35. 35
It won’t be long now before Miles’ building will be ready. I’ve spent days fibbing, telling him what a jerk Lars is—that we aren’t allowed back in the studio yet—when I’m actually remodeling the place. Hey, he already dislikes Lars, so what’s the harm?
My husband and I have fallen into a fairly decent routine. He paints. I write and strum my guitar. He’s in one room, I’m in the other. We eat together. We sleep in the same bed—and I am so not blind to him hugging the edge of that bed to keep from touching me.
I’ve gotten two, maybe three, more forehead kisses.
Okay—it’s three. I might be counting. I can’t help it. Miles Bailey can kiss—and yet he insists on sending all that love to my forehead. Which ironically makes me swoon each and every time.
I’m checking on an email from the painter—they should be done with Miles’ studio tomorrow—when a text comes through.
Coco: I realized we never talked about your reception last week.
“Miles,” I call from my seat on his couch.
He appears in the doorway, barefoot and broad, making my heart flutter like butterfly wings. It’s a simple human reaction, completely natural—nothing more.
No crushing on your husband, Delaney!
“Yeah?” He leans against the open doorway.
“Did you give your sister my phone number?”
“Yeah. Is that a problem?” He’s in glasses today and somehow four eyes make the man even sexier than two. How is he still single?
Oh, wait. That’s right. He’s not.
I press my lips together. “I don’t normally give it out. That’s all.”
“I’m sorry. It’s my sister. You’re her sister-in-law. I thought it might be weird if I didn’t share it when she asked.”
“No, you’re right. It would be.” I turn back to my phone and away from Miles’ smoldering sorry eyes. Since when does Miles smolder?
I shove away the thought and respond to Coco.
Me: We can count the other night—the bar and grill. Or even Sunday dinner. Your mom did bake a cake.
Coco: We can’t count the bar. Ew. Besides, Mom wasn’t there. And that cake was for Cooper. She makes it for him every time he comes to visit.
Coco: And what about your family?
“She’s asking about my family and the reception,” I say, though Miles has gone back to his room.
He wanders in and sits next to me on the couch. “That sounds like a normal question to me.” But he’s timid, looking at me like he knows it isn’t normal for me but not really knowing at the same time.
“My family won’t come, Miles.” But that isn’t completely true. They might. But I don’t want them to. This place feels like a sanctuary. All of that would go away with Claire Jones’ presence. I’d love to see Eryn and Grandma, but bringing them here, so far away, for a reception that’s a lie… I don’t want that. I can’t do that. “I don’t want them to come.”
I’m not sure what I look like, but Miles voluntarily cups a hand to my cheek, forcing eye contact with me. “They won’t come, or you don’t want them to come? Those aren’t the same thing, Laney.”
I melt a little. Laney. Is it weird that Miles calling me by the same nickname as my Grandma turns me on a little? It is—I know it is, but I can’t turn off the firework show inside of me.
“Right.” I close my eyes and breathe like Dr. Baker taught me to.
The minute I could afford therapy—I got it. It saved me from my mother’s ruthless judgements. I remember Dr. Baker’s counsel—she’s one person, not the world, breathe.
Blinking, I flick my gaze up to Miles’ hazel eyes and speak. “I don’t want them to come here.”
“Okay. Can you elaborate?”
“I’ve told you—my mother is difficult. This place—” I peer around Miles’ tiny home, at the small TV in front of us, the two-burner hot plate on his small kitchen counter, the door to his miniature bathroom. “It’s not difficult. It’s peaceful.” I’m not sure I’m making any sense. “I’m not ready to lose that.”
Miles dips his head, smiling at me as if maybe we’re supposed to be married. Maybe this is real and not a stunt. Maybe he loves me, he’s here for me, and he’ll help me. Always.
It’s a fantasy.
One that isn’t even mine—usually.
But in this moment, it’s nice to think about Miles saving me from all the anxiety that Mom creates. I’ve never had a savior before.
“Hey,” he says, being that man. “You don’t have to lose that. Ever. If ease goes away with an invitation to her, then that invite is getting lost in the mail. She isn’t invited.”
I nod, small, quick bobs. “Okay.”
“Is she—” he says, then stalls. “I mean, she’s that bad?”
“You talked to her.” But I can see he still doesn’t get it. To Miles, a mother is the equivalent of love. And I’m so, so glad that’s how it is for him. I sit up straighter, keep eye contact with the man, and explain. “Miles, I have an extremely healthy self-esteem. I know my worth. I have fought for my worth. I’m far from perfect, but I have talent, and I’m trying. I want to leave my mark on the world and be a good person. But when my mother walks into the room, all that worth transfers into the toilet. She convinces me that I’m no better than the fleas that covet her garbage.”
One hand cups my cheek, his thumb tracing below my left eye. “You don’t believe that.”
I huff out a deep, tired breath. “No, I don’t. But she makes me fight for my self-worth every second we’re together.”
Miles lifts my phone from my grasp and begins to type.
I don’t object; I simply watch as he texts back his sister as me:
My family won’t be coming. No matter the day or time. Miles won’t allow it.
Three little bubbles bounce on my screen, but no message from Coco comes through. All at once, his cell back in the studio room begins to ring.
He stands, winks down at me, and then, as if he can’t help himself, leans in and presses a gentle kiss to my head.