by Olivia Chase
The reality of the situation hits me hard. Mom came back to us, and I’ve pushed her away. She could have died in the car accident. And she would have died thinking I hate her. I missed months of getting to know her because of my stubbornness, my fear, my anger.
Fuck. What the hell is wrong with me? Why did I let this happen? No wonder Smith and Jax are so pissed at me. I’ve been a total asshole.
I reach over and take her other hand in mine. Her breath catches, and she stills. “I…know we can’t go back and change anything—your actions or mine,” I say. “But maybe we can start fresh, right now.”
A small sob ripples from her chest, and she squeezes my hand. “I’d like that. There are so many things I want to know about you.”
“Like what?”
“Like…everything.” She gives a sniffly laugh. “What’s your favorite breakfast food?”
That makes me blink in surprise. “Um. Eggs?”
She grins. “I should have guessed. When you were a baby, you loved eating the eggs off my plate.”
“Really?” I never heard that before.
“Yup. And you loved hot sauce. I covered my eggs in it, and boy, you’d gobble them up, and your little face would pinch up but you’d breathe through it and reach for more. Your brothers didn’t even like to smell it. Not you—you were brave, wanting to try anything.” Her face softens as she remembers.
Watching the affection she has for me knocks the air from my lungs. My mother. Right here, in front of me. Clinging to whatever memories she has of me, the few that they are.
“I still love hot sauce,” I tell her. “Smith says I shouldn’t put it on everything, but it’s like ketchup to me.”
We sit in companionable silence for a minute. Mom relaxes back into her pillow. I vow to myself to help her as best as I can. She made a mistake, but she’s trying to fix it.
It hits me then. Her staying away from me and my brothers, out of love for us, is the same thing I’m doing to Whitney.
Fuck. I love Whitney. I love her and I let her go because I thought that was the best way to care for her. That I was a mess and she deserved better. How am I any different than my mom, who did the same?
God, I’m an idiot. I walked away from the woman who offered me her heart.
“You okay?” Mom asks.
I draw in a slow breath in an attempt to ease my racing heart. “I think I messed something up. Something important.”
“With that girl you were seeing?” At my surprise, she says, “Your brothers told me about her and that you two broke up. I’m sorry to hear it.”
“I’m a mess,” I confess to her. “I feel out of control. I don’t know how to handle anything anymore. I feel so…lost.” Saying the words aloud to someone, admitting my vulnerabilities, frees something inside me.
Mom’s eyes soften. She squeezes my hand tighter. “Oh, baby. I know. You’re so much like me. You bottle everything up and try to put on a brave face, but inside, you’re eaten alive with the intensity of what you feel. Trust me, that’s not the way to handle it.” She sighs. “I know you think you can’t fix it, but you can. Nothing you’ve done is as bad as what I did, but I’m making strides and doing the best I can. I believe in you.”
The gentle words are a balm on my heart. I didn’t know how badly I needed to hear that until she said it. I give a short nod.
I can fix it. Or I can at least try.
Whitney’s worth the effort. She doesn’t know how I feel, but I’ll make sure it’s loud and clear. And let her know I’ll never do this to her again.
It may take a long time for her to trust me. But Mom is here, willing to invest in me long-term. If she can do it, so can I.
“I’m glad I came by,” I tell her.
The smile she gives me makes me feel light. Good. Her eyes slip closed. “I’m growing tired,” she murmurs.
I stand up. Brush a strand of hair from her face. “I’m gonna go. But I’ll be back tomorrow morning. Get some sleep, Mom.”
She gives a sleepy nod. “Bye, Asher.”
I fire off a quick text to Smith to let him know Mom’s status, then walk out of the hospital and back to my car, my steps full of purpose. My life is what I make of it. It’s time for me to really take control and go after what I want. To stop feeding myself excuses, to stop numbing the pain, to stop running. To make a plan and follow through.
I deserve better. My mom deserves better.
Whitney deserves better.
