43. Maeve
Maeve
The sweatshirt is making me sweat but I refuse to take it off.
The morning sun pours through the passenger-side window as Keaton drives toward my parents' estate, warming the dark fabric stretched over my arms, but every time I consider pulling it over my head, my fingers tighten around the cuffs instead.
My father bought me this sweatshirt. Years ago, on a trip. I'd forgotten to pack anything warm because I was kid and apparently believed checking the weather was something only responsible adults did.
Dad had disappeared while I was getting ready for dinner and returned with this. And a coat. And gloves. And a hat I never wore because it made me look like a mushroom.
He'd been deeply offended.
The memory makes my chest ache. I look down at the faded fabric and smooth my palm over my stomach.
Maybe he'll remember it. Maybe he'll see it and remember who I was before Ronan. Maybe it'll make him less angry with me.
I don't know why I think he's going to be angry.
Except I do. I've embarrassed him.
Even if no one knows what happened yet, they will. People in my father's world always know everything eventually, and there is no way to explain why I left my husband's home with a man without revealing the truth about my marriage.
A truth I still don't entirely understand myself. I turn my face toward the window and watch the trees blur past.
"You don't have to go." Keaton's voice pulls me from my thoughts.
I look over. He's watching the road, one hand resting on the steering wheel while the other taps twice against his thigh.
"I know."
"We can turn around."
"I know."
"Or go somewhere else."
"I know."
"We could also drive past the house first. Gather visual information before committing to entry."
I stare at him. "Are you suggesting we surveil my parents before visiting them?"
"I'm suggesting reconnaissance."
"That's surveillance with better marketing."
His mouth twitches. I settle back into my seat. It's still strange seeing him like this. Driving. Existing in daylight.
Last night, he'd been entirely in black. This morning, he's wearing jeans and a black long-sleeved shirt with the sleeves pushed up his forearms.
He looks almost normal. Then he suggests performing reconnaissance on my childhood home, and the illusion disappears. My mouth curves.
His eyes flick toward me. "What?"
"Nothing."
"You keep doing that."
"Doing what?"
"Looking at me and smiling without explanation."
"I don't owe you an explanation for every smile."
"That's true."
I wait for him to argue. He doesn't. His attention returns to the road. My smile grows.
There is something incredibly unsettling about being around a man who accepts my answer the first time I give it.
I'm still adjusting. I tug at the cuff of the sweatshirt again.
Keaton glances down.
He'd been disappointed when I first came out of the bedroom wearing my dress from last night. I hadn't understood his expression.
I'd stopped in the hallway and looked down at myself, immediately checking for wrinkles or stains. "What?"
He'd stared at me. "Nothing."
"You're making a face."
"I make a lot of faces, according to you."
"Do I not look okay?"
The question had changed something in him.
He'd crossed the hallway toward me, then stopped before touching me. "You look beautiful."
I'd waited. His brows had pulled together as though he was trying to solve a problem.
"You would look beautiful wearing a trash bag, although I wouldn't recommend it. Plastic lacks ventilation."
I'd laughed.
He hadn't. "But I want you to enjoy wearing that dress."
My laughter had faded.
Keaton had glanced down at it before meeting my eyes again. "Not because it's the only thing you have available. Not because it's what you wore when you left. Wear it again when you choose it."
So I'd turned around. I'd gone back into the bedroom, dug through the box he'd saved, and found my jeans. Then I found this sweatshirt. I stood in front of the mirror for a long time holding it.
Now I wonder if Keaton knew why I'd chosen it.
Probably.
The man seems to know everything. His phone starts ringing through the SUV's speakers.
A song explodes through the vehicle so loudly that I jump. Keaton reaches for the volume.
I stare at the screen.
WHEELS
Keaton answers.
"What?"
"Where are you?" Wheels's voice fills the car.
"Driving."
"That's not a location."
"It is technically a location."
"No, it's an activity."
"Why did you call?"
"I heard you're going to see Daddy O'Donnell."
I turn toward Keaton. He closes his eyes briefly. He's driving, so this seems like a poor decision.
His eyes open again. "Who told you?"
"Rachel."
"Of course."
"Wait for me."
Keaton frowns. "Why?"
"Because I'm coming with you."
"No."
"That wasn't a question."
"Neither was my answer."
