by Lexi Scott
She rolls away from me, and even the few inches of space feels like a very deliberate chasm between us. I reach for her, but she doesn’t let me touch her.
I’m willing to bet if the vast majority of her clothing wasn’t in the foyer and on the stairs, she’d be stomping around right now, tugging it on. As it is, the only article of clothing in here is one tiny ball of crushed lace that would probably be more embarrassing to pick up and try to untangle and put on. She tries to tug the sheet off the bed, but I’m wrapped in it.
I don’t want to lose her. I don’t want her to leave. But it’s not my decision to make. I want her to choose to be with me, not get stuck relying on me like she got stuck caring for her dad.
I get off the bed, head to my dresser, and take out an old T-shirt I hope is remotely small enough for her. She takes it from my hands and pulls it over her head, and it fits her like a short dress. She instantly looks more confident and less panicked, which makes sense— It’s not exactly comfortable to argue your case with your ass hanging in the breeze.
I tug my jeans on and turn to her. “Would you like to sit on the deck?”
She nods and follows me to the small wooden deck just off my bedroom, which is set up with two chairs. The sun is just setting, making the sky so neon bright I can barely stand to look directly at it. The hiss and crash of the waves is an awesome antidote to the jumble of thoughts piercing my brain like a bramble patch.
I leave her gripping the railing, head tilted back, breathing in the salty air, and come back with two bottles of beer.
“Thank you.” She takes a long sip.
“I love having you here,” I tell her, clearing my throat. I watch her go perfectly still, listening to my every word. “You know, when I got this place, one of the main reasons I picked it was because I could picture having a wife here and a family. Eventually. And I thought I was going to marry Kensley. Bought her a ring and everything.”
She sits on the chair, curling her legs under her, and sips at the beer nervously, like she’s worried where this is going.
“I stand by my first thoughts on her,” she confesses with a shake of her head. “She’s an idiot, Cohen.”
I love the way she just says what’s on her mind. The way she’s so blunt and honest, even when she’s talking about something so crazy and hard.
“Thank you,” I tell her, kind of shocked by how talking about my failed plans with Kensley stings so little. There was a time I thought I’d never get over the pain of losing her and the life I thought I wanted with her. It all seems kind of ridiculous now. I genuinely feel like Kensley helped me dodge a major bullet by breaking things off. “I thought it was all figured out, right? And I was pretty upset when she first left. But I realized something that now seems pretty damn obvious.”
She sits up a little straighter in her chair, interested now. “Okay. Tell me what you realized.”
I take a long pull from my beer and look out at the setting sun, now falling like a neon disk into the ocean. “You know, I’m a guy, so I was thinking of Kensley from a guy’s perspective. She was good-looking, she was into the idea of being married, we had fun together.”
Maren makes this little grunt, and, when I glance over, I see that she looks super pissed. Like she’s jealous.
I try to hide my smile as I take another sip of beer.
“But the person you marry, she’s going to be your family. Maybe even more than the family you’re born into. And when I started to think of Kensley as family, not some girl I was dating, it just made no sense to me. She and I made no sense on that deep a level.”
Not like I feel with you. Not that instant connection, that total respect, that unspoken understanding. I never sat silently next to Kensley and just enjoyed being in the same space as her. I never understood what it was to want to get into bed with someone you also considered your best friend.
“What are you saying? Why wasn’t she family?” she asks. She looks at me like she’s just cracked open a fortune cookie but has no idea what the little scrap of paper is trying to tell her.
“I guess I wasn’t comfortable. I guess she wasn’t right. I guess I didn’t want to change for her, and she sure as hell didn’t want to change for me. But you…?”
She puts her hand to her chest when I say “you,” like she’s making sure she’s still here, sitting in front of me. And that’s how I want her to be. I want her to put herself first, to worry about her own future, not to be someone faded, someone who could be blown away at any second.
