Chapter 25 #2
We polish off another drink, share some greasy food, and she argues with me over the bill until I finally slap my card down first.
“You’re impossible,” she mutters, sliding off her stool.
“And you’re welcome.”
Outside, the night’s cool enough to raise goosebumps on her bare arms. She waves toward the dirt lot. “I walked here.”
“Guess that means you’re stuck with me.” I open the passenger door, waiting until she climbs in before circling around. The drive’s quiet, the radio a low hum under her silence, until we roll past the flickering neon of the only motel in town.
The sign reads NO VACANCY.
“Well,” I say, easing the truck to a stop. “Guess this is you.”
She thanks me, already reaching for the handle. Then she pauses, meeting my gaze. “Are you staying here, too?”
I point at the sign, forcing a shrug. “Afraid not. Think I’ll just camp out in my truck. One motel, one campground—doesn’t leave many options.”
Her brow furrows. “But it’s freezing. Supposed to drop into the forties tonight.”
“I’ve handled worse,” I tell her. “Got a blanket. I’ll be fine.”
She mutters something under her breath, then pushes her door open. Out on the pavement, she digs out her keycard, unlocks the room, and throws me a sharp look over her shoulder, hands lifted in surrender. “Are you coming or not?”
I bite back a smile as I climb out of the truck. “You don’t have to do that. You said you wanted to be alone, Reese. I’ve already pushed my way into your space once tonight.”
“I’m not leaving you in your truck to freeze. You’re far too pretty for that.” Her eyes flick to mine, and I see the softness in their dark depths. “Besides, I’m glad you were here. Truth is, it’s not exactly fun hanging out alone. Might sound pathetic, but?—”
That gets me. Hits deeper than I want to admit. Heat flickers in my chest, spreading wider than it should.
“Not pathetic at all.” I grab my overnight bag from the backseat and lock the truck. “Because I saw how those men were watching you in the bar. Thought I might have to drag a few of them out to the parking lot.”
She scoffs, rolling her eyes. “Nothing like that happened.”
“Damn right it didn’t.” My jaw ticks. “Because I was sitting next to you. Are you sure you can tolerate me for a few more hours?”
That earns me another glare, but this one’s gentler, her lips twitching as she smothers a smile. She throws the door open wide and jerks her chin toward the room. “Come on. Don’t make me regret it.”
The motel room smells faintly of bleach and stale smoke, but the TV works and the bed’s clean, so I call it a win. Reese flips through channels until she lands on some old rom-com, the kind where you can guess the ending in the first five minutes but still watch, anyway.
She curls up at the far end of the bed, legs tucked under her, a fortress of pillows between us.
I kick my boots off with a thud, peel off my shirt, and toss it over the chair. Then I stretch out on top of the blankets, leaving a space between us, letting the flickering screen wash over the silence.
Halfway through the movie, Reese shifts, propping her chin on her hand. Her eyes are glassy from the whiskey, but sharp enough to cut me open. “Can I ask you something?”
Thank God, she’s ready to talk.
“Shoot.”
Her voice is low, tentative. “Have you ever been in love?”
With you. You’re it. You’re the only one I’ve ever loved.
The answer almost rips out of me, but she’s still raw, still pissed, still hiding behind all those walls. So I swallow it down and give her the truth I can.
“I have. Once.”
She blinks, curiosity softening her face. “What was it like?”
“The highest highs and the lowest lows,” I murmur, eyes fixed on the screen though I’m not seeing a damn thing. “All rolled into one. And I wouldn’t trade a single minute of it.”
Her brow furrows. “What happened?”
I don’t know. Why don’t you talk to me and tell me what happened?
I come this close to saying the words aloud but bite them back.
Arguing with someone who’s been drinking is like trying to convince a turtle to wear roller skates. Even if you manage it, it generally turns out to be a bad idea. So I realize I’ve got to wait until morning, until she’s sober. Then we’ll have the discussion we need. We’ll figure it out together.
I turn my head, letting her see the weight of it in my eyes. “She pulled away from me. Stopped talking. Built walls I couldn’t climb.”
Her lips part, but she looks away, hugging her pillow tighter.
