22. Lennon
Lennon
M y body's heavy. Relaxed. Spent. Mission accomplished, and now I don't want to move.
We lie beside each other in silence, and I enjoy the sensation of her warm softness next to me, the gentle sound of her breath, the rise and fall of her breasts, but my brain won't shut up.
Is this when the guilt's supposed to hit?
I figured I'd feel like shit—like I lost control, gave in to the one thing I swore I wouldn't.
She hasn't even been here a month, and already I have failed. I told myself there'd never be anyone after my wife. But the second temptation showed up, I caved.
I should feel like the worst kind of asshole. Like I betrayed Georgia. Like I failed her memory. I should be picturing her face—imagining what she'd think if she could see me now, in bed with someone else.
I should be a mess. Angry. Guilty. Torn up.
But instead… I feel settled.
Maybe it's denial, and I'm still riding the afterglow of the best release I've had in years. Hailey did that to me—made me lose it so hard I saw stars.
She's still draped across my chest, warm and soft. I haven't pulled out yet, and I'm in no rush. I don't want to lose the feeling of being inside her—of her pulsing around me, both of us still humming with aftershocks.
Hell, my bones are still vibrating. Parts of me feel like they're still coming. Her scent clings to me, and I'm already hardening again.
Her hair brushes my chest, and I feel the steady rhythm of my heartbeat beneath her cheek.
This is going to get complicated, I can feel it. We should talk—about what just happened, and what comes next.
But she's gone quiet, her silence heavy, as if she is a long way away, deep in her own thoughts. I want to speak to her, but I don't know what to say, or how to start.
"I'm sorry," she whispers so softly I almost miss it. Her finger traces slow circles on my chest, but I frown.
Why the hell is she apologizing?
"Why are you saying 'sorry'?" I ask, tilting her chin so I can look into her eyes—already glossy with tears. This stirs a different kind of guilt in me. "You've got nothing to be sorry for."
"I asked for this," she says. "You… you didn't want to, but I practically begged you."
I let out a short laugh. Is that how she sees it? Was she even there five minutes ago?
"You think if I didn't want this, I'd have fucked you so hard I couldn't see straight?" I ask. "The door was open. I could've walked out. You didn't force me to sit down, and you sure as hell didn't force me to want you."
I tuck her hair behind her ear, meeting her eyes. "I could've dressed your burn in the kitchen. Or the hallway. Or anywhere else. But I came into your bedroom. Maybe part of me wanted this to happen. If I'm honest with myself, I've wanted you for a long time."
Her eyes widen. "I didn't know you felt that way."
She blushes when I don't look away, and after a moment, a soft light flickers in her eyes. Then she gives me a tiny smile—and I can't help but return it.
"I have to be honest with you," I say, trying to find the words. "My wife… she was the love of my life. And I don't think I'll ever?—"
"It's okay," she cuts me off gently. Her smile is soft, and there's a sense of true understanding in her eyes. "I get it. You're not ready for anything serious right now. Honestly, neither am I. I'm still figuring a lot out."
"I know." I run my fingers through her hair—slow, steady. If anyone understands grief, it's me. Reed, Dean, and I… we've all lost people in the field. But losing your family? That's something else entirely. I keep combing my fingers through her hair. "Tell me what they were like."
"Who?"
"Your parents. And your aunt and uncle."
She glances at me, so I keep going. "When my wife died, the thing that drove me crazy was how no one would talk about her. Everyone acted like I'd shatter if I heard her name—like saying it out loud would break me. It was infuriating. And it didn't help."
I pause, then add quietly, "What helped was talking about her."
She looks at me for a few long seconds… then smiles.
"They were terrific cooks, both of them," she says, resting her head back on my chest. "Mom and Dad, I mean. My aunt was a great cook too, but she was more… efficient. You'd be hard pressed to find anything she couldn't do, and it would always come out well. But here’s the difference: Aunty May followed the recipes in her books, and she followed them religiously — to the absolute letter. Whereas Mom and Dad… well they made it up as they went along. I doubt we ever had the same meal twice. I doubt they’d even have known how to make the same meal again. I don’t think they even owned a recipe book. If they did they sure didn’t use it much. "
"Were you happy, living with your aunt and uncle?"
She goes quiet for a second, then exhales slowly.
"Happy's a relative thing. I loved them, and I know they loved me—just… not in the ways I was used to.
"My parents were affectionate—physically and emotionally. Always hugging each other, kissing me, writing little notes and hiding them around the house. They did things to show they cared. And they loved adventures. We were always going somewhere, doing something new.
"So going from that to my aunt and uncle's place—quiet, structured, barely any talking, let alone affection—it was a huge shift. And I didn't exactly handle it well."
"You were a kid who'd lost her parents," I say gently. "Nobody would expect you to handle that perfectly."
She chuckles. "Yeah, you're right, but I complained about everything. Found fault in everything they did. I hated the chores, hated the structure—it clashed with the free-spirited way I'd been raised.
They weren't affectionate like my parents were, so I assumed they didn't even like me.
"Eventually, I got it into my head to run away. I figured they'd be relieved. I’d assumed in the end they'd only taken me in because they had to—and they'd be glad to see me go.
"So, one night, when everyone was asleep, I snuck out and walked to the bus station with the idea that I'd head to New York or Los Angeles, become a famous actress, and make it big on Broadway or in Hollywood.
