Anything Between Us (Starving Artists Book 3)

by Mila Ferrera

  “And sugar. Lots of it.”

  I find the sugar bowl on the counter, prepare his coffee, and take it over to him. He sips at it and grimaces. “Not that much sugar.”

  “You want me to make you another cup?” I’m smiling. I can’t help it—I like this guy.

  He waves it off. “I’ve had worse. How long have you worked here?”

  “Not long,” I say, glancing toward the living room. “And I’m worried I might get fired.”

  “Fired.” Tom is frowning again. “Bastards. One little mistake and boom.”

  I sigh. “Yeah. Tell me about it.”

  “Take a seat, Nate,” says Tom. He speaks slowly, like he’s grasping for every other word. “Tell me about yourself. Maybe I can help.”

  This is surreal. But it would be rude at this point to do anything but obey, right? I sit down across from him. “I was in the army,” I tell him. “Just got out.”

  “Unit?”

  “Third Brigade, 101st Airborne.”

  He grunts. “I thought you were in the 4th Infantry over at Carson.”

  My thoughts are pulled back to the picture in that bedside table. Sasha’s bedside table. The SPC grinning like he’s won the lottery. Maybe because he has, if Sasha has his picture in her nightstand. And maybe Marcus and Romy were right when they speculated about Sasha having a relationship she simply doesn’t talk about. “You might be thinking of someone else,” I mumble.

  “What—?” Sasha stands in the doorway, her hair mussed and her voice sleepy. She’s not wearing a bra, and I can see her nipples through the thin fabric of her T-shirt. Despite this unreal situation, the sight pulls everything inside me tight.

  I shoot to my feet. “I—”

  “This is ….” Tom squints up at me. “Who are you?”

  “Nate, sir.”

  “Nate,” Tom says to Sasha. “He stole my remote.”

  I turn to him. “I—”

  “Don’t,” Sasha says to me, entering the room. “Nate actually brought back the remote from the guy who stole it, and it’s in the living room. I’m so sorry, Dad. I didn’t set my alarm …” She takes in the scene while Tom sits placidly, eating his cornflakes and drinking his coffee. “Dad, did you …?” She looks down at him with a furrowed brow. Then she looks over at me. “Did you make breakfast for him?”

  I shrug. “He told me what he wanted.”

  “He put too much sugar in my coffee,” Tom says.

  I smile. “You really gonna keep busting my balls over that?”

  He chuckles and takes a sip of the over-sweetened beverage.

  Sasha clears her throat and gives me a skittish look. “Dad, Chad is going to be here in a few minutes.”

  “This guy …” Tom gestures at me.

  “Nate, sir,” I say. Either I’m imminently forgettable or Tom has some memory issues.

  “Nate can help me out,” Tom says.

  “No, he can’t,” Sasha says. “He’s got to get to work.”

  Suddenly I’m reminded that I’m standing in her kitchen, and I have no idea how I got here. “Yeah, actually,” I say, following her lead. “If I don’t get going, I’ll be late.”

  He shrugs and digs into his cornflakes as the front doorbell rings. Sasha folds her arms over her chest, looking stressed. “Nate, could you go upstairs and just … wait for me there?”

  I don’t question it. I wave goodbye to Tom and obey her as she heads for the front door. From the top of the stairs, I hear a guy give Sasha a cheerful greeting and ask if Tom’s had his coffee yet. I hear Sasha speaking quietly, but I can’t make out what she’s saying. And then I hear her on the stairs, and I withdraw into the bedroom and sit on the bed like I used to when I was being punished as a kid—when I knew that saying a word or complaining would earn me a spanking.

  She appears a second later and closes the door behind her. She gives me a once-over and says, “I bet you don’t even know how you got here.”

  I close my eyes.

  “Want me to fill you in?” Her tone is sharp, but I know I deserve it. I nod.

  She explains how she found me and what she did for me. By the time she’s finished, I’m leaning forward, elbows on my knees, my head hanging. “I’m so sorry,” is all I can say.

