CHAPTER 28 I ALREADY CHOSE
I ALREADY CHOSE
REESE
It has been a very full day.
Charlie is already home when we get there, yet Miles still walks through the townhouse like he’s conducting a security inspection.
He checks the back door, every window—even the ones upstairs—and the lock on the front door that he locked himself when we came in.
He even uses his little device that checks for bugs.
There is something so attractive about watching Miles slip into hyper-competent operative mode. He’s just so good at this.
Of course, I would appreciate it more if he weren’t currently using it to avoid acting like my boyfriend.
“You know,” I say as I lean against the kitchen island, “statistically speaking, my chances of getting kidnapped twice in one day are pretty low.”
He doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even smile.
That’s when I really understand how off he is.
I noticed back at the CSA, too, from the moment his face changed when he saw the red on my wrists.
He hadn’t even reacted at all to my joke about my black eye.
But there were too many people around us, too many things happening, and I still had too much adrenaline coursing through me.
But here, in my kitchen, it’s obvious that Miles is being careful with me. Not like I’m made of spun sugar or anything like that—he hugged me hard enough at the CSA that I could feel the pounding of his heart. This is a different kind of careful.
We got my purse back from the hospital, and he takes my phone from it and places it on the counter beside me. “Make sure you keep this charged and nearby tonight.”
“I always do. Well, I always try to.”
Up close, I can see how exhausted he is—the shadow of stubble along his jaw, the tiredness around his eyes—and I have the overwhelming urge to pull him into me and make him stop holding himself so carefully apart.
“Charlie is here if you need anything. And she’ll be home tomorrow morning.”
“I know.”
“I’ll be home, too, so call me if—”
“Miles,” I say, and he stops. “I’m okay.”
He looks down at the scratches on my arm. “You need sleep.”
“So do you,” I say, and I watch him retreat an inch without physically moving. Then he kisses my forehead—and only my forehead—before leaving. His mouth is warm against my skin, and instead of comforting me, it makes me acutely aware of the places he isn’t kissing me.
I stare at the front door when he’s gone. I really hope he doesn’t plan to be weird for very long.
I’ve just made it to the bottom of the stairs at 8:12 a.m. when Miles texts for the first time.
Miles: How’s your eye?
I move closer to the patio door to get the most flattering morning lighting, and then I take a selfie of me making the most glamorous expression I can manage with one swollen purple eye and send it.
Reese: I think it’s rather stunning. I may decide to keep it.
Miles: Any dizziness? Headache?
I stare at the screen. Who is this, and what has he done with my Miles?
Reese: No dizziness. Mild emotional devastation that you ignored a perfectly good black-eye joke.
Miles: How are your wrists?
I groan, drop my phone onto the couch, and run my hands over my face.
Charlie looks up from where she stands at the kitchen counter sprinkling granola on her yogurt. “That bad?”
I make my way into the kitchen to get a glass of water. “He’s communicating like a discharge nurse.”
She winces. “Ouch.”
Miles stays the same all morning. He texts to check on me, but never as if he’s the Miles I know and love. I make it until 11:53 before I can’t stand it any longer, and I grab my keys.
When Miles opens his front door, he just blinks at me. He’s in a T-shirt and jeans, his hair slightly rumpled, and I discover that being irritated with him has done nothing to make him any less attractive.
His gaze goes from my black eye to my wrists. “You’re supposed to be resting.”
Yep, he’s still doing it. I walk past him into his house.
“Reese.”
I turn to face him. “No.”
He carefully shuts the front door, his eyebrows drawn together. “No what?”
I wave one hand between us. “No to whatever this is. This strange, sanitized version of you who asks me about neurological symptoms and only kisses me on the forehead.”
“I’m just making sure you’re okay.”
“You’ve been making sure I’m okay for five years. You usually manage to do it while still being Miles.”
He looks away.
“You’re pulling back.”
His shoulders drop just a bit. “I saw the parking garage footage. The marks on your wrists and face.”
“The face was mostly the trash can’s fault. Well, and the shrubs—they also got in on the action.”
“This isn’t funny.”
“I know.” That gets his eyes back on mine. I take a slow breath. “Yesterday was terrifying—I’m not pretending it wasn’t. And I’d rather it never happens again.”
“It happened because of me.”
“No, it happened because two criminals grabbed me in a parking garage.”
“Because you were connected to me.”
“Yes.” He clearly wasn’t expecting that answer. I fold my arms and add, “I’m not going to tell you your job had nothing to do with it. It did.”
His jaw tightens.
“And I know that scares you.”
“It should scare me.”
“It scares me, too. But being scared doesn’t mean you get to make a decision for both of us.”
Miles goes still. And suddenly, I recognize what he’s doing, because it wasn’t too long ago that I was doing the exact same thing. Now I know what to say.
“You told me I don’t get to decide that me not being able to give you biological children makes loving me too expensive for you.”
His expression changes.
“You were right—I don’t get to decide what loving me costs you.
” I step closer. Close enough that I can see the tension in his jaw and the tiny shift in his breathing when I move into his space.
Close enough that I want to reach up and touch his face, even though I’m not done being serious yet.
“But that also means that you don’t get to decide what loving you costs me.
You asked me to trust you to know what you’re willing to live with.
I’m asking you to trust me to know the same thing. ”
His eyes close briefly. And when they open again, there’s no argument in them—only fear. “I don’t know if I can watch something like that happen to you again.”
I pause for a long moment. Then I say, “Okay.”
He flinches.
“That is what you need to figure out.” I move even closer to him and reach for his hand. “But figure that out. Decide whether you can live with loving someone you can’t always protect.”
His fingers close around mine. The familiar warmth of his hand settles something in me. I don’t want less of this because yesterday was terrifying. I want more.
“Don’t figure out whether I’m allowed to choose you, because I already did.”
For a while, we look into each other’s eyes, neither of us saying anything. Then Miles’s gaze goes to our joined hands. “You make that sound so simple.”
“It’s not simple.”
He shakes his head.
“But neither was what you asked me to do.” His eyes meet mine, and I squeeze his hand. “I love you, Miles. I’m not mad at you or anything remotely resembling that. And we are not breaking up, in case your brain has gotten dramatic enough to go there.”
That finally gets the smallest hint of a smile before it disappears.
“So, you figure that out,” I say. “I’m going to school.”
His head snaps up. “You’re what?”
“I’m going to the library.”
“Reese, you were kidnapped yesterday.”
“And today, I’m going to alphabetize things. Healing comes in many forms.”
“Reese.”
“Marjorie is still covering for me, and the students will be in class. I have ordering, shelving, emails, and my list of fourteen things I was supposed to do before Grace decided to kick off the longest day ever.”
He opens his mouth, but I point at him. “No protecting me from shelving.”
For half a second, I want to kiss him properly—to remind both of us what we’re fighting to keep—but I don’t want to use a kiss to solve something he still needs to think through. So, I lean in and kiss his cheek. Then I let go of his hand and head for the door.
When I get to it, I stop with my hand on the knob and turn back to him. “Figure out your part. I’ve already figured out mine.”