Chapter 3
HOPE
Song: Free Fallin’ by Tom Petty (cover by John Mayer)
Turns out you can’t die from humiliation
“God, please, strike me down,” I begged as I hurried back to Gran’s.
I’d known that Justice was joking, but damn if his joke hadn’t hit straight to the core of my desires.
Marry me.
I swear my heart had seized in my chest when Justice had uttered those words.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid!”
My cheeks were on fire, and my hands trembled as I stumbled down the path between our houses. The trees around me stood silent, no doubt judging me.
Don’t worry, I judge myself.
I leaned over, huffing out a breath.
“Stupid!”
My stomach churned as my brain replayed my reaction to Justice’s teasing again and again.
I need to move to Peru or Papua New Guinea. Somewhere remote with little access to the internet. I can’t believe I acted that way—who am I?
I stumbled in the dark, nearly tripping on the loose gravel.
“Oh no.” I groaned, catching myself. “The pie dish.”
I’d really liked that dish too, but such was the sacrifice I was willing to make to avoid seeing either brother ever again.
I let out a small groan, scrubbing a hand over my face. “Why is it that any time I’m in Justice’s presence I act like a teenager rather than a woman? What am I, fourteen? Ugh!”
My crush on Justice had been formed years before he’d become famous, but it had been during the hard years that it had solidified. During the years when my dad had been sick, the cancer slowly eroding his strength until there had been nothing left but the twinkle of the man I’d known.
I swiped angrily at the tears that filled my eyes, determined not to cry over the memories.
My father’s death had come two years after his diagnosis.
It had been hard on my entire family—my three brothers had changed, becoming moody or overly protective of our family.
My mother had lost weight, her usually cheerful disposition slowly vanishing until all that remained was a fake smile and empty words.
We’d celebrated life and the small moments throughout his illness, but everything had been tainted by the knowledge that this first would be his last.
My eldest brother, Harley, had gotten his teenage girlfriend pregnant, gifting Dad his first grandchild—and the only one he’d lived to meet.
My middle brother, Holden, had learned the art of the wisecrack, turning into a sullen and moody beast of a boy, sneaking out at night to get into all sorts of mischief.
Meanwhile, my youngest brother, Hudson, had lived to please. He’d become mine and my mother’s keeper, making us smile and taking care of the both of us.
And I, as the youngest of all my siblings, had retreated into the pages of my books, encouraged by my dad to read his favorites before visiting the hospice care where we’d discuss the intricacies of each storyline.
He’d been the one to encourage me to write—to find an escape. He’d also been the one to hand me my first notebook and a fancy, engraved fountain pen.
“Write,” he’d said to me. “Give voice to your dreams, Hope. That’s all any of us can do.”
And so, I’d written about the boy next door.
The boy who snuck a drunk Holden through my bedroom window more nights than I could count while Mom slept downstairs.
The boy who’d wink at me during church prayers when all I’d wanted to do was scream at the injustice of losing a parent I loved.
The boy who handed me daisies when I was sad and forced me to laugh when I wanted to cry.
The boy who looked out for me in the schoolyard when the other girls were horrid because I was the one wearing my brothers’ hand-me-downs because my family couldn’t afford both new clothes and medical bills.
The boy who’d bought me ribbons for my hair for my birthday, and pink ink for my pen at Christmas.
Justice had been the light I’d needed when my life had been shrouded in darkness.
When his parents had died, I’d tried to return the favor, offering him a shoulder to cry on and leaving childish things for him to find that I knew would make him laugh.
There’d been a brief moment when I’d thought we might have been shaping our relationship into something more—something less “best friend’s little sister” and more “woman I want to spend my life with.” But that had been wishful thinking on my part, and before I could reconcile my reality with my dreams, Mom had decided to return to her home country to live near her family.
That had been it—the end of whatever might have been.
But it hadn’t been the end. I’d continued to write about Justice until my words had become stories and those stories had become books.
And now I was living in a nightmare of my own creation because ultimately Justice wasn’t the problem—I was. He’d never done anything to deserve the reaction I’d thrown at him tonight.
“Blast,” I muttered as I not-so-quietly stomped my way up the front steps of Gran’s house. “I’m going to have to apologize.”
I shoved open the door only to see that Gran was on the telephone—no doubt speaking to one of her many friends from across town.