I want her to know that when she’s here, she’s seen. She’s important. She’s the person I choose to be with.
“Me?” she repeats.
“You.” I put a hand out and trace the line of her cheek with my finger. “Every single thing feels right with you. You make me want to change. I feel like you want what’s better for me. And I want that for you, Maren. And anyone who doesn’t want to let you change into the best version of yourself? They’re not worth being with.”
“My dad,” she says hollowly, her voice barely registering.
I shake my head, wanting her to understand I mean what I said in a bigger picture sense. But the fact is, what I said applies to her father at this moment in her life. I wouldn’t wish her particular scenario on my worst enemy, but it is what it is.
“I wasn’t talking about him. I was just making a general statement, okay?”
I can read pure frustration on her face, and I tug her into my arms.
“Listen, I don’t want you to leave, but that’s not for me to decide,” I tell her. She’s cradled in my arms, and I can feel the frantic beat of her heart.
I know she’s upset, I know she’s having to face crap she just doesn’t want to face, and I don’t blame her for being confused and pissed. I just want her to know she can count on me. That my home can be her refuge, and that I’m here to work out her problems with her, no matter how insurmountable they seem.
I wait what feels like forever for her to say something, anything to me.
“I don’t want to leave,” she says finally, turning her head into my shirt. “I don’t want to lose you.”
I pull back, looking at her face to make sure she’s serious. Did she really just say what I thought she said? But she isn’t joking around, so I make sure she gets that I’m here for the long haul. There’s no way she’d lose me, no matter how shitty everything else in her life got.
“Lose me?” I cup her face in my hands and watch her pupils dilate to total black. Her lips edge up in a soft, sexy smile that makes me want to tumble her back onto the mattress again. “If it were up to me, I’d never let you out of my damn sight, Maren. You can go wherever you need to, for however long you need to, and I’ll be here waiting when you get back.” I use my thumbs to brush back the tears sliding out of her eyes. “You never have to worry about losing me.”
“I do have to leave. I need to make sure my dad is okay.”
Her words are wary, like she’s not quite ready to believe what I’m telling her. All I can do is be here, over and over, whenever she needs me to prove that I’m serious about what I said.
“Okay.” I kiss her lips softly, trying to control my raging hormones. She needs space, and I respect that. “You’re welcome back whenever you’re ready, all right? I hope it’s soon, because I miss your fine ass already.”
There’s a glimmer of hope in her eyes, and I cling to that.
“I have to go,” she repeats, her voice shaky, her fingers reaching out to grab my shoulders as she kisses me.
“That’s fine,” I say when I pull back. Then I move back in, kissing her until she’s moaning a little, until her body feels warm and ready under mine. “And I’ll be here. But first? Come to bed with me again.”
The sex is mind-blowing, earth shaking, intense and damn incredible, but it has a weird twist to it. Maybe it’s desperation? Like she’s afraid it’s the last time.
I’m determined as hell to make sure it’s not. As I hold her in my arm
s and she dozes on my chest, I make up my mind to do what I have to do to make things as safe as I can for her. I don’t want to push, but Murdock’s involvement with her father raised the stakes and forced my hand. I need to go see him. I need to interfere on Maren’s behalf, or I risk losing this all.
That’s not a risk I’m willing to take.
Chapter Twenty
MAREN
I hate to bug him when he’s so content, gorgeous, and sprawled on the bed.
“I need a ride back home.” I expect an argument, a grumble, but he gets up and dressed without a single complaint. He actually does it with a smile and a wink, making me laugh instead of worry.
I love how I can forget my problems, at least for a little while, when he’s around.
On the ride back to my crappy apartment complex, he reaches over and keeps his warm fingers twined with mine. By the time we’re in the parking lot, I want to tell him to take me back to his place. Only this time, I’m not leaving. Ever.
But I know I have to check on my father. I can’t just leave him alone, even if Cohen made some good points about why I need to change things. Like, seriously change things, not just clean up his messes and make it easy for him to make more. I know I need to take what Cohen said seriously.
