Chapter 14 Jamie #2
Ashton demands my attention simply by breathing.
She’s completely absorbed in the music as she moves gracefully around the room, oblivious to my presence.
Turning and jumping. Extending her beautifully sculpted legs.
Muscular and powerful and so damn pretty.
A cherry red sweater falls off one bare shoulder, hitting her at the waist, but not covering any of her perfect ass cupped in tiny black bootie shorts.
And her hair—fuck, I love this woman’s hair.
It whips around her face as she spins, extending her leg, then doing a little twirl thing until she reaches the same point on the floor and does it again and again and again.
So many times, I lose track before the song comes to an end, and my beautiful girl plants one leg behind her and extends her arms up and at her side.
Her gorgeous gold-flecked eyes meet mine in the reflection, and fuck, her lip wobbles, and my heart crumbles.
“Don’t, Ashton. Don’t say anything. Not yet. Just hear me out.” I cross the room, closing the distance between us, and gather her face in my hands, fighting to find the right words. The ones that will force her to listen more and argue less. “You and me—”
“There is no you and me, Murphy.” She’s resigned, but she’s wrong. So fucking wrong.
“There is,” I argue gently, careful not to push her too hard. Not yet. “There’s been a you and me our entire lives, Ashton. There was a you and me before we were old enough to even know what it meant.”
“Jamie . . .” She sighs. “I don’t even know what that means now. You hate me . . .” She licks her lips nervously, trailing off. “And I hate you.”
Her words are meant to hurt. They’re meant to hit. But they don’t. Not now. Because they’re weak. They’re an excuse. One we’ve used for years. One I’m tired of.
“I’ve never hated you, Ace. I didn’t hate you when you used to bug me to explain what was happening during our dads’ games.”
She looks away. “I still don’t understand false start.”
And I doubt she ever will.
“I didn’t hate you when you used to cry to me that Evan was blowing up your Barbie dolls.
I might not have told you I was with him when he did it either, but that was self-preservation.
” I force her eyes back up to mine. “I didn’t hate you when I used to bring flowers to your recitals before you left for Chicago . . .”
“You never even looked at me after those recitals. You’d stand there behind Evan and Finn, looking bored to tears. You didn’t even want to be there. Just stood there, holding those flowers—”
“Pink peonies,” I stop her. “I was holding pink peonies.”
“What?” she asks, confused by the force behind my words.
“They were always pink peonies. When I gave you a bouquet of them for your last recital in Maryland, you told me they were your favorite.” I remember the damn day like it was yesterday, even if I was barely a teenager back then.
“Mom picked up two bouquets. One for me and one for Finn. She always did that. She said you never go watch someone perform without bringing flowers. You were in one of those starchy-looking pink tutus. The kind that stand straight out. A sparkly silver crown was pinned into your hair. And my bouquet matched your tutu. They were pink and white peonies. Dark ones and pale ones. I know because after you said they were your favorite, I asked Mom what they were. I wanted to make sure I knew. I needed to know.” I brush my thumb along her jaw, silently begging her to hear me.
“You didn’t say the same thing to Finn.”
“Daisies . . .” she whispers.
“What?”
“Finn always brings daisies. Even now, when he comes to a performance in Chicago, he brings daisies.” She wraps her fingers around my wrists. “Always daisies.”
“Why does he bring daisies, Ashton?” I’m not sure why I feel like this is such an important moment, but I feel it in my fucking bones, and my gut has never steered me wrong before, so I push. “Why?”
“Because Evan and Finn always thought they were my favorite.” She blinks back a tear. “Why does it matter what kind of flowers they were?”
God, how does she not see it? “Because if I was bringing you flowers, I wanted to bring you your favorites. I didn’t want to assume. I wanted to get it right. I wanted your real smile. I didn’t want them to just be good enough.”
“Jamie . . . I don’t understand.” I dig my fingers through the hair at the nape of her neck, anchoring her to me. “You didn’t even want to be there.”
“Says who? When did I ever say I didn’t want to be there?” I push. “Because I guarantee you never heard me say that. I wanted to be there, Ashton. I’ve always wanted to be there.”
She opens her mouth to answer but closes it just as quickly.
“Watching you dance—”
“You haven’t watched me dance in years, Jamie.” Anger bubbles beneath her surface, threatening to boil over, leaving me no choice.
Go big or go home, right?
Guess it’s time to go big.
“You were the Sugar Plum Fairy last year in The Nutcracker,” I tell her, remembering how beautiful she looked. “I think I’ve seen that one more than any other. How many times have you danced that, beautiful? Five times? Six? Is that your favorite role?” I push.
“What?” she stumbles over the word. “How?”
“I was there.” She closes her eyes, struggling to accept what I’m telling her, but deep down, I think she knows the truth. “I’ve always been there. Even when you didn’t want me there.”
Even when no one but me knew I was there.
“Jamie . . .”
“You look like you’re home when you’re on a stage. Any stage, apparently, because even down here, you get this look on your face. Like this is where you were made to be. This is your church.”
“I don’t go to church.” Her words are whispered, but the snark is there. The sarcasm she just can’t help. Her defense mechanism, protecting her like always.
“I don’t mean literally, Ace. My family has always said football is our church. The temple at which we worship. We’re most at home on a field, suited up with a ball in our hands and the goal in our hearts.”
A timid, teary-eyed smile tugs at her pretty lips. “And what’s that goal?”
“To win.” Kinda like now. “I don’t back down when I want something, Ace. I’ve only ever done it once, and I’ve battled that decision every day of my entire adult life. But it’s really hard to battle a ghost.”
Ashton sucks in a breath as some small level of realization must dawn, but she doesn’t stop me. Not this time.
“It’s hard to live with regret. It makes you say and do things you wouldn’t normally do.” I stroke her cheek, wondering if things had been different where we’d be now. Where we’d all be. “Regret can look like hate, but it isn’t. It’s blame, and the blame isn’t yours, beautiful. It’s mine.”
“Jamie . . .” A sob catches in her throat.
“I never hated you, Ashton. I hated myself.” Fuck if that’s not the most painful thing I’ve ever had to admit. The memories are enough to bring me to my knees, even now.
“Why?” The single word is a plea, falling from her lips. For an explanation I’ve never given. For the kind of honesty that strips you bare and leaves you open and vulnerable. Two things I’ve never been good at. “Tell me why.”
She knows.
She’s always known.
The reason I hate myself is the same reason she’s hated me all these years.
“Because I walked away,” I admit, my hands holding her close as she tries to tug away. “Because I walked away from you when you needed me most. Because I might have been there, with you and Evan the night he died, but I wasn’t there for you after.”