Chapter 20
Oakley Kate
The first thing I notice when I wake up is the dull, pulsing ache in my leg.
Some things never change.
For a few minutes, I just stare at the ceiling fan turning lazy circles above me, trying to make sense of the storm in my chest.
Last night plays on a loop—tears, his arms, that damn kiss to my head, and the way I completely unraveled in front of him. Then the look on his face when he said we couldn’t do this. Yeah, that part’s the hardest to shake.
I shouldn’t have gone there. I shouldn’t have kissed him. And I definitely shouldn’t still be thinking about how it felt to be in his arms again.
The smell of bacon finally drags me from bed.
I crutch my way toward the kitchen, each step reminding me that I’m one ill-timed decision away from landing on my ass.
Mom looks up from the stove when I appear in the doorway.
Her hair’s piled on her head, robe tied too tight, and she’s wearing her “don’t even try to lie to me” expression.
Great. Just what I need before caffeine.
“Morning, sweetheart.” She flips a piece of bacon and eyes my leg. “You sleep at all?”
“Define sleep.” I maneuver to the counter and grab the orange juice she’s already poured for me.
Her brow lifts. “That bad?”
“It’s…manageable.”
She hums, unconvinced. “Silas texted me last night. Said he was worried about you making it home.”
Of course, he did.
Because of course he still can’t help himself.
I focus on swirling the ice in my glass. “I made it, didn’t I?”
“Barely,” she says softly. Then, gentler, “You two talk?”
I choke out a humorless laugh. “If you count arguing and me limping out of his house like a melodramatic idiot, then sure. We talked.”
Her lips twitch, fighting a smile. “Ah. So the usual.”
I glare, but it’s half-hearted. “Not funny.”
She shrugs. “Maybe not. But I’ve seen the way that man looks at you, Oakley. He always did. Some things just don’t burn out that easily.”
“Yeah, well,” I mumble, “some things shouldn’t be reignited either.”
She doesn’t respond, and I’m grateful for it. Because if she did, I’d probably break again.
When my phone buzzes on the counter, I don’t have to look to know it’s Silas checking up on me, because that’s what Silas does. He shows up, even when I tell him not to.
For a long moment, I just stare at his name on the screen, my thumb hovering over the preview. And the truth I don't want to admit? A part of me hopes he never stops.