Whitney
I smooth the comforter on my dorm room bed and sit on the side, looking up at the ceiling. Soft blue light seeps in through the blinds on the window. It’s only seven-thirty, but I’m wide awake and ready for my first class. Despite the emotional upheaval of the last several weeks, today I’m excited. Excited and proud of myself.
I have achieved my goal.
My roommate is snoring softly. Megan is nice and friendly, and she’s an older freshman too, which helps me feel less like I stand out. I’m glad we were paired together.
Being as quiet as possible, I stuff my psychology textbook and a notebook in my backpack. Freshman psych, my first course of my first day of college. I put, like, five pens in my bag, just in case I need them.
I laugh at how nervous I feel, my heart fluttering like wild.
Then I exit the dorm room and step into the hall. A few students are milling about already, most of them wearing pajamas and heading to the bathrooms.
My phone buzzes. I dig it out of my pocket. It’s a text from my dad. Good luck!
I text back, You too! Dad’s new job starts today—he’s working for an environmental law firm, and he’s excited about the prospect of making change, doing something positive.
Mom said he’s stayed clean and sober too, which makes me feel better about where he’s going and what he’s doing. Dad really was ready to fix himself.
I step outside and suck in a cold blast of air. January in Michigan is balls cold. I laugh at the shock to my skin. Even a morning as frigid as this can’t dim my excitement.
I head toward the Social Sciences department—yesterday, I walked through campus with Megan and found all my classes. The ground, stiff with frost and lingering clumps of frozen snow, crunches under my booted feet.
I walk into the building, sighing in relief at the heater, and find my classroom. A couple of students are already in there. I head to a seat on the far end of the room by the windows. Situate myself, hanging my coat on the back of my seat. Then I grab my book and notebook and flip to the table of contents, pouring over what we’ll be discussing this semester.
The room begins to fill. I’m too nervous to make eye contact with anyone, so I keep my gaze fixed on my book. People take the seats in front of me, behind me. Then the one beside me.
“I hope this class isn’t too hard,” a voice murmurs from beside me. It sounds so much like Asher that I jerk my head up.
And there he is, in the flesh, sitting right beside me. He has a psych book on his desk.
I’m so shocked I can’t move, can’t breathe. I just stare and blink.
He presses his lips together, and I see a flutter of a pulse at the base of his throat. He’s nervous.
“What are you doing here?” I finally manage to ask. What is going on? Is this a joke?
“I enrolled in the school,” he says. He seems different. Something about him has changed. I can’t quite figure it out.
Then it hits me. His eyes. They’re open to me. He’s letting me see every emotion on his face. Not just hiding it.
Then the pain punches me in the chest again, the pain of everything that went wrong with us. I swallow and look down at my notebook. “That’s good.”
“I talked to my mom,” he says.
My heart gives a funny kick. “I’m…glad to hear it.” I can’t let him hurt me again. Just because he’s here doesn’t mean I’m going to suddenly give him access to my heart. But my stupid body is aching for him to touch me. To reach over and smooth a hand across my
cheek. To tell me how sorry he is.
What would a sorry mean, anyway? He ran away from me twice. Words are meaningless. He taught me that.
“While you were gone, I realized a lot of things about myself.” Asher’s voice is solemn, resonant with his emotion. “You don’t have to trust me—I know that’ll take time. I hurt you. I’m not going anywhere though. And you’ll see that. I’ll prove it to you.”
The professor, an older man with a brown jacket, walks to the front of the room and begins writing on the chalk board. I try my best to ignore Asher, but that’s like asking someone not to feel the presence of the sun. Just being beside him makes me warm.
Damn him.
Our prof hands out the syllabus, and we spend the next fifty minutes reviewing it and discussing his expectations of us the whole semester. I write notes and I pretend like Asher being beside me doesn’t impact me one way or another.
Class ends. We gather our things, and I put on my coat without looking at Asher. Toss my backpack over my shoulder and move to the exit.
