Page 41 of What You left in Me

He tightens his arm, pulling me closer so my back is flush to his chest. He’s warm, steady, the human equivalent of a weighted blanket. There is a very familiar ache between my hips that says last night happened.

He kisses that spot behind my ear, soft, not asking for anything, and says, “I love you.”

The sentence lands like a quilt and a stone at the same time. I close my eyes and let myself sink into the gentleness because it’s either that or come apart.

“I love you, too,” I murmur, and I mean it; my mouth doesn’t lie about those words.

But my traitorous body remembers the wrong tryst. It still aches for Finn, like it was in the car. Finn’s mouth, greedy and demanding, consuming me one kiss at a time. Finn’s hand on the side of my throat, anchoring me like he’d command my pulse with the sheer force of his will. The way my name sounded when he said it like a warning he’d chosen not to heed. My stomachtwists. Guilt claws up between my ribs and digs in with its mean little nails.

Julian and I had sex last night.

Grief and fear have a way of kicking open doors you thought were locked.

Julian was gentle with me, and I let him take care of me the way he wanted to. I wanted… I don’t know what I wanted. To feel something that wasn’t a ventilator? To prove to myself I am still alive, maybe?

And here I am, the world’s worst fiancée, still thinking about that one stupid, reckless kiss with my stepbrother in a car on a dark road like I’m starring in a cautionary tale. That kiss had more passion than the hour we spent in foreplay and sex.

Well, there wasn’t much foreplay, considering Julian doesn’t really believe in it.

“What’s wrong?” