Page 65 of The Girlfriend Agreement (Conwick U #1)

Blondie’s silence hits differently now, and in the brief pause I take to organize my thoughts, I wonder if she’s been told something similar about her mother. I hope for both their sakes she hasn’t.

I sense another question hanging in the narrow space between us, where our shoulders are almost brushing. It says, What does this have to do with your dad?

Everything, I answer.

“My dad refused.” At Blondie’s choked gasp, I clarify (not to defend him, never to defend him, but so she can get the complete picture of the situation at the time), “He had taken a very public anti-experimental stance in regard to the family business—not because of any personal beliefs, but because his shareholders had ‘ethical’ concerns.” I scoff.

“ Meaning they were scared shitless about any legal liability that might fall back on them if Hallazgo were to manufacture those drugs and something were to ever go wrong. And what’s the one thing my dad cares about more than anything else in the world? ”

Blondie looks over her shoulder as if she’ll find the answer in the empty space behind us, in the ghost of our footsteps. When she doesn’t, she turns her focus back to me, those big green eyes shining with the unmistakable sheen of tears.

“Ensuring he upholds his father’s legacy,” I say with a humorless laugh.

“In his eyes, it wasn’t just a financial gamble but a risk to the company name.

The brand ,” I mock. “So, you can imagine which of the two was his priority: maintaining that stance or telling them all to go fuck themselves for the only chance he had to save his dying son’s life. ”

The words have barely left my lips when I feel the hot touch of Blondie gripping my hand. Her fingers tremble against my skin.

“I’m so sorry, Damian.”

My heart rages—with sorrow, with anger and fury, but above all, with longing for this sometimes unpredictable and surprising but always smart and beautiful girl, who is doing more for me by simply holding my hand than my parents have done—or even tried to do—in the four years Jamie has been dead.

I pull away before I do something stupid like lean down and kiss her.

“Needless to say, my high school years sucked,” I lament. A sentiment I know she would agree with considering her own final year before college. “First, my abuelo died just after I started tenth grade, after which my abuela moved away. Then Jamie…during my senior year.”

In my peripheral vision, I can just make out the way her face shifts against the dim light and shadows—the pursing of her lips, the creasing of her brow—and I wonder if she’s coming to the same realization I did when I learned of her past from Ronnie.

How our individual experiences have been a strange mirror of each other’s, even down to the timeline.

“How come…” She trails off, and the burden of those unsaid words draws my gaze to her face.

The hand I was holding before is now gripping the right arm of her glasses, and she shifts them a fraction of an inch, even though they were at no risk of slipping—one of her many little quirks I’ve come to notice that would endear her to me more if I didn’t know what they were masking.

Her cheeks turn ruddy under my lingering stare.

“How come we didn’t…honor Jamie?” Her tone is tentative. Unsure. Like she’s embarrassed or even afraid she’ll offend me for asking.

I offer her a pacifying smile. That she’s even trying to understand means more than I could ever say.

“Día de los Muertos spans a couple of days. Today, we honor the adults we’ve lost, like my abuelo.

Yesterday was for the children.” The one day a year my family actually allows itself to outwardly grieve, and even then, my parents continue to wear their unrelenting shroud of indifference, hiding it behind the guise of celebrating Jamie’s life instead, as if acknowledging our pain is something to be ashamed of.

As if they don’t even have any pain left to acknowledge.

Not like me. A sob threatens to escape as I force out my next words.

“Jamie’s ofrenda and grave are back in Newport, though my abuela has her own ofrenda for him here. We celebrated him yesterday.”

Blondie’s only response is a slow, contemplative nod.

“Sorry,” I add when it seems like she won’t break the silence again without prodding.

“I didn’t mean to dump all that on you.” And yet, I can’t stop myself now that I’ve started.

Can’t stop myself from taking the knife always wedged between my ribs, and using it to spill my guts to her.

A bitter sigh scorches the inside of my throat.

“Sometimes, I wish I could be like my parents and just let it all go.” I wish I could be past this grief.

I wish I could be at the point of finding joy in the fact that Jamie lived at all, but the wound is still too fresh. “But I?—”

“Maybe they haven’t,” Blondie cuts in, jostling her glasses again. “Maybe they’re just better at bottling it up.”

