Page 65

“You never could before. We were young, but I never really knew where I stood with you. Always wondered if I was the only one doing all the feeling.” At this, I am floored. How did he not know? “I want it now. Need it. I need to know we belong to each other. That when shit gets hard the only place we can run is toward each other and not away. When I piss you off, you come find me. Yell at me then listen to what I have to say. No pushing away. No pulling back. Forced to look.”

“I’m not sure I know how to do that,” I admit, terrified by every single piece of it. “Any of it. The label feels like you setting an expectation I’ll never meet. And the realness . . .” I blow out a breath. “I don’t know how.”

“You do.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “Tell me something real.”

I swallow, feeling myself start to implode like a dying star. I would rather jump out of a tall building than do this, but if I don’t do this I might actually jump out of a tall building. Seven hundred confessions scroll through my brain, but I opt for an easy one. “I wanted to ruin your date with Anna. When I sat by you. I wanted to make her mad and leave, and I wanted to hurt you. Because I was jealous. Because I know I don’t deserve the spot next to you, but I want it anyway.”

“I already knew that.” His eyes smile, amused. “But it’s a good start.”

Despite how hard it is to breathe, I laugh.

“You have to do this too, right? I can’t be the only one spilling my stupid guts.”

He doesn’t hesitate: “My biggest regret is hurting you when I left.”

I want to tell him I regret that too. That him leaving changed the entire trajectory of my life, but I don’t, because he kisses me, just barely, but enough to swallow my words. I get out of the truck and close the door gently, lifting my hand in a small wave as he dips his chin. There’s a weird uncertainty in the air—like neitherof us know what to do. Awkward, I walk toward the house, and he drives away.

At the door, I fumble for my keys in my purse at the same time Ford’s truck speeds backward down the driveway, returning to the spot he was just parked. He cuts the engine, gets out, and without bothering to close his door, jogs across the yard.

He doesn’t say a word.

Not as he climbs the four steps, crosses the porch, or stops right in front of me.

Not as he presses his mouth to mine.

Stunned, I don’t react, I let him. Let his mouth explore mine, let his body push against me until my back hits the front door, let his hands dig into my hips and my body arch into him. Ford Callahan kisses me like he’s trying to brand himself on my tongue, and he is. I drop my purse, wrap my arms around his neck, and let him.

When he pulls away, both of his hands grab my face, and he rounds his spine so he’s looking right in my eyes. “You deserve whatever the hell spot you want, Scotty.”

He kisses me one more time—hard and final—then he’s gone.

For as much time as I spend thinking about everything that’s been wrong in my life, all I think is three and a half more months ofthisas I watch Ford’s brake lights shine red then disappear into the night.

Twenty-Two

“Whydoyouseemmore nervous than me?” Wren glances up from the clipboard of paperwork she’s filling out, effectively stilling my knee that’s been bouncing like a basketball. “I’m the one that has to go back there and spill my guts to a stranger.”

I look around the waiting room, mindlessly snapping the rubber band on my wrist. What I assume is a mom and son sit in chairs across from us, the woman flipping through a magazine. Around us, motivational posters cover the walls, making me feel like a fraud—a crazy person with a kid I don’t own. “I don’t know. I’m worried your dad is going to kill me, I guess. Like he should be here and not me. God, I sound like such a girl and we’re not even sleeping together.”

She groans. “Scotty—gross!”

I wave her away as she pinches her insurance card between the paperwork and the blade of the clip before handing it to the receptionist.

“You’re bringing me to therapy, not a cockfight,” she says, sitting back down.

I smirk. “You said cock.”

“My point,” she says, with an annoyed pause, “is that he’s not going to care. He’d probably be happy.”

I have no way in hell of knowing if she’s right.

“Wren Callahan,” a woman calls, opening the door that leads to a hallway. Wren lets out a reluctant breath, stands, and pinches her sleeves in her hands.

I give her a tight smile. “Tell them everything, okay?”

She nods, then she’s gone, leaving me with a ball of guilt in the waiting room for the next hour.

I snap my rubber band the entire time.