He releases a deep breath, wrapping me in his arms. “You’re only saying that because you think I’m upset.”
“Aren’t you? I mean, you overheard and walked out. Stayed gone hours.”
“I was a bit upset at first,” he says. “But then I realized, it doesn’t matter because nothing is going to tear us apart. I won’t let that happen. So this really isn’t important. We’ll sign it and never look at it again.”
*
Well, I guess Momma’s lingerie theory worked to some extent. Rorke and I didn’t end up in a huge fight. His reaction was perfect, but it’s not sitting well with me. I’ve been laying here awake half the night. That’s how I know when I’m making a wrong decision. If I can’t stop obsessing, if it keeps me awake, then I know I need to do something different.
Signing those papers makes it seem like I don’t trust him, which is ridiculous. I trust him with my fears, my heart, my life, my happiness. Why wouldn’t I trust him with my money? Maybe it’s foolish, but I think it’s the right decision for me. It’s the only decision for me—the only one I can live with.
A peace falls over me, and I feel myself drifting to sleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
RORKE
“What the hell?” I groan, slapping at my face, something tickling my nose. Still half asleep, I rip off the pink heart sticky note stuck to my face. Smiling to myself, she’s getting her ass smacked for this one.
It takes a second for my eyes to adjust. The room is dim, but the blue ink on the pink paper makes it easy for me to read her message.
I don’t want to sign anything except a marriage license.
Glancing over at her curled up in the sheets, I exhale, wondering how long she stayed awake stewing over this. It really isn’t that important. I meant what I said to her last night. It’s a moot point because we aren’t ever breaking up. Call me old-fashioned, or crazy, I don’t care. It’s true.
Placing the note down on the nightstand, I roll towards her, and she cuddles into my chest. “Got your note,” I whisper, kissing her hair.
A sleepy, little smile graces her pink lips. “So what do you think of New York? My place?”
“New York is good, but your place needs to be Rorke’d.”
“Rorke’d?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.
“Yeah, it needs my touch.”
Smiling, she sits up. “You mean, I need old tools laying around?”
“Nah, my touch,” I say, running my hand up her leg. Her head tosses back, her mouth drops open. “My touch on the kitchen table, the sofa, the shower, that terrace.” Running my hand along her cheek, I say, “The barn is full of everything that is us. So many memories are there. This place needs that, too.”
While I really hope our permanent residence is in Alabama, we will be spending a lot of time here. It should feel like home, too.
We spend the rest of our time making memories on her table, sofa, and in the shower. Currently, we’re wrapped in a blanket on her terrace. And I don’t plan on leaving anytime soon, except to walk downstairs and pay for our Chinese delivery. That is an upside to New York City—food delivery knows no limits. That’s not the case in Fall Springs, where no one wants to deliver to the sticks.
Slipping on my shorts and t-shirt, I grab some cash from my wallet, leaving my keys and phone on the table. Walker offered to put it on Sterling’s usual tab and bring it up to us, but I figured I’d save him the trouble and the steps. Besides, I’m used to paying for my own food. A quick kiss to the top of Sterling’s head, and I’m out the door. The whole trip downstairs and back takes less than five minutes. Turns out, that was too long.
Turning the knob to her front door, I find her on her feet, completely dressed, tears streaming down her face, holding my cell phone in her hand. “Baby, what is it?”
I try to pull her into my arms, but she places both her hands on my shoulders. “Rorke, I don’t know how to tell you. Your cell was ringing. I saw it was your mom, so I answered.”
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s your dad. We have to get home tonight.”
*
STERLING
I’ve never had to tell anyone that someone they loved was dead. Looking into Rorke’s blue eyes and saying the words, “Your dad just died” is a moment I wish I could forget. How can a family who’s suffered so much loss already lose someone else? And in such an unexpected way. He came in from working on the farm and said he needed to lay down. He never woke up.
I’ve often wondered what’s better. Knowing someone is going to die, like Levi? At least you get a chance to make sure they know how much you love them. Or losing someone quickly, in the blink of an eye? Having consolation that they didn’t suffer?
