Chapter 39 #2
I huff out a breath and slide one hand up to cup the side of her neck. Careful of the fading bite mark. Careful of the healing.
Her eyes hold mine.
And I don’t know exactly when I became the kind of man who feels his whole damn chest cave in over one woman looking at him like that, but here we are.
“I meant what I said,” I tell her.
“When?”
“Pick one.”
That gets me a smile, small and warm and crooked.
So I keep going. “In the room. After. At the clubhouse. Every time I told you I’m done fucking around.” I brush my thumb over her jaw. “I meant all of it.”
Her smile softens into something quieter. More serious. “I know.”
“I’m not wasting any more time.”
She goes still in that particular way she does when she’s trying not to show how much something matters to her. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” I say slowly, because I want every word to land exactly where I mean it to, “there isn’t a version of my life anymore that doesn’t have you in it.”
Her breath catches. Just slightly. Still enough that I see it.
Good. Let her hear me.
“I’m done pretending this is temporary or complicated or something I need to be careful not to want too much.” I pull her closer until she’s flush against me. “I want all of it, Allie.”
She doesn’t speak.
So I keep going. “You. A place that’s ours.
Maybe not right away, but soon. Away from the clubhouse if you want it, close if you don’t.
” I brush a strand of hair back from her face.
“I want to wake up with you and go to sleep with you and fight with you over dumb shit and bring you coffee in the morning and hear you bitch about work and—”
She laughs softly, and it nearly breaks me. “And what?” she whispers.
“And everything,” I say. “I want everything.”
Her eyes shine a little. Not full tears. Just enough feeling there to make my chest ache.
I drag my thumb across her cheek. “I should’ve gotten my head out of my ass years ago.”
“Probably,” she says.
I snort.
Then she reaches up and cups the side of my face, and that somehow hits harder than anything I just said.
Because it’s gentle. Because it’s hers. Because Allison Mitchell has every reason in the world to make me earn this every day for the rest of my life and she’s still standing here touching me like I’m something she wants too.
“I’m glad you finally did,” she says quietly.
I kiss her.
Slow. No rush. No adrenaline. No panic.
Just my mouth on hers in the late afternoon heat with our family making noise twenty yards away and the whole rest of my life standing in front of me in cutoffs and boots and a smile that still knocks me sideways.
When I pull back, her forehead rests against mine. And for the first time in my life, peace doesn’t feel like something temporary.
It feels like her.
I wrap one arm around her shoulders and turn us back toward the party. Because I’m done keeping what’s mine in the shadows.
And because I know now, with a certainty that sits deep and permanent in my bones, that I spent years acting like Allison was the thing I needed to stay away from.
Turns out, she was home the whole damn time.
***
By the time the sun starts dropping low enough to turn everything gold, the party softens.
Not quieter exactly. Just warmer.
The sharp edges of the afternoon wear down into something slower and sweeter, like the whole yard takes one big breath and settles into itself.
Kids are still running around, but not as wildly.
The music is lower now. The men are deeper into their beers.
The women have all reached that point where shoes are optional and comfort has officially won over appearances.
And for the first time in what feels like forever, I realize I’m not bracing for anything.
Not every noise. Not every strange truck. Not every silence.
I’m just…here.
The thought catches me off guard enough that I step inside for a minute just to breathe around it.
The clubhouse is cooler than outside, quieter too.
The main room is mostly empty except for the muffled drift of music and voices through the open screen door.
I move down the hall toward the downstairs bathroom, mostly because I need a second to myself and partly because my leg is starting to ache in that dull, nagging way that means I’ve been on it too long and Jimmy’s going to start hovering again if I limp in front of him.
I close the bathroom door behind me and stare at myself in the mirror.
I look…normal.
Mostly.
There’s a faint yellowing bruise still lingering at my wrist. A tiny scar near my temple where the cut split open. A mark at my neck that’s faded enough now that it looks more like a shadow than a wound unless you know what you’re looking for.
I touch it lightly.
Not because I’m spiraling. Because it’s there. Because healing is weird like that. It doesn’t happen in one big, triumphant moment where the world rights itself and suddenly you’re not haunted by what happened anymore.
It happens in quiet pieces.
In being able to look at your own neck in the mirror without your stomach turning.
In driving past a stretch of road and only gripping the wheel a little tighter instead of pulling over.