  “Who are you apologizing to, Nate?” snaps Sasha. “Me, or everyone who loves you, who could have lost you last night?”

  I blow a long breath through numb lips and don’t answer. Apparently, she takes that as an invitation to punch as hard as she can. “Your mom,” she says. “I know she’s recovering from cancer treatment. What do you think this would have done to her?”

  The fury in her voice is a knife, flaying skin from muscle--and it hurts more because I know she’s right. “I couldn’t take it anymore,” I say. “I needed it to end.” I sat on the beach and drank bourbon until long after the sun sank into the waves, and then I stumbled back to my car, fully intending to welcome a more permanent kind of darkness.

  “It would have ended for you,” she says. “But for everyone who cares about you? We’re left behind. Suffering.”

  Her voice cracks over that last word, and it brings my head up. Her eyes are shining with tears. “And it never ends,” she says quietly. “We’d carry that forever. Is that what you wanted?”

  My throat is tight as I rise to my feet. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. She’s right here, arms folded over her chest, the neck of her T-shirt pulled just enough so that I can see the small, red marks I left on the ridge of her shoulder. She looks small and fierce and incredibly sad. My instinct is to put my arms around her and tell her I’m okay even though I’m not. And another part of me wants her arms around me, telling me it’s okay even though it never could be. But we don’t know each other at all.

  She decided to save me last night when she didn’t have to, though. She could have called the police or left me there. She owes me nothing. “Thank you,” I say quietly. “I was pretty messed up.”

  “That’s the biggest understatement I’ve heard this year, Nate. I’m wondering if you don’t need to be committed.”

  “What do you want me to say, Sasha?” I snap. I’m thankful she wanted to help, but I don’t need this. “You didn’t have to bring me here, and I’m happy to get the fuck out of your hair right now.” If only I knew where my fucking keys were.

  She tucks a stray lock of shiny black hair behind her ear. “I needed to make sure you were safe. And I’m not letting you leave until I’m sure you are.”

  I laugh. “You’re not letting me?”

  “I hid your keys.” Her hands are on her hips now, which pulls that shirt tight across her chest again.

  Fucking hell. It’s like this inescapable vortex—I have to force myself to look away. “I’m sober now.”

  “Being hopelessly drunk is what saved you last night. You managed to pass out before you could pull the trigger.”

  “Not really. I chickened out first.” That much, I remember. Sitting there, dazed, with the gun in my lap. I kept thinking, One more minute, one more minute and I’ll pull the trigger. Something in me, though. Something kept me from doing it. Just this little voice telling me to wait. “I don’t think I would have done it anyway.”

  She grimaces. “Am I supposed to feel better about that?”

  “What is going to make you feel better, then? I’d like to know so I can get my keys back.”

  “You’re not taking this seriously.” The venom is back in her voice again.

  “Wrong. Where’s my gun?”

  “In your trunk. The car is locked, though, so don’t think you can get to it without those keys. And I have your magazine.”

  I curse under my breath. If she’d accidentally shot herself with my weapon, I’d definitely have to kill myself. “Look. I’m fine. I just got drunk and stupid last night.”

  “You need help, Nate.”

  “I don’t—”

  She moves fast, lunging forward and shoving me in the chest. I stumble back and end up
sitting on her bed again. Her eyes are alight with rage.

  “Don’t give me that,” she says, her voice high-pitched, like she wants to scream at me but is trying to keep it down. Probably so her dad doesn’t freak out. She stalks over to her bedside table and yanks the drawer open so hard that the whole thing comes out, and she barely catches it before the contents end up on the floor. She lifts the framed picture and hands it to me, breathing hard. A tear slides down her cheek.

  “That’s Ryan Hoekstra,” she says after a few painful seconds.

  Why does that name ring a bell? I look down at the picture. “Your boyfriend?” Why is she showing this to me?

  “He killed himself. He was home on leave, and he shot himself with an antique pistol his dad had in the basement. His mother was the one who found him.”

