Page 74 of The Girlfriend Agreement (Conwick U #1)

Exponential growth is the rate at which my problems are multiplying.

I never knew grudges could feel physically heavy, like a weight literally pressing down on my heart, but now that the weight has been lifted, I can’t help marveling at the difference. At how light I am by comparison now that I’ve finally been relieved of that burden.

It seems strange to say I’ve never forgiven someone before.

But forgiving someone for something small and forgiving them for deeply hurting you are two different things.

And the fact is that Damian did deeply hurt me, and though I wasn’t sure if I could ever truly forgive him for it, I do.

And that forgiveness—knowing I’m even capable of it—fills me with a drugging euphoria.

It’s crazy how easy it was in that moment, to let what we were doing wash away all the bad between us, but it did.

It washed away my anger and resentment as if Damian’s dick really is magical, just like Ronnie said.

And I’ve been walking around high on that weightlessness since.

That is, until this morning, when I realized my mom had her biweekly chemo session, and reality brought me crashing back down to earth.

Although Mom is in the second year of her treatment, it’s still very much ongoing, and it’s uncertain when she’ll be safely out of the woods.

Days like today—when I have to sit there and watch how frail she looks wrapped in a blanket, the infusion steadily dripping through the IV line attached to the port in her arm—only remind me of that.

But I put on a brave face because that’s what Mom needs from me right now.

She needs me to make her think I have hope, even if some days—like today—it’s so damn hard to feel it.

Between the two of us, Gina is the far better motivational cheerleader, and though we usually take it in turns to go with Mom to the hospital (and today would have been her day), I wanted to give her this much-needed chance to relax.

She’s been drowning in overtime ever since the insurance gods decided to smite us—just in case anything happens that requires draining our bank accounts, impacting our ability to pay the mortgage and bills—and I know she’s tired and uncomfortably close to burning out.

I don’t have classes on Friday, anyway, so I volunteered as tribute to take Mom for her infusion.

Four hours later, we’re in the car heading home, and thankfully, since today was a monoclonal antibody day, she doesn’t seem as unwell or exhausted as she usually does after her standard rounds of chemo.

She’s even talking about what we should have for dinner, which is amazing considering her treatments have a tendency to make her feel too sick to eat after.

We’re debating the pros and cons of Italian versus Chinese food when I turn onto our street, my personal feelings on chow mein abandoned mid-thought when I spot the silver Audi parked outside our house.

“Whose car is that?” I ask, glancing at Mom.

She shakes her head. “I’m not sure. Must be someone visiting one of the neighbors. Or maybe Gina has a guest over?”

The latter seems unlikely. Gina’s usually so busy that when she does get some time to herself, she chooses to spend it vegging out on the sofa rewatching episodes of New Girl —a rare indulgence, but one she relishes when she can.

And the only people she allows to intrude on her personal time are me and Mom.

So, unless Edward Cullen himself is in there spilling all his vampire secrets, I highly doubt she has anyone over.

I pull up to the curb in front of the car in question and swing open the driver’s door, peering down the length of the mostly empty road for a beat before rushing around to the passenger’s side to help Mom.

She stumbles a little, catching her toe on the tarmac, and I shoot out a hand to catch her, forgetting all about the Audi.

“Are you feeling okay?” I ask, guiding her along the short path to the porch.

She huffs a humorless laugh. “Same as usual. You don’t have to baby me, Lex. I’ll be fine.” Despite what she says, she doesn’t resist my offer of support, and I notice her grasp on me tightens a little as we make our way up the peeling wood steps.

Laughter reaches my ears when I push open the door, and I’m about to call out, “We’re home!” when I step far enough into the hallway to have the living room in my eyeline. Gina is sitting on the mustard-yellow sofa, exactly where I expected to find her, and on the armchair across from her is?—

“Damian?” His name shoots out of me in a panicked shriek.

What the fuck is he doing here?

His head snaps in my direction at the sound of my voice, and my mouth goes dry when I glance over my shoulder at Mom, who shuffles forward to see what all the commotion is about. When I look back at Damian, he jumps up from the armchair, a smile edging his lips.

“Hi.”

My stomach twists as my fingers twitch with the sudden urge to touch my glasses. If he sees my mom, he’ll know. He’ll know I lied about why I need the money. He’ll know I’m one crack away from breaking.