A beat of silence, then she tries again. “What about you and Lauren?”
“There is no me and Lauren.”
Her gaze flicks back, uncertainty lining her face. “She offered you a way out.”
“Yeah,” I admit, voice steady. “But I want something bigger than that.”
She lets out a shaky breath. “What if not all of us are meant for happily ever after?”
“All of us meaning me?”
The vulnerability in her expression guts me. “I know you’re meant for it. I’m talking about myself.”
Something inside me rebels at that. I reach out, brushing my fingers against her ankle where it peeks from behind her wall of pillows. Just a touch. “You deserve the most beautiful happily ever after.”
Her throat works like she’s trying to swallow down the emotion. Then, she murmurs words so soft I almost miss them. “Thank you for saying that. But I don’t believe in it anymore.”
Before I can dig in, before I can pull her further open, she turns the volume back up, retreating behind her wall of pillows and shutting me out again.
The movie drags on until her head tips against the cushions. She blinks heavy-lidded and sighs. “God, I’ve got such a headache. I’m so tired.”
“Then just go to bed.”
She shakes her head, rubbing her temple. “No, I’ve got to wash the night off me.”
I push up on an elbow. “Or you could just sleep. I’ll find you aspirin.”
Her laugh is small, pained. “Fine, sleep.” She tucks deeper into her cocoon.
I climb off the bed and dig through my truck until I find a crumpled pack of aspirin, then bring her a bottle of water. “Here. This will help.”
She mumbles her thanks, takes them, then curls up again, her breaths slowing.
I slide down beside her, close enough to feel her warmth, far enough not to spook her. “Are you still drunk?”
Her lids flutter, fighting the pull of sleep. “Little.”
“Then I’m going to tell you something. Since you probably won’t remember it tomorrow.”
She squints at me, sleepy. “Wait. Do I want to remember it?”
I shrug, chest tight. “No idea. But I need to tell you.”
She yawns, rubbing at her eyes like a child. “Go ahead.”
I draw a shaky breath. The words burn at the back of my throat, begging for release.
“Better hurry up. I’m about to pass out, Griffin.”
Fucking hell. Here goes everything.
“I love you, Reese. More than I’ve ever loved anyone. You’re it for me. My everything. You’re the ending I want—whether you believe in it or not.”
I wait, pulse hammering, praying for her to say something— anything .
But all I hear is her steady breathing.
I glance over. Her eyes are closed, lashes fanned against her cheeks, lips parted in sleep.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter under my breath. “A month of working up the balls to tell you that, and you sleep through it.”
The laugh that slips out of me is equal parts exasperation and heartbreak.
I lean down, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Doesn’t matter, belleza. I’ll say it again tomorrow. And the day after. And every damn day until you believe me. Because I already walked away from everything else. You’re the only thing I’ll never walk away from.”
The room is still dim when I wake, sunlight barely skimming the blinds. Reese is curled on her side, breaths slow and even, and for a moment I just lie there, soaking her in. My girl.
God, please let today be the day she talks to me. Please let her trust me enough to let me in. I can’t fix what I don’t understand.
I slip out of bed as quietly as I can, tug on my jeans, and grab my phone. A coffee run feels like the least I can do for her—and maybe some pancakes too. She’s going to need it.
I yank my phone out the second I’m outside, the screen lighting up with three missed calls from Piper. No voicemail.
“Shit.”
I stab at the call button, pacing the cracked pavement of the parking lot. The line connects, drops. Try again—nothing. Bars vanish, reappear, vanish again. I move closer to the truck, then toward the road, then back again, like some idiot chasing a ghost signal.
“Come on, come on.”
On the fourth try it rings twice before cutting out. No voicemail option. Just dead air.
I’m ready to pitch the damn phone across the lot, but I hammer out a text instead.
Look, something’s wrong with your sister. She’s safe—I’m with her. But she’s distant, shutting me out, and I don’t know if I did something. Please call me as soon as you get this.
The message hangs there, spinning, caught between sending and failing. I shove the phone back in my pocket, teeth grinding.
Spotty service or not, Piper will see it eventually. And when she does, I’ll finally get some answers.
Until then, I’m not letting Reese out of my sight.