Page 47 of Don't Say You're Sorry

“Will you tell me a secret?” he asks, and I nod. I’ll tell him anything. “Do you miss your mum?”

“That’s a hard question for me to answer,” I say honestly. To anyone else, I’d say yes like I’m supposed to, but since this is Adam, I tell him, “It’s not that I don’t miss her. I do. But I don’t remember her. It’s more that I miss what could have been. Why do you ask?”

“You never talk about her.”

“I don’t have a lot to talk about. All I have are pictures and the stories my dad told me. They’re not my stories to tell. Not really.”

He swallows, the click of his throat audible since we’re so close. “You don’t have one memory of her?”

I shake my head.

“That sucks.” He scoots even closer to me, his bent knee knocking into mine.

“Yeah.”

His forehead touches mine, our breaths mingling, syncing together, his fingers wiggling between us, his knuckles brushing mine. I look down just as he turns his face away. “We should go back inside,” he says suddenly, his breath turning ragged.

“Why?”

“Because my lips feel weird, and yours look really fucking tasty right now.”

He drops his hands over his face with a groan, making me laugh.

“Why is my mouth saying everything my brain is thinking?”

That makes me laugh harder. He laughs too, the two of us rolling around on the grass as we struggle to our feet. When we finally get there, I wrap my arm around his neck and pull him into me, my mouth on his temple. “I’m hungry.”

“No shit.” His hands find my waist, and I pull him to my chest, my fingers raking through his hair.

“Not for food,” I clarify, giving him one of the many thoughtsmymind is thinking. “Wanna leave?”

He nods against me, and I pull my phone out, glancing around to make sure no one’s seeing the way we’re touching each other as I order an Uber.

At home, sitting cross-legged on top of the kitchen island, Adam sips on some water while I make him a snack, the two of us trying and failing to be quiet as I share stories about my parents. They’re not funny stories, but we find ourselves laughing at them anyway.

After cutting the tomatoes, I add them to his BLT sandwich, cut it in half, and slide the plate toward him. He offers me half, and I smile as I take it.

We’re both leaning in, our knees knocking together, my eyes zeroed in on his mouth as he chews.

“This one time?—”

“At band camp,” he says around a mouthful of food.

“—when I was seven, my dad hired a new babysitter. The last one quit because of the way he spoke to her. But that’s another story. Anyway, the new one was hot. Like, smoking hot, dude. Tall. Blonde. A cheerleader. I had a crush on her, but she wouldn’t give me the time of day. She sent me to bed early, and when something woke me up and I realized my dad was home, I came downstairs and saw him fucking her against the front door out there.” I tip my chin at the entryway behind him, solemnly shaking my head. “Broke my heart, man.”

Adam stares at me, wide-eyed and silent, before he doubles over laughing. “That’s the most traumatic thing I’ve ever heard.”

I’m laughing too, holding on to the sleeves of his hoodie to stop him falling off the counter.

The sound of a throat clearing has us both straightening up, whipping our heads around to find my dad and Veronica standing in the doorway. Dressed in their pajamas, their hair mussed from sleep, they look pissed. A quick glance at the clock tells me it’s almost two in the morning.

Veronica folds her arms across her chest, and my dad sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “She was twenty-two, okay? Acollegecheerleader. Jesus.”

Adam’s shoulders shake with laughter as he ducks his head, hiding his face in his hands. We’re still close, so the top of his head bumps my chin. I curl my hand into a fist, resisting the urge to reach up and run it through his hair.

Ignoring her husband, Veronica looks between me and her son. “Are you done?”

Shoving the remainder of the sandwich in his mouth, Adam hums.