  “Fuuuuck,” I whisper. It all comes together for me at once—I was just starting my senior year when it happened, already planning to enlist. I remember my mom making me read the brief news article about his suicide, as if news of the death of Ryan Hoekstra—the last guy from our high school to enlist right after graduating—was going to change my mind. And I can’t forget that horrified face Sasha made when I joked about reminding her of an old flame who’d died, her asking me if I was in the service the night we met, and her fury about what I did last night.

  “You should have run right past my car,” I tell her. “You shouldn’t have stopped.”

  “I could never have done that.” She takes the picture from my hands and puts it back into the drawer without looking at it.

  “I never wanted to stir up painful memories for you.” I feel like an asshole. I almost regret that she found me there. “And I never wanted you to see me like this.”

  I’m at my most pathetic. I can’t even pretend I’m not. I know it’s a stupid, pointless thing to say, too, because she’s already turned me down. It shouldn’t really matter how she sees me.

  Except it does. “If it helps, I swear, I’m usually a normal, stable guy.” That was true until this year, at least. “I’ve never done anything like this before.”

  “I think I believe you.” She offers me a glimmer of a smile, and it fills me with want. “And I also know that being over there does stuff to a person.”

  I swallow hard and look away, praying she doesn’t ask me to talk about it.

  She doesn’t. Instead, she sits next to me. There’s space between us, but she’s close enough that I can feel her warmth. “I like you, Nate. I think you’re probably a good guy. And I don’t want you to leave too soon.”

  I let out a shaky laugh. “Okay.”

  She puts her hand over mine. I stifle a flinch of surprise. I’m not sure why she’s touching me, but it feels so good that I’m afraid to move or say a single word in case that ruins it. For a moment, we sit there, staring straight ahead, simply breathing, and it’s so strange—I feel like I’ve suddenly surfaced from days underwater.

  “My dad has early-onset Alzheimer’s,” she informs me out of nowhere. “In case he seemed a little off.”

  I look down at her hand, needing to make sure I wasn’t simply imagining the sensation of her soft skin. “I actually thought he was pretty cool, all things considered,” I say. “I mean, he thought I stole his remote and still let me serve him breakfast.”

  “It was nice of you to go along with it.”

  “It’s his house, not mine. What else was I going to do?”

  She looks over at me. “Whatever you did, it worked for him. And he doesn’t always do well when things don’t go how he expects.”

  “It must be hard,” I say.

  “It was, at first. He would get so frustrated. He knew he was losing a step. And he drank more, too, just to numb himself up. But these days, it actually seems easier for him in some ways. He forgets so much that on most days he seems pretty content.”

  “I meant for you.”

  “Oh,” she whispers, her gaze dropping to her lap. “We’re managing.”

  “Just you and him?”

  “Not really. Chad is his weekday caregiver, and he has a weekend guy as well.”

  “But they get paid to be here. Do you have other family to help out?” I think of that card in her drawer—the check was from March and she still hasn’t cashed it. And there wasn’t a personal message inside. It just said, Love, Mom.

  “I can do the rest,” Sasha says. “We’re fine.” The defiance in her voice makes me wonder if this is the relationship she has outside of the co-op that keeps her from socializing. It’s not a boyfriend or a husband—she’s here taking care of her dad. Alone.

  “Doesn’t seem like it leaves much room for fun,” I say.

  She gives me a rueful little smile. “That’s why I go really wild once a year.”

  Her voice is too light, and I recognize how fake it is because I fake this way all the time. But I won’t do it right now. “Is that really why?” I glance back toward the drawer where the picture lies.

  “It’s complicated. And I’m mostly really busy.”

  “Then I guess I should be extra thankful you found the time to save my sorry ass last night.” I won’t pry, but I’m dying to know. Does she still love Ryan? Is that part of why she keeps herself holed up here?

  She squeezes my hand. “And in return I’ll thank you for taking the time to be so nice to my dad. Not everyone knows how to talk to him.”

  I flip my palm up, and miraculously, she lets me lace my fingers with hers. “What I did last night was colossally stupid,” I say. “But I—I’m feeling better. I’m done with all that. And—” I pause and swallow hard, wondering why I’m setting myself up for disappointment again.