Perhaps it doesn’t matter at all. The people left behind are devastated either way. And I know the devastation on Rorke’s face. It feels like Levi all over again, seeing him like this—stoic, solemn, the weight of grief causing his shoulders to slump.
The exhaustion of rushing back home isn’t helping. First, there was the mad dash to the airport, begging to get on any flight with any connection. After delays, layovers, and no sleep, we landed in Mobile and hopped a cab for the thirty-mile trip to Fall Springs.
Forgetting the seatbelt, I nuzzle in to his side, wrapping my arm around his waist. He tries to give me a smile, but his eyes are pulled right back to the passing landscape, making time look like it’s going faster than it is, especially when everything inside you feels frozen.
The cab passes through the entrance of the farm, and his posture stiffens, forcing a tiny space between us. By the time he pays the cab and grabs the bags, my dad has come out to meet us.
Naturally, he and my mom are here, seeing as they’re close friends, and my dad was a deacon. Plus, we’ll all be family soon enough. My dad hugs me, kissing my cheek. “Momma inside?” I ask.
He nods, taking our bags from Rorke, giving his shoulder a squeeze. Daddy probably doesn’t notice, but Rorke inhales a deep breath right as he opens the door. It’s like he knows the air inside the house will be stagnant. Our moms are sitting together on the sofa, holding each other’s hands, their giddiness about our wedding like a lifetime ago.
“You’re home?” his mom, Mrs. Laurel, cries as she pulls Rorke into a hug. He’s so much taller than she is, but he still lets her force his head to her shoulder as she strokes his hair.
He’s all she has left now. The two other men in her life gone. Watching him holding his mom, I know he’s not going anywhere. Any hope for him moving to New York just died with his father.
“We should go,” Momma whispers in my ear. “Give them some time.”
My dad steps forward, placing a hand on Rorke’s and his mom’s back. My mom gives Mrs. Laurel one more hug, telling her to get some sleep, some food, and that we’ll be back in a few hours, but to call if they need anything. Rorke’s blue eyes find me, and more than ever, I wish we’d been together long enough that we didn’t need words, like Momma and Daddy. I’ve got no idea what he’s thinking. And I doubt he’s going to tell me with our parents around.
He steps to me, his arms cinch around my waist, his forehead lowers to mine. “I love you,” I say softly, watching his lips curve up just slightly.
He kisses my forehead, leaving his lips on my skin a little longer. When he pulls back, his hands cup both sides of my face. “You need to sleep and get something to eat, too.”
I can’t believe he’s worried about me. He’s got enough to worry about without having to worry about me meeting my basic needs. I’ll sleep all day and eat a whole pan of lasagna to make him happy.
“I want you to stay,” he whispers.
“Then I’ll stay. I want to.”
His head shakes. “My mom needs me.”
Taking his face in my hands, feeling his stubble under my fingers, I gently kiss him. “Then I’ll see you later.”
Over the next few days, I see Rorke a lot, but it’s not the same as before. We’re not really spendi
ng time together—it’s visiting alongside my parents, texting, or talking on the phone. He’s busy, I know that, but I miss him. And more than that, I hate feeling useless. I want to help. His family is my family, almost. I can’t shake the feeling that I should be doing something, something more.
Sure, I wash dishes or cook something when I visit, but it hardly seems like enough. By the day of the funeral, I’ve run out of things to scrub. Walking into the church, I’m not sure how to feel. These are some of the same people that treated my father so terribly, but here they are, loving and supporting Rorke and his mother.
Running my hand along the pew, I remember when we buried Levi. I know exactly where I was sitting. I’d barely made it back in time, sneaking in at the last second and slipping into the aisle seat of the last pew on the right.