I was thirteen at the time, so of course I had no idea how ridiculous that plan really was.
It feels almost comical now, looking back and remembering how certain I was that stardom was only a bus ride away. "
"What happened?" I ask, her story eliciting some dread.
"Nothing bad, thankfully," she says to my relief.
"I got stopped by a cop who didn't like the look of a kid on their own in a bus station with a backpack at that time of night.
He correctly guessed I was a runaway, and I confessed as soon as he challenged me.
He was nice about it though. He didn't call it through or anything.
Bought me a donut and a coke, then drove me back home, where my aunt and uncle were still asleep and hadn't even known I was gone. "
"When they found out what I did, they were shocked.
Surprisingly, though, they didn't scold me.
They were obviously upset, but instead of yelling, my aunt cried for the first time and asked me why I ran away.
I realized I couldn't answer. They weren't horrible to me at all, but I was lashing out at them because I'd lost my parents and needed someone to blame.
I never even stopped to think that my aunt had lost someone as well.
She'd lost her sister, and she was grieving too, even if it wasn't as obvious a grief as mine. "
She smiles a little sadly. A few tears had trickled down her cheeks as she told the story. This time, she doesn't hide them, like she did last night in the living room, and doesn't wipe them away. She lets them flow, and I'm glad that she trusts me enough to let me see her like this.
"For about a week after that, my uncle slept downstairs in his favorite rocking chair—just in case I tried to sneak out again.
My aunt started cooking all my favorite meals, the ones she remembered me liking as a kid.
That's when it finally hit me: they loved me.
Not with kisses and notes and adventures, but with structure.
With showing up. With… with just being there. "
"I never tried to run away again. And I did my best after that to behave, to not make their lives harder than they already were."
She sighs. "It's just… sometimes I wonder if I ever showed them how grateful I was. And now it's too late. I can't thank them for everything they did. I can't say sorry for all the grief I gave them—all the normal teenage crap on top of losing my parents."
"I'm sure they knew," I say quietly. "You showed it in your own way—by sticking it out. By adapting. That meant something."
She doesn't answer right away. Instead, she lets out a quiet, thoughtful "Hmm," like she hears me—but isn't sold on it.
We settle into a silence that drifts toward sleep. But one thought won't let me rest.
I know I need to talk to Reed about this.
Not because he's the leader—that's Dean—but because he's the one most likely to be hurt.
Reed's been open about how he feels about Hailey.
The looks he gives her when she walks into the room, the teasing, the way his gaze lingers on her legs, her ass.
It's not subtle. But subtlety has never been Reed's strongest suit.
Dean, though… Dean's harder to read. He's always protective, always managing the situation—but that's Dean being Dean. God knows what he really thinks about anything.
Still… now that I think about it, he's been quieter than usual lately.
Not that he's ever chatty, but there's a weight to his silence these days.
A tension. He watches us like it's his job—and perhaps it is—but every now and then, I catch him looking at Hailey when he thinks no one's watching.
And man, if that's not a recipe for disaster, I don't know what is.
I should talk to Reed about Dean too. Get his take. He's better at reading people than I am—always has been. That's never been my strong suit.
Later that day, I get the chance to talk to Reed. He's in Hailey's lodge, fixing something under her kitchen sink. He's the resident handyman around here—good with tools, always humming when he's working. Sure enough, he's got a rhythm going when I walk in.
He spots me, grinning. "You look like a man who just got freshly laid."
I freeze. Heat crawls up my neck. "How did you?—?"
"It's obvious," he says, straightening up. "You're not tense, you've got that loose swagger, and your face doesn't look like it's carved out of granite anymore. You've got pep in your step, my friend. You definitely just got laid. Am I wrong? Who was it… Marsha?"
I clear my throat and resist the urge to look away. Time to man up. "That's actually what I came to talk to you about."
He raises a brow. "You wanted to confirm it? Congrats, but I don't need the play-by-play."
"Not that." I sigh. "I hooked up with Hailey."
Reed's grin drops. His face goes slack, and the guilt I've been trying to outrun slams straight into me. I knew this wouldn't be easy. But Hailey and I agreed—Reed deserves to know.
"What?"
"Yeah. We didn't plan it. But I've been attracted to her for a while. Still am."
He frowns—more confused than angry. "I don't get it." His brow furrows, like he's trying to solve a puzzle.
"That I'm attracted to her?"
"No, no," he waves it off. "I already knew that. I… well, I thought she was into Dean. Isn't she? I mean, the guy's been mooning over her for weeks. All that brooding. The way his eyes follow her across the room. The dramatic sighs. He's got it bad, man."
"What?!" I stare at him, stunned. "I thought she was into you!"
Reed blinks. "Hailey and Dean? Really?"
Then he pauses. His eyes go wide—and suddenly, he's smiling. A big, slow, dawning grin.
Not forced. Not sarcastic. A huge, giddy grin spreads across his face. Not what I was expecting.
"Oh boy," he says, eyes lighting up. "You know what this means?"
I squint at him. "What?"
"She's into all three of us—totally confused—and convinced she can't have us all…" He pauses, savoring the moment, then looks me dead in the eye and grins. "But she can."
I frown at the mischievous gleam in his eye. Something is definitely brewing.
"Uh oh," I say. "What are you thinking?"
He grins wider. "I'm thinking… I have an idea."