He wants to walk me up, but I convince him to just watch me until I get in.
He doesn’t make it easy, kissing me in the dark interior of his car until my head spins. When I finally manage to pull back, I practically jump out of the door, because I know if I don’t leave immediately, I’ll follow my heart and go home with this wildly sexy, sweet guy.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can. It might be a while,” I warn him as I lean into the car.
“I’ll be waiting,” he promises with a reassuring smile that doesn’t match the worry in his eyes. “Call if you need anything, Maren. I’m here for you.”
“Thank you. So much.”
For believing in me. For worrying about me. For forcing me to look for a solution. I hope you’re right. I hope this is fixable.
I hold my breath, hurrying out before I change my mind, hoping, this one time, things will start to work out the way I need them to.
The TV is glowing in the living room when I quietly push through the front door. Dad is kicked back in his recliner, eyes closed. I set my purse down gently and catch the lingering smell of Cohen on me when I turn. It makes me smile, and I hug my arms to myself for a moment. I want to harness the magic of being with him, keep it close and let it give me strength.
I pad lightly across the carpet, not wanting to startle Dad, lean over him and flip the TV off. He’s snoring soundly, but I still tiptoe as quietly as I can to my room to gather up some clean clothes and take a shower.
The water both soothes my chilled body and leaves me a little melancholy, knowing the places that Cohen kissed and sucked and touched are all washed clean. I haven’t even been away from him for an hour, and I already ache to be near him again.
It’s crazy how he’s been in my life all this time. Every day. Just not like this.
I shiver thinking of the way it felt to have Cohen so deliciously close. Moving inside me, holding me tightly with those arms that I never wanted to leave. But I had to… Because, even after our talk, I still had to come home to check on Dad.
I throw on some clothes and towel dry my hair, and then make my way to the kitchen. The fridge is already nearly empty, even though I just went shopping two days ago. I let it slam a little too hard with frustration, and Dad stirs in the recliner.
“Mare? That you?” he calls.
I close my eyes, purse my lips, and silently count to ten. Willing myself to have patience with him. I don’t want to get into anything with him right this second. I don’t want it to ruin the high I’m flying after my night with Cohen just yet.
“Yep. Just me, Dad.”
The old chair that he’s had since the late eighties is stained with beer and still holds the smell of clove cigarettes— How is it that we’ve lost most of our worldly possessions, but we still have this disgusting piece of furniture? Probably because no one else ever wanted to get close enough to move it. It creaks and pops as he rolls to his side to see me.
“What time is it?”
I glance at the clock on the decade-old microwave. “It’s just after two.”
“In the morning?” Dad says, knowing the answer even in his permanent state of whiskey-induced numbness. “Where’ve you been?”
I let out a small laugh, laced with annoyance. “I was with Cohen, Dad. Do you… Do you remember last night?”
All I wanted was my father out of trouble, out of jail last night. As long as he was at our house, safe inside, I figured it didn’t matter what state he was in. But now that feels so pathetic.
He’s so drunk he can barely function. It’s like I’m seeing this place and him with new eyes, and I realize with a start this isn’t okay. It’s not okay for him to just be breathing and going through the motions of a really depressing life. It’s not okay that my idea of my dad being “fine” is that he isn’t arrested, in the ER, or dead, just drunk out of his skull.
I look around, and instead of feeling shame and the need to keep our life a secret, I feel fury.
“Do you remember last night?” I repeat, my voice louder.
“I was out with Murdock all day,” he says, staring into the middle distance. “And then a nice Mexican cabbie brought me home? Sorry, kiddo, last night’s a little lost.”
He tries to laugh, but it sounds like the grate of a rusty bike chain.
“Yesterday was my birthday,” I say slowly.
