Chapter 44
Forty-Four
Gavin fucks me stupid on a broken bed all night long. If it weren’t for the sound of the rain to drown us out, my mother would have pounded the door down and grounded me.
The morning’s new light, warm and ethereal, stretches through parallel slots of the blinds to paint the scene of us naked and twisted in blankets. With my leg slung over him, he strokes circles on my back, his eyes closed as we exist in the afterglow of the last hours.
My head on his chest, I count his heartbeats. He has a class to teach today, and I have to be at the vineyard, but neither of us rush to move. This might be what it’s like to wake up with him every single morning.
My gaze drifts around to nothing until it lazily lands on my desk. The glass slipper, my life’s checklist, the old pictures of the girl I used to be.
“Amanda and Greg waited longer than I expected to have kids,” I say.
“Not on purpose,” Gavin says, his voice vibrating my cheek. “They had a couple miscarriages.” That explains the difference between Addie’s age and Amanda’s pregnancy at Dad’s funeral. “Took a while. Finally had Addie. Took years to get pregnant again.”
“I didn’t know.” It’s hard to imagine her going through all that and managing so much loss.
She always wanted kids. And I know she wasn’t alone—she had Greg, she probably had loads of friends—but I wish I would have been one of them.
That I would have answered more when she called or hit a pause button and picked up the phone myself.
“Hm.” Gavin’s strokes on my back turn to tapping fingers. “Life happens. People grow apart.”
“It was me. I got busy. Too busy.”
My attention moves from the photos to the glass slipper, my thoughts shifting from me working too much to a time Gavin’s days weren’t so different.
He forfeited his dream career to be here with people who needed him.
I came home to help Rue and Mom earlier in the summer—but I worked the whole time—and even as guilty as I felt about missing Mom’s surgery, I’m only here now because I was forced.
I wonder if I’m the worst person alive for that. If I looked in the mirror long enough if all I would see is that ugly truth. I choose work over everyone, constantly.
Why?
Money?
That’s part of it, a big part, but it’s also because I don’t know how to stop. I like being good at something. And needed.
A baby will need me. If Gavin and I are together, he might. And Addie. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life alone.
The rays of sun hit the shoe then refract to the walls, exposing a new detail: It’s filled with bubbles.
“Why do you call Addie a glass bubble?” I ask.
He shifts on the mattress, and I prop my chin on his chest so our eyes meet.
“In mass-produced glassware, trapped air bubbles are considered a defect, and any piece with them is pitched. Recycled. Whatever you want to call it. But in a handmade piece—” He taps his fingers down my spine.
“One where a man, fire, and sand come together, bubbles are seen as unique. Highly valued. No two bubbles are the same. The difference between pieces can come down to those bubbles.” He smiles a little.
“What some call a defect actually makes it better, isn’t that something?
” The look of admiration he has for his niece liquifies me. “There’s Addie.”
I prop myself on my elbows. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard. The definition of unconditional love. Our eyes bounce and he tucks my hair behind my ear.
“She’s lucky to have you,” I tell him, leaning into his palm.
“Hm.” He smiles a little. “I’m lucky to have her.”
I want to tell him I love him, because right now, I think I do. I might know it. I want to give him babies he wants and spend the rest of my life proving I can be someone who deserves him. I want to say Chicago or Fontain, I’ll be wherever you are.
But when I open my mouth, a loud knock on the bedroom door cuts the moment.
“Reese,” Mom calls, making my eyes widen and Gavin stifle a laugh. “I’m making pancakes.”
I clear my throat. “Okay.” Then: “I’ll be down in a minute if you just want to wait.”
Gavin reaches under the blanket.
“You put all that healthy stuff in yours,” she says.
Gavin’s hand settles between my thighs, challenging look in his eyes. I shake my head.
Mom continues. “I’ll make them.”
To Gavin, I mouth, stop; he does not. His smile only widens as his fingers start to play me like a fiddle. To the door, I say around a laugh, “It’s fine.” Gavin’s blessed fingers are also fine. And now they are inside me. And my eyes are closed. “I’ll make them unhealthy.”
“I got it, Reese. I’m not dead, for God’s sake,” Mom snips. “And I’ll make enough for Gavin. He can use the front door this morning.”
My eyes fly open, and Gavin’s fingers go still before retreating. His smile is so big it barely fits in the room.
“Thanks, Iris,” he shouts.
“I hope you’re quieter than you were last night,” Mom says before her footsteps travel down the hall and to the stairs.
“Oh, God.” My mouth drops open as a mortified heat consumes my skin and I pull a blanket over my head. “She heard us.”
Gavin laughs, loud, and yanks the blanket down to kiss me before getting out of bed. “You were really loud.” He pulls his T-shirt on. “And I’m starved.”
I want to die—my mother heard me break a bed—but I follow his lead.
And with tangled hair, swollen lips, and an ache I feel when I sit, stand, or speak, I eat pancakes with Gavin and my mom.
Gavin puts his hand on my knee under the table.
I smile the whole time.
Even when my mom says, “It’s about time you listened to me.”