Page 28 of Living for Truth (Broken Shelves #2)

Hannah

I ’m glad Jake wanted to take our mom to lunch and shopping for Mother’s Day because it gave me enough time for Morgan and Sage to come help me load up and move out.

Predictably, my mom was livid that Morgan said I could live above the flower shop.

She accused me of using him for his money, “fornicating” with him, and then told me I was raised better than this.

“What would Jesus think?” she had asked, and I had to keep my tongue trapped between my teeth so I wouldn’t go on a rant about how I don’t believe in Jesus.

The last seven months have been an emotional roller coaster, but I feel like things are finally looking up.

Since I won’t have to keep up the pretenses of going to church, I can finally explore the side of myself that’s been hidden underneath scriptures and garments and culty temple ceremonies.

As soon as I realized I’d be moving out, I placed an order for new underwear and even bought the red lingerie set I was imagining.

It feels silly and a little overambitious now, but maybe Morgan will see it one day.

We finish loading up the trailer—which I don’t think we actually needed—in less than half an hour, then Sage and I follow Morgan in my car to my new apartment.

Sage gushes the whole drive about Morgan and how hot, helpful, kind, understanding, and wonderful he is.

She’s not wrong, but it feels like I’ll disappoint her if things don’t work out with him. Her approval means the world to me, though, so knowing she’s in my corner if things work out helps ease some of my anxiety.

When we pull up behind the shop, Sage starts planning my housewarming party, which will just be me and Sage with a charcuterie board, bottle of champagne, and all the Jane Austen movies that exist.

Morgan hefts a box of books up the steps and unlocks the door— my door—and when I walk in behind him, I gasp.

Not only is the place spotless, but there’s an entertainment center with two bookcases on each side where there was just a plain wall last time.

There’s a small black loveseat sofa that looks comfy and perfect for snuggling up with a good book, and a large area rug in the space where the bed is supposed to go.

“Morgan,” I whisper, “Who—what—why?” I can’t even finish my sentences because I’m so speechless.

Morgan’s cheeks turn a bit pink. “I figured you wouldn’t have an entertainment center or a couch, and I wanted you to have a spot for your books, too. It’s nothing, really. Olivia and her wife are renovating and were getting rid of some things.”

“Thank you, Morgan. I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you for all you’ve done for me.” Before I can overthink my actions, I wrap my arms around his squishy middle and hug him, pouring all of my gratitude into the embrace.

He doesn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around me and return my affections, making my heartbeat pick up.

“You don’t have to repay me, Hannah,” he mumbles into the crown of my head. “Whatever you need, I’ve got you.”

I need you to kiss me.

The thought comes out of nowhere, and as soon as I think it, I lean back slightly and try to convey without words how badly I want him to kiss me.

I watch his Adam's apple bob on a harsh swallow, and then he’s leaning down, closing the distance between our lips. I part my lips in anticipation and—

“Alright, Hanny Bannany, where should I put your—oh!” Sage bursts through the door with a box, which she promptly drops and covers her mouth. “Sorry. Am I interrupting something?”

I begrudgingly extract myself from Morgan’s arms, not so much embarrassed Sage caught us almost kissing, but more upset we were interrupted.

Again.

It seems the universe is making this the slowest slow burn of the century.

“Yes,” I murmur and give Morgan an apologetic smile. “Let’s get the trailer unloaded so we can order lunch.”

“Oooh, I saw a nice little Indian food place on the corner. We should order from there!” Sage claps excitedly as we head back out to the trailer.

“Oh, Dosa House? It’s really good. The lamb saag is delicious. Even Aly likes their chicken tikka masala, and she’s not usually a fan of Indian food.” Morgan hefts two boxes of kitchenware up and effortlessly takes them up the stairs.

“Damn, he’s strong. Could really toss a girl around the bedroom.” Sage fans herself, and I scowl at her, making her laugh. “Not me, obviously. Don’t be a prude, babe. You can’t tell me you haven’t thought about it at least once.”

I pick up the box of cookware I took in the divorce but haven't unpacked since I moved home, shaking my head. I have thought about it,which is a new concept for me. What if I’m bad at sex?