The look of shock and sadness on his face undoes me for a minute. My mind flips back to my childhood, to paper crowns and balloons and streamers, bowling alleys and skating rinks, shiny wrapped presents I was so eager to open my fingers shook when I took the gaudy bows off, and my family—my sister always a little pouty because she wasn’t getting the attention, Mom a little harried but so happy, and Dad, the life of the party, throwing me in his arms and singing the Beatles’ “Birthday Song” to me over and over until I was breathless from giggling.
I’m an adult now. I don’t need streamers or balloons. But I do need my father to give a shit about me. Even Rowan and Mom called before Cohen took me out, and I got their silly birthday card with a gift card to Target in the mail the day before. I guess I should have taken it as a sign when I cried from happiness.
I’m not hard to please. I’m not asking much. Which makes it so much worse that my father is still managing to screw up in major ways.
“You were out for dinner,” Dad says slowly, nodding. “Murdock made a scene. The Mexican guy was your date, not my cabbie.”
“In fairness, he was my date and then volunteered to be your cabbie,” I say, exhausted. “Look, Dad, I know some things have been getting better. I’m proud of you for sticking with your music. I’m glad you’ve been seeing friends more. But it’s not enough. You’re gonna need to make some real changes.”
And it feels good to say it. And also weird.
He’s my father. I should be going to him for advice on car loans and interest rates and internships. Not paying his bills, screening his friends, and bailing him out of trouble. It’s like I became the parent of a rebellious teenager in a fifty-year-old body, and I’m sick of it.
“Mare, I don’t need you to lecture me,” he snaps, but the edge fades off his words with his slur. “I’m the adult here.”
“You’re not even saying that ironically, are you?” I say with a long sigh.
“You think things have been easy for me these last few years?” he asks.
“You think they’ve been easy for me?” I demand.
“I lost everything,” he says, his voice rising, his eyes narrowed, his finger pointing at me accusingly. “I lost my band. My home. My wife, my kid. I lost it all, Maren, so excuse me if I can’t jump up every goddamn morning and whistle my way to some dead end job so you’ll stop whining about the
damn electric bill!”
I stare at him, willing myself not to cry.
He’s drunk. He barely knows what he’s saying. He didn’t mean to hurt you.
“Why are you staring at me like that?” he mutters, looking down at the floor like a kid who knows he’s in trouble, but can’t pinpoint why.
“You didn’t lose everything,” I say, my voice scratchy.
He snorts. “Right. I know. I still have a roof over my head, and I can still work. I’ve heard it all before, Maren. Do we really need to rehash this now?” He shakes his shaggy head.
“You have me,” I say.
He looks up and his eyes soften. “Shit. Kiddo, you know I didn’t mean—”
“To forget me?” I ask, my voice raising. “To ignore me? To not even think about me for a damn second? Why am I so invisible to you?”
“I’m sorry I forgot your birthday, honey. I am. I’m a shitty dad, and I’m sorry.”
“This isn’t about my damn birthday,” I tell him, my voice cracking. “This is about me giving up everything to help you, even though I don’t even register for you. Not on my birthday, not on the day I drop out of college, not ever. How low do I need to sink before you reach out and offer me some help?”
“You’re being melodramatic, Maren,” he says, rubbing a hand over his face. “It’s late, and you’re keyed up.”
“I’m not keyed up!” I scream, clearly keyed up. I take a few breaths. “I’m sick of this, Dad. I feel like your rock bottom is so low I can’t even imagine it, and we just keep sinking closer to it.”
“You don’t have to stay here with me, being a damn martyr all the time! If you’re so offended by the way I live my fucking pathetic life, feel free to leave like your mother and sister did. No one’s asking you to stay, Maren!” he yells back. I feel like he physically shoved me back. I actually take a step or two away from him. He gets to his feet and shakes his head. “Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“Bullshit,” I say, my eyes welling with tears. “I think we both said what we really meant tonight. Finally. I didn’t realize I’ve been some shrew who’s cramping your style.”
