Page 143 of The Five Year Lie

His smile is surprised. “You hate it?”

I swallow hard, and shake my head. “No, you’re...”You’re everything.“Imissedyou. A lot. All the time. I’m still angry.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet,” he whispers.

“You could have talked to me. But you didn’ttrustme.” I feel so much sudden rage that tears threaten again.

“Hey, hey.” He puts both hands on my shoulders. “I was trying toprotectyou. It almost worked.”

“I don’t wantprotection.” But even as I snarl these words at him, I realize they’re completely hypocritical. All I want in the world right now is protection. I want him to scoop me up in strong arms and never let go.Fuck.I take a deep breath and try again. “Look—I’m mad. And I want answers. But when I found that obituary I could barely get out of bed for a week. Please don’t lie to me like that again. I love you.”

God, what a lot of word vomit. My nose is probably red and runny. I’m a hot mess. But at leastIfinally told the truth. Even if he never did.

Jay looks back at me with clear blue eyes that don’t miss a thing. He can probably hear the gears grinding in my head. “I love you, too,” he whispers. “Always did. And I won’t let you out of my sight. Promise.”

The words sort of hang there in the air between us, after all this time. I blink back at him through watery eyes and wonder if it would be weird if I asked him to repeat that a second time.

I don’t get the chance, though, because he leans in slowly, the way you’d approach a feral animal—one that might bolt. And he kisses me once, very softly.

But I don’t bolt. Instead, I grab his T-shirt in both hands—the way I’ve wanted to since I walked into his yard—and I crush my mouth to his.

He lets out a grunt of surprise. But he’s always been a smart man, so he catches up in a hurry. His fingers tangle in my hair, and he steps closer to me, extinguishing all the empty space between us.

Sliding deeper into the kiss is like sliding into a warm bath. The heat of his body against mine is like medicine, and his mouth is nourishment. For the first time in weeks, I forget to worry.

Besides, we were always good at this. We’re still good at it. His hands remember the shape of me. And mine remember exactly how to make him shiver, as I slide my palm beneath his T-shirt to stroke his chest.

It’s like riding a bike. He still knows just where to drag his roughened fingers up my spine, and just where to kiss my neck so that I melt further into him.

“Love you,” he whispers again. Maybe he knows how much I crave those words.

I don’t say it back. I’m too occupied with the button on his pants. And the zipper.

“Love you,” he repeats, sliding my T-shirt up over my heated skin. Then, with the same sweet fire that always burns between us, he shows me how much.

Right there on the bathroom counter.

51

JAY

Jay wakes up alone, to the sound of birdsong coming through the window, just like he does every morning. For a split second he’s filled with the heart-rending certainty that yesterday was some kind of fever dream.

But then he smells coffee and bacon. His eyes flip open. The bed is an empty mess around him, and his leg is stiff from sleeping in his prosthetic, which he never does.

When he rolls over, he spots a fuzzy tiger shark on the floor beside the bed. And a very small pair of pajamas with the Toy Story characters on them.

He’s already grinning as he throws his legs over the side of the bed.

He takes a shower, trying to collect himself.

The appearance of Ariel and a child—his son!—is literally a dream come true. The fact that they’re in danger—and it’s his fault—is his most gut-churning nightmare realized.

He dresses in shorts and a T-shirt and goes downstairs. Buzz catches sight of him, and the boy’s eyes grow round. “You have a metal leg!” he stage-whispers.

“That’s right,” he agrees, his voice hoarse from disuse. “Later I’ll show you my plastic foot.”

“Cool.”The little boy smiles, and Jay’s heart threatens to explode.