“I…” I swallow hard. “Wh-what are you doing here?”

An honest-to-god blush creeps onto his cheeks as he rubs a hand along the back of his neck.

“Well, I…” He clears his throat, then offers me a timid smile, which is equal parts endearing and totally unlike him.

“I wanted to see you, but you weren’t home.

So, when Gina said I could hang around until you got back, I figured”—he shrugs—“I would.”

I blink stupidly, trying to process this information. “And…how long has that been?”

“Oh, uh…” He checks his watch, and his cheeks inflate like two small balloons before he blows out a whooshing breath. “Two hours?”

“ Two hours ?” I echo, nearly shouting the words.

He holds up his hands. “Don’t worry. Your aunt has been entertaining me with some truly riveting conversation. In fact”—a devious smirk hitches up the corners of his lips as his eyes narrow on mine a little—“we actually have a lot in common?—”

“Don’t say it,” I warn, even though I know exactly what’s coming, and that nothing will stop him now that he’s started.

That smile deepens. “Did you know Gina is a self-proclaimed Twihard as well? We should be enemies,” he explains with a glance at my aunt, who nods and grins at me as if she is abso-fucking-lutely delighted by this turn of events.

“You know, since she’s on Team Edward and all.

But we’ve agreed to a truce for your sake, so you don’t have to choose sides. ”

I don’t even bother to hide my groan as I reach up and pinch the bridge of my nose. “Dear god,” I mutter under my breath.

Behind me, my mom clears her throat to get my attention.

Shit. In the span of sixty seconds, Damian’s weird Twilight obsession derailed my thoughts, and I somehow completely forgot she was here.

And right after chemo no less, looking very much like she just walked out of an oncology ward.

If the sunken cheeks and pale skin weren’t evidence enough, the cotton wrap to cover her hairless head is a dead giveaway.

“Lex,” she begins, her eyes—the mirror of mine—swinging from my face to Damian’s then back again, pinning me in place. “Care to introduce me?”

I turn my attention to Damian, assessing his expression for any sign that he’s registered my Mom is sick…but I find nothing. Just a patient smile and a casual lift of his brow to remind me they’re all waiting for me to speak. Or maybe that’s all I’m allowing myself to see.

My lips part, and my mouth hangs open for a moment before I finally locate my voice. “Mom,” I say slowly, “this is Damian. Damian, this is…my mom.” I wave a put-out hand toward my aunt. “Gina, you know.”

Damian crosses to where my mom and I linger at the threshold to the living room, his long legs eating the distance in only two strides.

“It’s great to meet you, Ms. Dornan,” he says, offering his hand to her.

The way he addresses her as Ms. and not Mrs. doesn’t escape my notice, but then, I’ve never mentioned my dad, and he knows I live with my mom and aunt, so he probably just went with the safest option.

I watch their interaction with laser focus, especially when my mom slides her hand into his and he shakes it.

The gentle way he touches her is another thing that fails to evade my attention.

“I’ve heard a lot of great things about you. ”

You have? I nearly ask. From who? Because I sure as hell haven’t told you shit. But I swallow my comment and remind myself that Damian is just being polite. He’s acting, stepping into a role, though who can say what part he’s supposed to be playing right now.

“Is that so?” my mom says, raising a brow at me before tacking on a kind, “And call me Carol, please. I refuse to be the only person in this room not on a first-name basis.”

Damian beams at her, clearly pleased, like a child who’s just been told he’s on Santa’s good list this year. God knows what he’s so happy about.

Seriously, why are you here? I try to ping that thought directly into his brain but fail.

He just keeps smiling at my mom, completely oblivious to the molten heat of my stare on his face and my many obvious attempts to get him to look at me, so I can mouth for him to get out.

To leave before he realizes I’ve been lying to him and ends up hating me for it, especially after he was so candid about his brother.

I could have told him then, in Guadalajara.

I could have told him dozens of times. I should have told him, and yet…

I could never seem to find the words. Maybe because talking about my mom’s sickness only makes it that much more real, and I want just one place in my life where I can pretend that it isn’t.

That this isn’t my life. Maybe I just don’t want Damian’s pity, which is insane since he’s possibly the one person I know aside from Gina who would actually understand.