Today, I sit down in that same spot, watching the church begin to fill up. I see Ms. Mirabelle and my book club peeps. I could use one of their cocktails right now. Thank God, school will be starting up soon, and we can resume our meetings. Rorke and his mom are standing by the first pew, accepting condolences from everyone. My mom lightly touches my shoulder, “Honey, you should sit with Rorke.”
Shaking my head, I say, “No, he’d want me back here.”
Momma gives me a surprised look.
I say, “I’ll stand with him at the burial, but trust me, it will mean a lot more to him that I’m sitting here. He’ll know just where I am and why.”
Daddy shows up to take her hand and lead her to a pew behind Rorke and Mrs. Laurel. Momma turns back to me, and I smile. I may not have known what to do the past few days, but I know this is the right thing.
And it’s confirmed when the service starts. Rorke looks back over his shoulder, having a perfect view right to me. I smile, and for the first time, see him wipe a tear away. I hadn’t seen him cry over his dad until now.
And in that tear, I see clearly that he’s not going to move to New York. He may not even know it yet. But I do. He won’t leave his mother so quickly, and I don’t blame him. He wouldn’t be the man I love if he could do that. So that leaves me moving here or having a long-distance marriage. Can I run my company full-time from here? Could I handle commuting back and forth every few weeks? Could we get married and live apart? None of those seem like the perfect solution, but I doubt anything would right now.
Rorke is now standing in front of the church—to give another eulogy, this time for his father. He is staring right at me. He did the same thing all those years ago. I never knew why. I’d assumed it was because I was his friend, Levi’s friend, having no idea he was in love with me, having no idea I was falling in love with him.
*
Unlike when his brother died, this time I hold his hand as his father is laid in the ground. The ring on my finger is sparkling in the summer sun. On such a sad day, the damn thing looks happy. I hear whispers around us, some people commenting on how much suffering one family can endure in a lifetime, others gossiping about Rorke and me. They say your ears burn when someone is talking about you, but it’s my skin that’s covered in goose bumps when I look up, finding the hard eyes of Mrs. Quaid staring at my hand holding Rorke’s. I don’t know what her problem is. And this woman clearly hates me—but how can you have such hate in your heart at a funeral? Some people just suck. Or maybe she thinks she’s so righteous she’s got a one-way ticket to heaven.
CHAPTER THIRTY
RORKE
It’s hateful and rude, but I’ve wished every single one of these well-wishers gone a hundred times. Most of them loved my dad. But if I have to fake smile or thank someone one more damn time, I’m going to fucking lose it.
Sterling’s mom catches me. “I told your mom I’d stay tonight. Go get some sleep.”
That woman is a saint. But it’s not sleep I need. It’s Sterling.
Saying a few more goodbyes and double-checking with my mom, I start searching for Sterling. I can’t believe she thought to sit in the same seat in the church. It was exactly what I needed, to be reminded that I’ve done this before, and I can do it again. To be able to look into her green eyes and see my future. She’s waiting, and I know just where she is.
Heading out the front door, I’m stopped by one final person. But I know this one will be short. It’s Sterling’s dad. He doesn’t believe in wasting words. And this time he only has one. But it’s one that I didn’t think I’d ever hear again.
“Son.”
The bones in my chest start to quake, the grief trapped inside wanting to be freed. My dad would be grateful for that one word. I know it would give him peace. I’m thankful when he pulls me into a quick hug then pats my back, sending me on my way.
Opening the door to the barn, a small light cascades down over her, wrapped in a blanket in a chair next to my bed, fast asleep. So much of this day has been reminiscent of my brother’s death. She gave me what I needed all those years ago. And it wasn’t sex; it wasn’t losing my virginity. It was hope and love and a safe place to land. And here she is, waiting to do it again.
Maybe it’s exhaustion, maybe it’s that I’m finally thinking clearly, maybe it’s Dad and Levi in cahoots up in heaven—but I walk over to her purse, rummaging through it, knowing when my hand lands on the little plastic case.
*
STERLING
My eyes flutter open, landing on Rorke. I try to focus. What the hell? He’s standing with my birth control pills over the trash can. “What are you doing?”