The local rumor mill thrived thanks to my grandmother. I didn’t want to brag, but if gossip were an Olympic sport, Gran would be the GOAT.
She raised her hand in welcome and I waved back but didn’t stop. I needed to get back to a world where I was in control.
I took the stairs two at a time, rushing up the familiar hall and into the ancient bedroom only to skid to a halt—my heart slamming into my chest.
“Justice?”
He turned slowly away from the poster on my wall that he’d been staring at to cock an eyebrow at me. “This room needs an update.”
Heat burst across my cheeks and down my neck. “I haven’t exactly had time. And how exactly did you get here?”
“I took the shortcut.”
I frowned. “There’s a shortcut?”
“Yeah, through the bull paddock. You just have to run really fast.”
I wasn’t sure if I should be flattered or terrified that a man worth more than my entire family’s income combined was risking his neck to climb in my bedroom window.
He gestured at the giant king bed that took up the majority of the space. The bed itself had been made by my great-great-grandfather, and most of the bedding looked to have come from around the same time period.
“Please tell me that mattress is from this century.”
I grimaced. “I wish.”
He shook his head. “And the fringe on the blankets? That can’t be comfortable.”
I felt myself relaxing a little at his teasing. “It’s not.”
“Why not change it? You’ve been here for how long exactly?”
“Five months.” I walked over to touch one of the hand-stitched throw pillows that sat unused on the bedding box at the foot of the bed. “I want to but….” I paused, trying to find the words to make him understand.
“But?” he prompted when I didn’t say anything.
I swallowed against the disloyal lump that had formed in my throat. “Don’t tell Gran, but I feel like if I make this bedroom mine—if I change anything no matter how small—then it means I’m staying. And I’m not sure I want to stay.”
He nodded, seemingly absorbing my words without judgment.
“It feels… awful to admit that.” I sighed, flopping down to sit on the bed. “But it’s the truth. I don’t know if this is the place for me.”
“I get it.” Justice grabbed my desk chair and straddled it, crossing his arms across the back of the seat. “Being back is rough. Everything is at once familiar and yet…”
I grinned ruefully. “‘And yet’ is correct.”
We fell into a comfortable silence, though we both avoided eye contact.
Time to woman up and get over this awkwardness.
“Justice, I—”
“Hope, I’m—”
We laughed, the tension breaking.
“You first,” I said, gesturing at him.
“I’m sorry for tonight. You were trying to make things easier for me and Asher, and I fucked up.”
I shook my head emphatically. “No. You were kidding around. My reaction wasn’t—that is to say—I mean…
” I cleared my throat. “My reaction was inappropriate.” I cast out, desperate for some reason to justify my reaction.
“It’s just that Gran was on my case earlier tonight about dating and, well, I was already feeling a little raw over my single status. ”
Justice frowned. Our gazes met and he looked to be searching for something. “Being single isn’t a bad thing.”
“It is when everyone treats you like their little sister rather than a fuckable woman.” I slapped my hand over my mouth. “Damn! What is it about you that makes me say inappropriate things?”
He grinned, seemingly pleased by my admission. “Don’t hold back on my account.”
I threw a pillow at him in response.
He easily caught it and tossed it back, managing to land it in my lap.
“You’re really trying to tell me that the men around here aren’t knocking down your door?” he asked.
I didn’t want to be having this conversation with a man who had dated some of the most beautiful people in the world.
I half-shrugged. “No one is. Not here, not back home, not in any place I’ve ever been.”
“Come on,” he teased. “You’re gorgeous.”
I grimaced. “Thanks, but I can assure you there’s no one.”
“What are you trying to say?”
I hesitated, embarrassed to admit my inexperience to this rock god. Surely, I’d experienced enough embarrassment and shame for one night.
“There’s never been anyone… if you catch my drift.”
“So, you’re….” He hesitated. “I hate the word ‘virgin’ because, let’s be honest, virginity is a social construct.”
I rolled my eyes.
“But let’s go with ‘abstinent’. Are you abstinent?”
I cringed. “Not by choice.”
Justice remained silent, waiting for me to continue.
“It’s pitiful, right? In this day and age of apps and online dating and reality TV, I really should have been able to find someone who wanted to be with me for longer than five minutes.
But that’s not what happened. And as I got older it just seemed like all the good guys were in relationships and the leftovers were… well, left behind for a reason.”