24. In Which Aiden Tells the Truth #2
It’s a stupid question. I’ve already kissed her.
I’ve already told her I plan on doing it again.
And I meant it when I said I’m not capable of casual relationships.
I’ve tried, and by the time I like a woman enough to consider any kind of relationship—casual or otherwise—I’m already in too deep to keep things light.
It’s just that my first instinct when it comes to this woman is to hide, because there’s so much about her that scares me.
She has a mind that I want to unfold, a heart that I want to keep safe, a fiery streak that I want to be burned by.
I want to follow her around, just to see what she does and what she says.
I care about those things. And caring…it’s scary.
“So we aren’t dating,” she says now, tilting her head as she looks up at me. It’s not a question.
“No,” I say, swallowing. “Wouldn’t you agree that we haven’t made things official?”
She hums, stepping closer to me and wrapping her arms around my waist. “Technically I guess you’re right. You don’t want to date me?”
“It’s not—” I break off and try again. “We just need to talk about things first. That’s reasonable.”
She nods solemnly, her arms tightening around me. “Very reasonable. Though it kind of sounds like an excuse.”
“It isn’t. I mean, I don’t think it is. I think I want to date you.” I’m pretty sure I want to, anyway. I definitely have feelings for her, judging by the way my heart is pounding.
“I’m flattered,” she says dryly. “Well, do you want me to go back to how things were before?”
“What?” I say, shocked. “No. Don’t.”
“Mm-hmm. And do you want me to date anyone else?”
“No,” I growl, feeling suddenly irritated. “Don’t do that either.”
“Do you want to kiss me again?”
I sigh. “I can’t stop thinking about it, so yes.”
She nods decisively, and something in her eyes changes. “ You definitely want to date me,” she says, her lips tilting into a lopsided smile. “Do I have to wait for whatever you want to talk about, or can I hold your hand now?”
She could do so much more than hold my hand and I wouldn’t stop her. But I just swoop down and kiss her forehead. “Now,” I say. “You can hold my hand now. Now let’s go get your chips and guac.”
“Do you realize,” she says as she lets go of my waist and takes my hand instead, “that we are this close to Aidiper territory?”
I just smile.
When we arrive home thirty minutes later, we’re still holding hands, and I’m collecting valuable information. How well can I put away groceries one-handed? What does it feel like to run my fingers over a nail that’s coated with chipped polish? How much smaller is Juniper’s hand than mine?
These are all questions I’m answering as we swivel around the kitchen like we’re handcuffed, an odd swing dance playing out on our tiny stage.
It’s embarrassing, is what it is.
Probably gonna keep doing it anyway.
Juniper doesn’t appear to be feeling any of the embarrassment I am, though; in fact, every now and then she looks at our clasped hands and smiles, a tiny slash of her lips that’s both amused and, for some reason, smug.
“Okay, enough,” I say finally when she does it again. I close the refrigerator and then nod at her. “What’s with the smirking?”
Her smile widens as she attempts to pull her hand away .
“Mine,” I say with a frown, holding tighter. “Are you gonna answer the question?”
“I knew you would be like this,” she says, now looking nothing short of radiant.
She gives our intertwined hands a little shake.
“I had a theory that you were prickly on the outside, but if I managed to get through all that, you’d be the kind of guy who never let go.
Following me around the kitchen with your arms wrapped around me from behind—or keeping my hand in yours even though you’d be more efficient without it. ”
She’s right, I realize with a start. I am doing that—hoarding her touches, storing them up in case of a long winter without them.
Or, in other words, in case she changes her mind about me.
“So just tell me already,” she says with a sigh, interrupting my thoughts. “Say whatever it is you need to say. So that we can keep holding hands.”
And I’m not sure I want to, not sure I’m ready to, but we’re floating in this strangely shaped space where we can’t move forward and we can’t move back.
“I’m concerned,” I say, my voice hoarse, “that it’s going to change how you feel about me.”
Juniper rolls her eyes, pulling her hand out of mine. She scrubs both hands down her face and then glares at me. “You’re just gonna have to deal with that. Spit it out now, before I get any more attached to you. If I end up hating you it’s already going to hurt.”
I can feel the blood draining from my face as my eyes go wide. “Are you—is that supposed to be helpful? Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“Of course not,” she says. “This isn’t all about you. Now just tell me. What is it? Were you secretly married before?” Her eyes narrow on me. “Do you have a kid somewhere? It wouldn’t be an immediate no, but?—”
“Good grief.” The words burst out of me, echoing around the kitchen. Then I point to myself. “I’m sorry, but I have to ask—do you really think I could keep a child secret?”