  Then I look into her eyes, so dark I feel like I’m drowning in them, and I know why. I’ll take any time with her I can get. But I don’t want to push her too far, especially after what I did. “Maybe we could be friends?”

  She puts her hand on my cheek, sending a current of pleasure zinging through my entire body. I couldn’t look away if I wanted to. “I think that might be possible,” she says. “On one condition.”

  “Name it.”

  “Before you leave here today, you call the VA and make an appointment with a therapist. If for no other reason than this—you don’t want to be the guy who puts me through that agony again.” She leans forward. “Not to mention all those other fantastic people in your life who love you so much.”

  I open my mouth to push back—therapy is like admitting defeat, like I’m too weak to handle this. But then I realize: what I almost did last night proves I’m weak. It proves this thing is beating me. And right now, as I look into Sasha’s eyes, I want her to see me as strong. I want to earn this.

  I put my hand over hers, holding our connection. “Okay,” I say. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Sasha

  How’s your day been? I pause. Then I send the text, toss my phone onto the bed, and return to folding Dad’s laundry. I’m in control of this. Nate understands where the boundaries are. I do. too. It’s fine. He asked me to be his friend, and I’m being his friend.

  It’s been a week since he called the VA from my cell to get an appointment. A week since I trusted him enough to give him back his keys. A week since he trusted me enough to let me keep the damn SIG, which is now in one of Dad’s old lockboxes under my bed, surrounded by several stacks of books, not that Dad is mobile enough to even look under there.

  It’s a weird situation to be in with a near-stranger you happen to have had passionate, mind-blowing sex with. And he is still a stranger to me.

  Just one I text with several times a day. The ping of his reply sends me scurrying back to my phone.

  Worked out with Daniel. Made soup with my dad. 100% did not kill myself.

  I bite my lip. Sometimes I hate texting—Nate isn’t into emojis, apparently, so I can’t tell if he’s being playful or if he’s annoyed that I’m checking in on him yet again. But as I evaluate how to reply, I get another text:


  That was a joke, by the way.

  I laugh. You mean you only partially killed yourself, or you’re actually dead and texting me from the afterlife?

  St. Peter says hi.

  Whoa. Like, he’s expecting me soon?

  Nah. Apparently you’re going to live a long and happy life.

  My thumb skims up the edge of my phone case as my stomach does a weird flip. My chances are fifty-fifty, I almost type. My throat tightens. I can barely admit that out loud, let alone lay it on Nate. Instead, I shove those thoughts out of my head and type, I really hope that’s true.

  I stand there, a pair of Dad’s boxers in one hand and my phone in the other, waiting for Nate’s response as I try not to second guess. I haven’t seen Nate’s face since I held it between my hands and kissed him on the forehead. I haven’t heard his voice since we said goodbye at my door. I haven’t felt the warmth of his body since he hugged me before turning away.

  All three have been on my mind constantly, though.

  My first appointment is tomorrow, he texts after several minutes. Dad’s laundry is folded, and I’m in the kitchen, setting up the coffee pot to brew for tomorrow morning. They referred me to a guy here in town because of the waitlist. I guess I’m so messed up that they didn’t think I could wait.

  Or maybe that’s just how things SHOULD work, I text. When is the appointment?

  2pm

  I type the response on impulse, no thought. It’s only after that I wonder if I’m making a huge mistake: Come by the co-op after if you want to hang out.

  I look up as Dad shuffles in. “I need to call the police,” he says. He looks furious, his fists clenched.

  I close my eyes and breathe, and then I say, “I can call them for you, Dad. What’s wrong?”

  “He stole the remote again.”

  “Let me handle it, okay?” I march out into the living room and dig through the gloves and hats box by the front door, dredging up the damn remote within a few seconds.

  As I’m settling Dad down with a cup of milk and a chocolate chip cookie I swiped for him off a plate Stella left out for the artists in the studio today, my phone buzzes with a call. My heart skips—could it be—?