I press my lips together.
Wheels continues as though Keaton hasn't spoken. "I'm ten minutes from Bullet's place. Pull over or circle back."
"Why would you come with us?"
The question sounds genuinely confused.
Silence fills the car for a second.
Then Wheels answers, all the humor gone from his voice. "Because that's what family does, asshole."
I look at Keaton. His expression doesn't change, but his fingers tighten slightly around the steering wheel. For a moment, he doesn't say anything.
Then, with complete seriousness, he asks, "I thought family was who you called to bail you out of jail after another traffic violation."
There's a beat of silence. Wheels starts laughing. "That too."
"You still owe Matt money."
"I do not."
"He paid your bond."
"I paid him back."
"You bought him a steak."
"It was a really good steak."
"Those things aren't equivalent."
"Depends on the steak."
Keaton hangs up.
I stare at him. "You didn't say goodbye."
"He knows."
"You also didn't wait for him."
"No."
"He said he wanted to come with us."
"I'm aware."
"Because you're family."
His jaw tightens slightly. I don't know if anyone else would notice. I'm starting to.
"He'll be fine."
I look at the side mirror. "Do you think he'll follow us?"
"Almost certainly."
I smile.
Twenty minutes later, as the gates of my parents' estate come into view, I desperately wish we'd waited for him.
Every bit of warmth disappears from my body. I sit straighter in the passenger seat. The sweatshirt suddenly feels too heavy. Too warm. My fingers curl into the cuffs.
Keaton notices. He doesn't say anything.
The SUV slows as we approach the gate, and I stare through the windshield at the stone walls surrounding the property where I grew up.
Home. The word feels strange now. The guard at the gate looks into the vehicle.
His eyes land on me. His entire expression changes. He says something into his radio before the gates begin opening.
My stomach twists. "Keaton."
"I'm here."
"I don't think I can do this."
His hand leaves the gearshift and turns palm up on the center console between us. An offer. Not a demand. I stare at it. Then place my hand in his.
His fingers close around mine. "We can leave."
I look toward the house in the distance. "I know."
"I mean it."
"I know."
"We can turn around right now."
I tighten my fingers around his. "Keep going."
He does.
The SUV moves slowly along the long driveway, and memories rise around me with every turn. Learning to ride a bike here. My father running behind me, one hand gripping the seat until I yelled at him to let go.
Coming home from college and finding my mother waiting on the front steps because she'd missed me but didn't want to admit she'd been watching for my car.
Christmas lights wrapped around every tree.
My father teaching me to drive in the empty stretch beside the garage and shouting at me to brake while I screamed that I was trying.
I swallow against the sudden pressure in my throat. Why haven't I thought about those things in so long?
Keaton's thumb moves once over the back of my hand.
The house gets closer. My heart beats faster. There are cars outside. Too many. I recognize my father's. My mother's. Two of the vehicles belonging to his security and a black SUV I've seen outside Rizzoli events.
"Keaton."
"I see it."
"Why is Callum here?"
"Probably because he doesn't trust me."
I turn toward him. "Should he?"
Keaton considers the question. "Currently?"
"Yes."
"No."
Despite everything, a laugh escapes me.
It disappears when the SUV comes to a stop. Keaton turns off the engine. Neither of us moves. I stare at the house. My childhood home. The place I spent months begging Ronan to let me visit before I finally stopped asking.
My father is in there. My mother is in there.
And I suddenly feel eight years old. "Maybe Wheels had the right idea."
Keaton turns toward me. "About what?"
"Waiting for him."
"Why?"
I look at the front door. "Because I think I need more people on my side."
Keaton goes very still. When I look at him, his expression has changed. Not angry. Something deeper. Something I don't understand yet.
"You have me." The words are quiet. Certain.
My throat tightens. "I know."
His fingers close more firmly around mine. Then a motorcycle roars up the driveway behind us.
Keaton closes his eyes. I stare through the back window as Wheels pulls up beside the SUV, cuts the engine, and removes his helmet.
He grins at us through the passenger window.
I look back at Keaton. "You said he wasn't coming."
"I said he'd be fine."
"That's not the same thing."
"I know."
Wheels knocks on my window and shouts through the glass. "Family field trip!"
And for the second time since we pulled through the gates, I laugh.