Chapter 38 #2
“When did you get good at relationships?” I ask, kind of annoyed.
“I’ve always been good at them. In hindsight, anyway.”
A real laugh escapes me before I can stop it.
“Hindsight, right,” I repeat, pulling out my phone and turning it back on. The screen glow makes my face feel exposed.
Three missed calls from Paige and a slew of texts. More texts from Charlotte. A bunch of calls from the bar.
“You know I’m still pissed at you,” Jason adds.
“I know.”
“And I’m not co-signing… any of it,” he says, a vague wave that covers fourteen years of friendship, an accidental pregnancy, and a punch in the face. “But I am not going to stand here and let three strangers tell me who you are. Or who my sister is.”
My throat tightens. I thumb out “I’m okay” and hit send before I can overthink the two most basic words in English.
The porch light clicks off upstairs. The window narrows to a rectangle of dark. It’s late.
“I should have told you,” I say, because here’s another fact that needs to be on the table. “About me and Paige. I should have told you the minute I… the minute it wasn’t just a thought I was trying to kill.”
“No shit,” he says, but there’s no bite; it’s just the truth. He rests the back of his head on the headrest and looks at the ceiling liner. “You ran today.”
“I did,” I say.
“You can’t.” The words are flat, not cruel. “Not with her. Not with the baby. Not with me. You don’t get to slide out the back when it gets too hard.”
“I know.” The shame is a hot, stupid thing at the base of my neck. “I didn’t— I wasn’t… going far,” I finish stupidly.
He nods without looking at me. “Good. Now do better.”
There’s a weird comfort in how simple he makes it. Not easy. Simple. Don’t run. Do better.
“I will,” I say. I mean it. Saying it out loud sets it in stone.
“Good,” he says and reaches for the handle. “Now, go home and forget those assholes.”
The dome light snaps on again, and he slides out.
“And Ben?” he adds, hand on the door.
“Yeah?”
“If those guys come back into the Pint, you let me know,” he says. “Not because I’m going to swing. Because I’ve got questions of my own about anybody who thinks they get to decide who a damn Richards chooses to spend their time with.”
“I’ll show you the security footage if you want,” I say.
“Do that,” he says. He closes the door and taps the roof twice before walking to his car, a couple of spaces away.
Jason’s taillights wash the lot red, then slip into the street. I sit with the engine ticking, hands on the wheel, and remember that night.
Eighteen. First break home. The walkway outside the condo is littered with my clothes. I’m on the curb, elbows on my knees, breath coming in short, sharp pulls that rip through my chest. The key that didn’t turn is still in my fist.
Tires crunch back over the gravel. Jason swings in because I left something in his car—physics notes, a charger, I don’t even remember.
He kills the engine, steps out, and takes it in: the scattered clothes, me folded small.
He doesn’t ask what happened. He doesn’t say anything at all.
He just lowers himself beside me on the curb and stays.
He breathes slowly, and I try to match it.
When the jagged edge finally dulls and the world stops tilting, he stands.
We move together down the walkway, picking up everything I dropped.
He shakes out a shirt, hands it to me, tucks socks into the side pocket, zips the split bag, and slings it over his shoulder like it weighs nothing.
He opens the passenger door of his car. “Come on,” is all he says. I get in. He drives me to his house for the rest of the trip. No speeches. No questions. Just takes me home.
The porch light’s out when I pull in, but the moon’s doing enough work that I can see the little table between the chairs.
There’s a paper bag sitting on it, folded twice at the top, the Sweet Confessions logo stamped on the side.
One greasy circle has bled through near the bottom, faint as a thumbprint.
Guilt hits like a body blow. I was supposed to be there. I was supposed to sit with her and talk through menus and plug-in times, and whether lemon goes better with malt or rye. Instead, she left me peace offerings that I didn’t earn.
I carry the bag inside and set it on my counter like it’s a note she wrote and I’m saving it like some love-sick teenager.
The kitchen clock says it’s late—too late for someone who wakes up before the sun and bakes in the early hours. I shouldn’t call. I told her I’d see her first thing. I told Jason I’d show up.
I last about ninety seconds.
Keys. Wallet. I’m back out the door.
The road between my place and the Richards’ is muscle memory. I could drive it blind. The night is big and soft in the way summer nights are out by the river.