Asher walks quietly beside me.
“How did you know I was here?” I find myself asking him against my will. I wasn’t going to say anything to him, even though I have a million questions.
He chuckles as we weave through traffic. “The Beckett charm never fails to work.”
“Megan told you,” I say with a sigh.
“She’s nice. She’ll be a good roommate for you.”
I move to the side of the hallway and stop. Finally look at him. Soak in the sight of his beautiful face and will myself to stop feeling anything for him. “I’m…” I clear my throat and try to keep my voice even. “I’m glad about you and your mom. You seem happier.”
“I’m not drinking anymore, Whitney. I gave all of that shit up.”
My heart is falling apart piece by piece. I scramble to keep myself together and not give in to anything. I just nod, my throat tight.
He finally, finally reaches over and touches me, and it’s like I’m seared. My skin warms and I almost lean toward him. It takes infinite willpower to stay in place. “I missed you so fucking much,” he breathes. I can see the depth of his feelings in his eyes. The ache there. For me.
Don’t say anything. I just stand there and pretend I’m made of stone.
“It’s going to take a while to prove myself to you. But you’re worth it.” He gives a resolute nod, then tugs his backpack higher. “I’ll see you around, Whitney.”
The next couple of weeks pass this way—Asher sitting beside me in psych class. Asher somehow showing up wherever I’m having lunch or dinner. Asher behind me in the line at the coffee house.
And every time he shows up, a little bit of my resistance chips away.
It doesn’t help that he’s as charming as he used to be before everything went down in the fall. His smile is magnetic. He’s made friends on campus. Everyone loves him. Even the professors make a point of seeking him out, telling him they’re looking forward to watching him play in the fall. Apparently, the football coach offered him a ridiculously lavish scholarship when Asher contacted him about transferring here.
And the campus god is pursuing me. Hardcore.
And now I’m waiting in line for a Danish when Asher appears behind me, yet again, as confident and calm as ever.
“Your hair is gorgeous this afternoon,” he says, shooting me that charming smile of his.
Per our usual routine now, I pretend indifference. “What, no comment on my new sweater?”
His gaze rakes over my breasts, and a warm flush spreads across my chest and up my throat. Shit. That backfired. Now I’m remembering what it was like having his hands on me, his mouth on me.
The way he made me come.
“You’re still so stunning, you take my breath away,” he says. And he sounds so earnest, I actually believe him.
I want to believe that he’s changed, that he’s not just going to hurt me again. But I’m so scared to be vulnerable to him.
I turn around and will myself to breathe steadily, moving forward with the line.
“What are you ordering?” he asks me.
“You should know. You’ve been stalking me every day,” I tell him archly.
That makes him laugh, a warm sound that rolls over me. God, I miss him, I miss him, and it’s getting more difficult to keep fighting this.
Staying strong is driving me crazy.
“I’m not stalking you. I’m diligently expressing to you how badly I want you. How much I crave you.” He leans close and breathes in the scent of my hair, and I shiver at the intimate gesture. “Whitney, I know you’re scared. Pushing you away was one of the stupidest fucking things I ever did. I can’t undo it, but I can keep showing you every day how much you mean to me. And if that means I spend my days following you around, then at least you’ll know you can depend on that.”
The sincerity in his voice makes me want to cry. I can’t turn around and look at him because I’ll cave. I know me too well—he’s getting to me, wiggling his way back under my skin.
But I also can’t forget how I felt that day when he told me to leave.
I get to the front of the line and pick out my Danish, though I’m not really hungry anymore. My stomach feels like it’s lead. True to his word, Asher grabs a Danish too and follows me out the café door.
“Please,” I finally say, spinning on my heels. I plead with my eyes. “Don’t keep doing this to me. You’re only hurting me, because I know this isn’t real. This won’t last.”
“God, Whitney.” His eyes bore into mine, and he reaches out to touch a strand of my hair. I make myself pull back.