In sleeping through the night more often than not.
In laughing so hard at Kya threatening Dom over fruit that for ten whole seconds you forget there was ever a man in this world who tried to make fear your next step.
I look at myself a second longer.
Then I smile.
Small. Private. Because the girl who spent years quietly loving Jimmy Baker from the edge of every room would lose her entire mind if she could see me now.
I wash my hands even though they’re not dirty, dry them slowly, and head back out toward the porch.
The women have migrated mostly inside and around the doorway now because apparently pregnancy makes everybody eventually seek cushions and shade and strategic access to snacks.
Mac is on the couch in the main room with one foot tucked under her and the other planted like she’s ready to kick Logan if he suggests she drink more water one more time.
Kya is stretched out beside her dramatically enough that you’d think she’s been through active combat instead of the third trimester.
Brooke is in the armchair with a tiny onesie in her lap and tears in her eyes again, which at this point has stopped being an event and started being background noise.
Emma’s sitting on the edge of the coffee table passing out little paper bowls of banana pudding like she’s moderating a support group.
Raven is near the door with Lexi half asleep against her shoulder, and Aunt Lucy and my mom are sitting together on the loveseat looking like the only two people in the room with any actual sense.
Ana and Shaina are cross-legged on the floor.Dangerous as ever.
I barely make it through the doorway before Shaina narrows her eyes at me. “Why do you look suspiciously glowy?”
Ana gasps dramatically. “Oh my God. Did he fingerbang you behind the bikes?”
“Jesus Christ,” I say, because there is apparently no peace anywhere on earth.
My mom chokes on a laugh.
Aunt Lucy covers her mouth.
Even Emma makes a noise like she’s trying not to smile.
Brooke perks up immediately. “Wait, what?”
“Nothing,” I say.
“Liar,” Kya says from the couch without opening her eyes.
Mac eyes me over the rim of her drink. “You have post-makeout face.”
“I do not have post-makeout face.”
“You absolutely do,” Raven says, and that one somehow hurts the most because Raven is generally too composed to be this invested in my humiliation.
I drop into the empty spot on the loveseat between Aunt Lucy and my mom and bury my face in my hands for exactly one second. “This is why women shouldn’t be allowed to gather in groups.”
Emma hands me a brownie. “Eat your feelings.”
I take it because she’s right.
Ana leans forward, grinning. “Did he finally say something worthwhile?”
I try for neutral. “Maybe.”
Shaina throws a decorative pillow at me. “Bitch.”
I laugh despite myself and catch it before it hits my face. And just like that, I’m folded into it. The warmth. The noise. The ease. This room full of women who have seen me at my absolute best and my absolute worst and still make space for me like I’ve never once been anything less than theirs.
Kya points her spoon at me. “If a man has finally developed a frontal lobe, I’d like to hear about it.”
Dom’s voice carries in faintly from outside. “That’s fucked up.”
Kya raises her voice without looking toward the door. “Then stop being dumb in public!”
Mac sighs. “Honestly, men should have to test for basic emotional competency before being allowed to speak.”
“Then none of them would qualify,” Emma says mildly.
Brooke laughs and wipes at her eyes. “That’s so true.”
My mom bumps my shoulder with hers lightly. “You okay, baby?”
The question is quiet enough that it slips under all the teasing.
I look at her. Really look at her. She’s healed too, mostly. The cut on her head long gone. The worst of the fear worn down by time and family and the fact that Drew Reynolds is dead and gone and not coming back for either of us.
And something in me settles a little deeper.
“Yeah,” I say honestly. “I am.”
Her expression softens.
Aunt Lucy reaches over and squeezes my knee once. No fanfare. No speech. Just understanding.
Ana, who has apparently decided this is all becoming too emotionally sincere, ruins it immediately. “So, how long exactly have you been in love with my brother?”
“Since she was fifteen,” Shaina says.
My head whips toward her. “Traitor.”
She grins. “I was there.”
Emma actually laughs. “Were you?”
“She twisted her ankle at a cookout and Jimmy helped her to a chair and she looked like she saw God.”
I cover my face again. “I hate all of you.”
“No, you don’t,” Brooke says sweetly.
And the worst part is, she’s right.
I don’t.
Because this is what it feels like to be held. Not pitied. Not protected in some patronizing, fragile way.
Held.