His blue eyes turn to me. “Let’s make a baby.”
“Oh, my God, you are crazy,” I say, leaping to my feet. “You don’t just throw away a woman’s birth control pills without talking to her first. What’s wrong with you?”
“I wasn’t going to throw them out.”
“You’re standing by the trash can.”
“Well, I thought about it, but then realized I better wait if I want to keep my nuts.”
“Good call,” I snap, grabbing them out of his hands. “I’m trying really hard not to be furious at you right now. I know people grieve in different ways, but you’re not thinking clearly.”
“It’s not grief,” he says, placing a gentle hand on my belly. “It’s life.”
So there is the slightest, the tiniest little spark of something in me, feeling his fingers on my stomach. And dammit if he doesn’t sense it.
“We’re getting married in a few weeks. Everyone will assume it’s a honeymoon baby.”
I grab his face, feeling his stubble under my fingertips. “You still want to get married?”
“Of course I do.”
“I just thought you might want to postpone under the circumstances.” Silly me, the man doesn’t want to postpone—he wants to skip ahead to children.
“Ten years ago, when we were in this very spot, I wanted to avoid you getting pregnant at all costs, but now, I don’t want anything but you as my wife, carrying our child.”
Clearly, I’m not going to win an emotional debate, so perhaps I can appeal to his practical side, although I’m not sure he has one at the moment. I motion with my hands. “Where would we even put a nursery?”
“We can add on.”
“You just finished this place. Plus, then I’d be pregnant and living in a dust-filled construction site.”
His eyes narrow just a tad, thinking hard. He better not even be considering us moving in with his mother. I like her, but no way. “We can rent a place while the work’s being done.” Gently, he lowers me to the bed, whispering, “Let’s make some babies.”
Good God, he’s out of control. We went from one baby—singular—to babies—plural—in a nanosecond. “How about we just practice?
He takes the pack of pills from my hand, rolling to his side to place it on the nightstand. When he turns back to me, his fingers go through my hair. I’m not sure if this is a yes to just practicing or him trying to swipe my pills again, but I already took my pill today, so I’m letting it go for the moment.
Aside from the stubble on
his face, he looks so much like the teenage boy who looked at me this same way, with an admiration I’d never see again in any other man’s eyes. Sex is always intense with Rorke. It can be fun and fast where we don’t even get all our clothes off. Or it can be like this—a totally different level of intensity. The kind that knows all you have is right now, this moment. There are no breaths to waste, no caresses to take for granted, no reasons to hold back, no excuses. It’s what made Rorke finally reach for me all those years ago. And it’s what’s driving us together now—on this terribly sad day. Love—and the reminder that it can all be gone in an instant.
I reach for the buttons on his shirt, but he catches my fingers, placing a little kiss on the back of each hand, his way of telling me he wants to do all the work. He literally doesn’t want me to lift a finger.
“Let me spoil you,” he whispers, his fingers wandering up my thighs. “Every little inch of you.”
Cupping his face in my hands, I say, “I should be taking care of you.”
“You are,” he whispers.
A wave of tingles rolls up my body.
Standing up, he quickly sheds his clothes. He pulls me to my feet, turning me around so he can slide down the zipper of my dress. His strong hands slip down my body, forcing the material to fall to the floor. My bra and panties meet the same fate. My breathing grows heavy with impatience. The man hasn’t even kissed me yet.
I turn to face him. Holding my eyes, he falls to his knees. His fingers find the back of my knee, his warm breath dangerously close to my skin.
His lips find the skin of my inner thighs, and my head tosses back. What is it about this man that does this to me? Was I made so that only he can please me? Because that’s what it feels like, and he does it so easily.
Burying his head between my thighs, he lifts my leg to his shoulder, deepening his kiss. I need to patent this man’s tongue, but it’s not just that. It’s the stubble on his face causing a slight friction, sending delicious little tingles through my body, and the way his hands massage my inner thighs and ass. Even his breath and groans heighten the sensation.
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