I’m sitting next to my mom in the waiting room of the Hart Primary Care Clinic when the door opens and her name is called. I look up from my phone and gasp.
It’s like seeing a ghost.
The blond curls. The dimples. Even the timbre of her voice.
Within seconds, I realize it must be Alice Sweeney, not Lydia. When she sees me, the smile widens. “Mila, right?”
It takes me a moment to find my voice. “Yes.”
At this point, my mother has reached her. She’s getting around with a cane now, which she hates only marginally less than the walker.
Alice smiles at her. “How are you, Ms. Ferguson?”
“Oh, I’m fine. Got my handy-dandy cane. All I’m missing are the top hat and tails, right?”
Alice laughs, and I nearly fall out of my seat. She sounds so much like Lydia. She looks at me once more. “Would you like to come back?”
“No need.” My mom answers for me. “She can just wait here.”
The door shuts behind them.
I reach for my phone. This calls for a group chat.
Mila: You guys, I’m at the Hart Clinic, and I just saw Alice Sweeney! She’s a nurse here!!
Yasmine: OMG! Did you talk to her?
Mila: I said hello, but nothing more. I’m dying to know about the letter, but I don’t feel like I can ask her.
Gabi: OMG THE LETTER! I forgot all about that.
Yasmine: Probably not cool to ask about it right away. We need to find Rachel.
Mila: We do.
Gabi: Count me in! How are you guys? Seeing your names pop up in my texts just now made me so happy.
Yasmine: Me too! I’m good. Ripley Wilder is still the bane of my existence, but I’m trying to find inner peace. God knows outer peace is impossible with him next door.
Mila: I’m good too. My mom is…still my mom, but I’m helping Everett with a project at the old foundry site that’s really amazing.
Gabi: I can’t wait to get back to HL and be with you guys again.
Yasmine: When’s the move?
Gabi: This weekend. Sorry to steal E from you for a couple days, Mila!
Mila: Worth it.
When we get home from the clinic, I retreat into my studio and close the door behind me.
Thankfully, my mother takes the hint and allows me time to work, which I spend sketching ideas for the healing gardens.
I work right up until my alarm goes off at 4:57 p.m., which reminds me that I have a five o’clock session with Hugo.
My mother is in the kitchen making a cup of tea when she sees me heading out the side door with my phone in my hand.
“Where are you going now?” she asks.
I turn to face her. “I just have to make a call.”
“You can’t make it in the house?”
“It’s an appointment with my therapist. I do them on Zoom.”
Her eyebrows rise. “I didn’t know you were seeing a therapist. For what?”
“For my mental health.”
“Do you talk about me?”
“I talk about a lot of people in my life,” I say carefully.
“What do you say about me?”
“Mom, that’s not really—”
“You know, you can talk to me about personal things, too.”
I check my screen. It’s 4:59.
“After all, no one loves you more than I do. And I know you better than anyone. Spending money for a stranger to tell you things about yourself doesn’t really make sense, does it?”
“I have to go or I’ll be late for my appointment.” I’m out the door before she can delay me any longer. Fuming, I race through the rain, jump in the car, and get on the call. “Sorry I’m late.”
Hugo can tell right away that something’s wrong. “What’s going on?”
“She tells me she loves me, but she makes me feel like shit. This cannot be love.” I’m shaking with anger, furious that I let her ruin my good mood. I was so happy with Everett just hours ago.
“Okay,” Hugo says calmly. “Let’s talk about it.”
“Love should not feel like a weapon that’s used against you.
Literally, every time she says she loves me, I brace for the bombshell that I know is going to follow.
It’s like she can’t say it without also reminding me that I’m not worthy of it because of all the ways I’m a disappointment or a failure.
She makes it sound like she’s doing me a favor by loving me.
Like it’s tiresome and hard, but it’s her job.
” I shake out my hands, which have balled up with tension.
“So what would the opposite be? What would it feel like to be loved?”
Like it feels when I’m with Everett.
“To be loved would be…to feel accepted.” The words come out slower as I sink into the way I feel around Everett.
“To feel appreciated, even though I know I’m not perfect.
To have my feelings validated, whatever they are.
For example, when my mother hurts my feelings and I tell her so, if she would just take ownership of that instead of twisting it around and making it my fault for being too sensitive.
Somehow, I always end up apologizing.” Slamming my eyes shut, I shake my head. “I’m sick of it. I hate myself for it.”
“Give yourself some grace, Mila.”
“But I let her treat me that way.” I drop my forehead onto the tips of my fingers. “Why do I do that?”
“Because you don’t think you deserve better from her,” Hugo says quietly. “And that misbelief has created a cycle wherein you continuously try to earn love and approval. You cling to the hope that someday you’ll receive the validation you’ve always craved.”
My throat constricts. “But I won’t.”
He shakes his head. “Not from her, you won’t. She’s not capable, Mila, and that’s not in your control. But let’s back up a moment to something that is in your control. What does self-love look like to you? What does it mean?”
I give myself time to think. “I’ve been thinking it means protecting myself from potential emotional harm, but maybe that’s not it. Maybe that’s just avoidance, like you’ve said.”
“Okay.”
“Maybe self-love means forgiving myself for being imperfect. Not apologizing for everything. Accepting that I am lovable. That someone could actually love me for me.”
“I like that definition.”
“But how do you get there?” I ask desperately. “How do you get to the place where you know you deserve love, and you can accept it, even though it’s a risk?”
My therapist smiles. “That’s the work.”