I snort. That’s one way to put it. And certainly kinder than I would have.

My parents are experts in avoidance. Shitty decisions aside, I have no doubt they mourned my brother at some point—perhaps, in their own way, they still do—but the problem is I never saw it.

And they’re so focused on moving on, on pretending his death didn’t happen at all, that they never seemed to realize they’ve only made the situation worse, not only for themselves but for me.

They weren’t the only ones who lost Jamie, and I needed them to acknowledge that.

I needed to be allowed to express that loss to them. And when I wasn’t…

Well, that was when the rebellious behavior began. Because if I couldn’t purge my grief in a healthy way, there was only one option left.

To self-destruct.

“Yeah,” I mumble, shoving my hands in my pockets and dipping my eyes to the floor, mindlessly watching our steps. “Maybe.”

A hand on my bicep urges me to stop walking again, and I relent, pausing mid-stride, my heart lodged in my throat. Blondie’s eyes burn into the side of my face, but I can’t bring myself to meet them this time. I’m too exposed, too raw. She’ll see the ugly truth of my anger, my pain.

But that doesn’t seem to frighten her because she puts her hand on my chin and turns my face so I have no choice but to look at her.

“For what it’s worth, I think it’s okay to feel what you’re feeling.”

Her touch lingers for only a moment—just long enough to permanently mark my skin and memory with the sensation of her fingers—then she drops her hand.

“I know this weekend is about celebrating their lives instead of mourning them, and I think that’s a wonderful way to look at it, but I also think it’s like you said before—it’s easier said than done.

Sometimes, we get stuck in the past, and we think we’re supposed to just let it all go, like none of it ever happened, or only look at the positives, because that’s what everyone else seems to do.

Because that’s how you show that it hasn’t affected you, or that you’ve managed to overcome your grief.

And some things we should let go.” Her words have a sharp bite to them, and I can’t help thinking that she must be referring to her father.

To the man who was meant to love her without limit or condition, and yet chose to abandon her just because she was different. Special.

“Some things aren’t worth clinging to,” she declares, and I know then that if there was any part of Blondie that held tight to whatever childhood affection she felt for her sorry excuse for a sperm donor, it’s gone with that statement.

Snipped, like a fraying piece of thread.

“But other things…” She reaches up again, pushing a stray lock of hair from my forehead before flattening her palm to my cheek.

“It’s okay to hold onto the stuff that matters.

It’s okay to not be healed yet. To still be sad. ”

If I wasn’t already aware of my feelings for Blondie, those words would’ve been my wake-up call. And not just because of her understanding and empathy, but because…right then, with that sentiment, she sounded so much like my abuelo that I find myself believing that he really is here with us today.

“You sound like my abuelo,” I muse. “He would’ve said the same thing.”

A smug smile pulls at Blondie’s lips. “I guess I’m just full of unsolicited wisdom.”

She moves to retract her hand again, but the irrational part of me grabs it before she can, holding her warm palm to my skin. It’s the part of me that wants to say, To hell with the rules. I’ll be whatever you want.

“Ah, yes.” I step closer, my grip unwavering, my heart racing at the wonderful sight of the blush creeping across her cheeks.

“Like that time you suggested we become enemies with benefits. Very wise, indeed,” I tease, though what I’m really dying to say is, I don’t want to be your enemy.

I don’t even want to be your friend. I just want you. I want more.

Her breath hitches, and the raspiness in her voice matches mine when she whispers, “What happened to, ‘it’s forgotten’?”

I wish I could decipher this new question in her gaze. I wish I could tell if she even remotely feels what I’m feeling right now, or if sexual attraction is the limit of any reciprocity I can ever hope for.

It’s crazy. Only last week, this was just a mutually beneficial, purely platonic (if that) arrangement. But now…

How quickly the tables have turned.

I clear my throat. She’s not interested in you, the scolding voice inside me says. And with that reminder in my head, I drop her hand.

I inch back, and with some needed space between us to think, I realize where we are in the house. Turning, I take a few more steps before stopping in front of an open door on our right. “Here’s your room.”

Blondie blinks at me, her expression conflicted as if she’s once again considering the correct thing to say—or as if the words are already on the tip of her tongue, just waiting to be voiced.