“Please. I can’t do this with you again.” Those damn tears come back, spilling out on my cheeks.
“Fuck. Kitten. Don’t you know? Don’t you know that I’m so in love with you that leaving you again would break me?”
I begin to shake as I stare up at him.
He just told me he loves me.
Asher never said that before. And the one time I blurted it out back in the fall, he didn’t address it at all. Now he’s putting himself on the line, letting himself be vulnerable to me. Knowing I could tell him to screw off.
My heart gives an erratic thud. “What did you say?” I heard it. Just need to hear it again.
His smile is slow and warm and melts me like butter. He steps toward me and with the hand not holding the bagged Danish, he cups my cheek. “Kitten, I’m in love with you. You have me, heart and soul and body. And I will do anything to win you back.”
I bite my lower lip, gaze up at him. “I’m scared,” I confess. A stiff breeze rolls through and hits me full force. I shudder from the chill.
“I’m scared, too,” he says quietly. “But the things in life worth trying for are always scary. My heart is in your hands, Whitney Cavanaugh. You own me. You made my life better, complete, and I was wrong to treat you the way I did.” He pauses, and his thumb strokes my cheek, his hand warming my face. “I’m not perfect. I’m still going to fuck up. I just want a chance. One more chance.”
I nod. Swallow. “Okay.”
The relief that comes over him is palpable. He rests his forehead on mine, his breath panting in small clouds around our faces. “Whitney, I love you. I love you. I’ll tell you that every day, every minute, if you need to hear it.”
I shift my body closer to him until we’re pressed against each other. “It’s going to take me a while to feel comfortable and trust you fully,” I say. “But I’ll try.”
The last three weeks, Asher has been a complete gentleman—holding the door open for me, surprising me with flowers, sitting diligently by me as we study for our classes. A complete gentleman, and I’m frustrated as hell.
He hasn’t kissed me once. Not one damn time since he started at my school. It’s mid-February, almost Valentine’s Day, and my body is so tuned up for him that I can’t focus.
When he’s beside me in psychology, all I can do is watch his hands, those fingers grippi
ng his pencil, remembering how they felt inside me. It makes me squirm, makes me wet. I need him.
Why isn’t he making a move?
Even right now, as I’m sitting at the cafeteria table across from him, picking at my dinner. Asher is chowing down. People are moving all around us.
I want to blurt out and ask him what’s going on, but I’m nervous to hear the answer. Because truthfully, this is super out of character for him. Asher used to make me feel like he couldn’t get enough of me. Now, I can’t tell what he wants.
“You don’t like your chicken? Should I return it to the kitchen?” he asks with a wink.
I roll my eyes. “Funny. No, I’m just not that hungry.”
His face goes serious. “You okay? You seem off lately.”
“I’m fine,” I say. After all, it’s not like I can tell him the truth, that I’m sexually frustrated and confused. I finally drop my fork. “I’m going to head to my room.” I don’t want to take out my mood on him. It’s not his fault. He’s doing everything right.
And yet it feels so wrong in a way. Not like him at all.
Asher stands with his tray.
I hold my hand up. “I’ll be fine, I promise. Have a good night.” My chest aches with my unspoken words, so I turn and dispose of my garbage, then toss on my coat and head out into the darkness of the evening. Campus lights flood the grounds, and my feet crunch across the snow-packed grass.
A hand on my arm stops my progress.
“Okay, spill it,” Asher demands.
I sigh. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
His brow raises. “Now who does that sound like? I thought we weren’t going to pull that shit.”
I suck in a cold breath. “Fine. You wanna know what’s wrong? What’s wrong is you aren’t yourself. You’re being super courteous and gentlemanly and kind.”
His jaw drops. “So…you’re telling me that’s a bad thing?”
I shake my head. “God, it sounds so stupid. I just…” I rub a hand in front of my eyes so I don’t have to look at him. “You just don’t seem that passionate about me, and I’m not sure why.”