I’ve only ever been with Liam, and our sex life was two minute missionary and blow jobs.

He went down on me twice before deciding it wasn’t pleasurable for him, so he didn’t want to do it anymore.

I don’t think I’ve ever even had an orgasm.

Sex also hurt because there was no foreplay, and he’d start thrusting into me before I was adequately prepped.

I don’t even know if I can get wet, since we never explored long enough to find out.

I remember asking Liam if we could use lube or something to make it less painful, but he just said a wife should always be ready for her husband. I didn’t bring it up again.

“I can feel you thinking from here,” Sage calls across the small studio as she places a box of bathroom stuff in the bathroom.

We walk back out to the trailer together, passing Morgan on our way, so I whisper, “What if I’m bad at sex?”

Sage gives me an incredulous look.

“I was married, sure, but Liam was so… clinical about sex. I was never even wet for him. And it was painful sometimes,” I explain.

Sage rolls her eyes and mutters fucking douche under her breathe.

“I can’t say whether you’re good or bad at sex, babe.

But I can tell you that Liam was bad at it if he wasn’t even preparing you for it.

Something tells me Morgan wouldn’t be like that.

Morgan seems like the type to eat pussy like his life depends on it and say ‘thank you’ after. ”

“Sage!” I scold, glancing around to make sure Morgan didn’t hear her say that.

“Oh, please.” She rolls her eyes. “I bet he talks dirty, too. He seems like the type to be a gentleman in public but whisper absolute filth in your ear in the bedroom. Have you thought about what you’d like in the bedroom since leaving Liam?”

“I mean, not really. I know what interests me when I’m reading, but how do I know if it translates to real life?”

Sage tilts her head, thinking about it. “I think what turns you on when you read is a good indicator of what you’d like in real life. But you’ll never know if you don’t explore it.”

I mull over her words while we finish unloading the trailer.

“Alright, I’ll place the order for Dosa House. What do you guys want?” I ask, pulling out my phone.

After calling in the order, I offer to go grab it, but Sage says she wants to go check it out in person and offers to pick it up while I unpack the boxes. She’s out the door before I can protest, leaving me alone with Morgan.

I sit down on the floor in front of the entertainment center and start unpacking my books. Morgan settles onto the floor next to me and starts on another box.

We work in comfortable silence together for a while until I remember Aly was having lunch with her mom today.

“How was Aly this morning?”

Morgan clears his throat. “She was okay. Nervous. She got Whitney a candle and some flowers, but Whitney acted like she gave her dirt or something. It was infuriating.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Aly must have been hurt.” I frown, feeling a sense of familiarity. I remember giving my mom gifts I made or picked out specifically for her, and she never acted like she appreciated them.

“She didn’t show it, but I can imagine she was. I hope she’s okay today…” he trails off and scoots the box over until he’s sitting right next to me. “Actually, there’s something I wanted to tell you.”

I pause my own unboxing to look at him, he looks nervous as hell. “Okay…”

“Whitney was being her usual petty self and mentioned you and Liam had some… fertility struggles.”

My heart rate kicks up, and a lead ball of dread drops into my stomach, replacing any appetite I had with anxiety-induced nausea.

When I don’t respond, he hesitantly continues, “She said you had… God, I feel so shitty repeating this in this way. She said you had… multiple miscarriages.” I search his face for any hint of disgust, any hint of outrage at me because my body can’t do what it’s supposed to. For omitting the truth from him.

I find nothing but sympathy, which somehow feels worse, and then I can’t see anything at all because tears blur my vision, and a sob wrenches out of my throat.

“I’m going to say something that might hurt, but I think you should know.” He places a large hand on my knee, rubbing circles in the exposed dimpled flesh, and I brace myself for the inevitable end of whatever this is.

“Whitney implied that you were… defective. That it was your fault you miscarried. And I wanted you to know Liam is slandering you. You don’t deserve the blame.”

There it is— wait, what?

“I don’t know why your ex told Whitney, why she felt the need to tell me, or why she worded it so cruelly, but I feel you deserve to know what kind of person your ex-husband is.”