Somewhere, cicadas are building a wall of sound. The houses on their street are mostly dark—porches empty, curtains pulled, the world is quiet in the hours between late and early.
I cut the engine at the curb and watch the house for a minute. Every window is dark. The kitchen. The living room. The lamp they leave on outside if someone’s out late—off.
I close the truck door with two fingers and a prayer that it doesn’t echo. The gravel in the driveway sounds loud enough to wake the county. I stick to the grass, to the side yard, to the shadow line where the maple throws a darker patch over the world.
The back of the house faces the river—wide porch, a deeper deck off the second floor that’s been there since Jason and I were kids climbing where we shouldn’t. Paige’s window is above and to the right.
I shouldn’t be doing this. Grown men do not climb trees to knock on bedroom windows. Teenagers do this in movies and get caught by dads with shotguns. I put a hand on the bark anyway.
The trunk is wide and easy, the first branch low enough that even a tired body can swing up. I pull, plant a foot, move again. The old creak of wood at night sounds far too loud.
The deck boards under my palms are cool.
There’s a thin film of river air over everything—clean and damp, a little mineral to it.
The window is dark and covered in curtains.
I try the bottom sash with two fingers, gently.
It doesn’t budge. Of course it doesn’t. They keep the house locked like people with good sense.
I lift my knuckles and tap once. Twice. The sound is soft, but in the hush it feels like a cymbal crash. Nothing. I try again, a little rhythm I don’t even know I’m doing until I’m in the middle of it—tap-tap…tap.
There’s movement inside. A thump. Another. The lamp doesn’t come on. The shade tilts, and then she’s there—sleep-tousled, T-shirt sliding off one shoulder, confusion furrowing her brow. For half a second, she looks like she’s still dreaming of me, then she blinks and her eyes clear.
She unlatches and lifts. Cool air rushes out around my wrists.
“Hi,” I breathe out.
She doesn’t ask a single question. No “Where-were-you,” no “What-are-you-doing,” no “Have-you-lost-your-mind-climbing-the-side-of-my-parents’-house?”
She reaches, finds my hand, and curls her fingers around mine.
I swing one leg over the sill and then the other, careful, quiet, trying not to kick anything that makes a lot of noise when it falls.
Her room smells like clean laundry and something citrus-vanilla-y coming from a bottle on the dresser.
There’s a book face down beside the lamp.
The bed is unmade, a Paige-shaped curve warm in the sheets, a throw quilt kicked to the floor.
She steps back just enough for me to clear the frame and then lets go of my hand. No words. None needed. The apology is sitting just under my tongue anyway—clumsy and not enough.
She moves back to the bed and gets in, pushes back the blanket next to her.
I peel off my T-shirt. Jeans next, belt buckle.
The room is so quiet I can hear the slide of denim over my knees, the tiny hitch of her breath when I move.
I’m down to boxers and the tired kind of ache, and then I’m easing under her sheets, the cotton cool and then warm where she was lying a moment before.
She scoots in with this small, decisive motion like she’s been doing it her whole life—knee over my thigh, arm across my stomach, tucking herself into the space between my shoulder and my throat.
Her hair smells like whatever conditioner she uses and something unmistakably her—sweet and clean. I breathe it in and something in my rib cage that has been locked all day loosens and opens.
The apology is stuck in my throat. It’s not enough. I owe her more than that.
I try again.
She shakes her head against my collarbone. Her hand opens over my sternum, palm warm, fingers splayed like she’s taking inventory of proof that I’m here. I cover it with mine. Our hands look ridiculous together—hers small and fine, mine nicked and scarred. They fit anyway.
Outside, the river does its slow, muscle-deep hush. A car goes by far off, tires whispering on asphalt. The house settles around us. Somewhere, a clock ticks, echoing the minutes away.
Her leg slides over mine. My thigh fits between hers. Her belly, not yet showing, presses to mine, and it makes something fierce twist in me. I press my mouth to her hairline. She sighs and relaxes against me.
Her fingers curl once, a little squeeze around my fingers, and then loosen.
Her breathing evens out first—slow, then slower, little ghostly breaths against my skin.
Mine follows, like my body has been waiting for permission to relax.
I trace the curve of her shoulder with my thumb once, memorize the weight of her head on my arm, and let the stupid, stubborn fight I’ve been carrying all day drain out into the mattress and disappear.
The last thing I know is that, for the first time since those three men sauntered into my pub, my head is quiet.