Page 33 of Now to Forever (Life on the Ledge Duet #2)

I slip off the tailgate, out of his grasp, and march to the passenger side of his truck, getting in with a slam of the door.

I’m twenty and destroyed all over again, only this time, it’s me.

I did all this. What the hell is wrong with me?

Tears fill my eyes as I stare at Ford’s reflection in the rearview mirror.

Hands on the tailgate, he hinges at the waist and drops his head, defeated.

Then he starts cleaning, quiet as he gathers the remnants of the perfect night I ruined.

The Mexican Coke bottles clang as he drops them into a trash bag; the cooler snaps as he puts the food away.

He unplugs the lights; it goes dark. A minute later, he’s behind the steering wheel of his truck, silent the entire drive back.

At the A-frame, he parks, cuts the engine, and stares ahead.

It’s a moment. One I’ve read about and seen in movies where a character has to make a choice to be vulnerable or lose everything.

I hate that pile of melodramatic introspective bullshit with a passion.

But sitting in this truck, I feel it. If I don’t say something, I might never see Ford again, at least not this way.

Twenty years ago, I went into the woods and thought he’d be sitting there when I got out.

Thought he’d wait for me and chase me around forever.

I learned the hard way that’s not how life works.

If you want something—or someone—you don’t know how many chances you’ll get at that .

“You remember the first time you called me Viper?” I ask, looking out my window at the lit-up house.

Molly’s sitting nicely on a blanket at the window, no doubt putting on a show for Ford.

“You asked me out on a date, and I told you I’d rather eat shit with a spoon out of a jockstrap than go out on a date with you.

And you—you did what you do, blue eyes smiling wider than your mouth—you laughed.

Like you thought I was funny. Then you said, ‘Well I get that you’d rather do that, but it doesn’t mean you can’t go out with me anyway, Viper.

’ Then I said, ‘I bite,’ and you said, ‘I’m countin’ on it. ’ ”

I laugh softly; he doesn’t.

“I learned to cut with my words from watching my parents fight. It was their go-to. One did something the other didn’t like, and they used their tongue like a knife, stabbing the other one into hurt submission.

” I pause, thinking of those loud nights in that little trailer.

“It was always a bloodbath even without a single mark of the skin.”

Ford wrings his hands around the steering wheel, no doubt wishing it was my neck he was strangling.

“I don’t know how to do this—whatever this is. I haven’t dated anyone since you.” For the first time, he looks at me. Mouth open, eyes wide. “I’ve dated,” I add quickly. “But it’s never been serious. I did get married in Vegas once for a few hours. A Swede named Sven.”

He puffs out a breath. “Of course you did. ”

“What do you want from me, Ford? I have absolutely nothing to offer. I’m leaving. I’m no good for anyone—for you. For Wren. I’m . . . like buying an apple tree that only grows bruised fruit.”

“Good news,” he says, almost amused. “My mom always says the best apple butter comes from the most bruised apples.”

I drop my head on the headrest, facing him as he mirrors my position. The soft glow of lights from outside illuminate the lines of his face and I’m jealous of how close they get to be to him.

“You aren’t to blame for Zeb. Or anything. And I don’t blame you for not wanting to crawl into bed with me either. I was feeling a bit shunned. Believe it or not, I do not get turned down very often.” Quietly, I mumble, “Or ever.”

“Scotty,” he says, reaching over to me and rubbing his knuckles down my cheek. “Your apology skills have come so far in such a short amount of time.”

Despite myself, I laugh.

“I want to crawl in bed with you,” he continues, knuckles dragging across the skin of my face. “I want to relearn every inch of you and taste your skin and hear what noises you make when I’m doing all of that. But I want to be sure that we do it better than last time.”

I lean into his hand. “How?”

“We go slow. We get to know each other. We see what happens.”

“We know each other,” I argue. “And I’m leaving in a few months.”

“I’m pretending you’re not leaving,” he says, with a slight tilt of his lips .

“Pretending I’m not leaving?” I scoff, annoyed, pulling away from his hand. “What the hell kind of plan is that?”

He chuckles. “The best one I could think of.”

I scoff, again. “Well, it’s a bad one.”

“Maybe,” he says, eyes smiling even in the dark. “It was either that or try to convince you to stay.”

I frown. “I can’t stay.” Can I stay? I want something new.

Some where new. A place to be happy. Free.

That’s never been Ledger. Even with Ford here now, this won’t last. Nothing good ever has.

My parents never stayed. Zeb didn’t stay.

I’ve never stayed with any man I’ve dated in the last two decades.

Staying feels impossible. A gamble on me nobody should take. “And even if I did stay , you know me.”

“I don’t know if anyone knows you,” he says. “It gets real, and you get . . . funny, sharp, mean. You don’t get real.” He pauses. “And I want you to be able to say you’re mine—whatever that means. Girlfriend, whatever word you want to use.”

At my reaction, he laughs softly.

“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 neither of 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 of this as I watch Ford’s brake lights shine red then disappear into the night.