“You can do anything if you put your mind to it,” she says solemnly, with just enough sparkle in her eyes that I know she’s joking. It doesn’t erase the tense lines around her mouth, though, or the rigid set of her shoulders.
I sigh, gesturing to the bag of groceries still on the counter. “Grab your chips and guac and let’s talk.”
I move into the living room with slow, dreamlike steps, a lamb to the slaughter, while Juniper trails behind me clutching her tub of guac to her chest as the bag of chips swings from one hand.
I don’t know how she’s going to take this, so I’m just preparing myself for a little of everything. She might hate me, I guess. She might be apathetic. She might cry. I really don’t know.
I sit.
She sits.
I take a deep breath.
She raises her eyebrows at me.
I speak.
“When you were in high school,” I say, “you went to a foster home for a few months.”
Something in Juniper’s eyes sharpens; alertness enters her frame. “Yes,” she says without inflection. “That’s correct.”
I rip the Band-aid off. “I was the one who reported your mother to CPS.”
There are different kinds of silences. Some are warm. Some are cold. Some are heavy, and some feel like they could blow away in the breeze.
The silence that falls over the room now is a death silence—cold and motionless and heavy. Another dead body, one of my own making this time, lying in the space between Juniper and I.
“You—reported her?” Juniper’s words are hollow, her eyes far away.
We’re both sitting on the couch, and she’s close enough that I could reach out and touch her, but I don’t.
Her hands are white-knuckled as she clutches the tub of guacamole to her chest; the bag of chips crinkles loudly as her grip tightens there too.
“Yes,” I say. “I reported her.” I swallow past the impossible knot in my throat. “I was worried about you. That’s all I told them. That I was concerned.”
And that is the other reason I didn’t want to live with Juniper.
That is the reason I still feel guilty sometimes, especially when she talks about her time in foster care.
Because I uprooted her life and sent her into the system, and she never even knew.
I thought I was doing the right thing at the time, but I’ve wondered ever since.
Juniper inhales shakily, holding it for a second as though she’s about to speak. But she releases her breath instead, her eyes turning glassy as she turns her gaze on me.
She scoots closer, shuffling toward me on the couch. She leans down and sets her chips and guacamole on the floor.
I tense, preparing myself.
But I’m not ready for the soft touch of her hand on my thigh. I’m not ready for the arm she threads around my torso or the way she buries her face in my shoulder.
I’m not ready for the two words she whispers: “Thank you.”
I sit for a moment, stunned, before I’m able to react. I wrap my arms around her and pull her onto my lap, where she folds perfectly into me—my origami heart .
I don’t want to ruin the moment by asking her what the heck is going on right now, but…
“What the heck is going on right now?”
She gives a watery laugh, a puff of breath I feel just above the collar of my sweater.
“What did you expect?” she says.
“I don’t know,” I say, still feeling dazed. “I wasn’t sure.”
“My foster parents were really, really wonderful.” The words are quiet but tinged with unmistakable fondness.
“I know a lot of kids don’t have that experience.
But I did. I was never hungry, the house was warm, no one was drunk.
My caseworker was great too—Mr. V. I still send him a letter every Christmas. ”
I swallow, feeling the softness of her hair against my face. “Did you miss your mom?”
She gives a humorless little laugh. “Horribly.” She exhales a shaky breath. “I still miss her. Isn’t that crazy? But she’s my mom.”
“You can borrow my mom if you want,” I say, reaching up and stroking her hair. “It won’t be the same, of course. But she’s pretty great, and she has love to spare.” I pause, then say, “So…to clarify. You’re not upset?”
“That you reported my mom?”
I nod wordlessly.
“I’m shocked,” she admits. “And it will take a little time for me to wrap my head around it.” Her eyes dart to me and then away again. “And I can’t promise that I won’t be upset at some future date.”
“That’s absolutely fair,” I say quickly. “I would understand completely.”
She nods. “But right now…” She gives me a little shrug and goes on, “I’m not angry.”
“Wow,” I say, leaning back. “That was so…anticlimactic.”
She laughs. “Sorry. Do you want me to pretend to be more upset?”
“No,” I say, unable to suppress my own grin. “No need.” I press a kiss to the top of her head, just because I can. “Let’s eat chips and guac and figure out our next move.”
“Are you gonna date me?” she asks with a little smile.
“Mmm,” I hum. “Yeah. I’ll probably have to date you.”
“Are you gonna feed me food out of your secret fourth drawer?”
Crap. I forgot that she saw that. “That’s for emergencies only,” I say, my voice gruff. “Now pass the chips, Junipaide.”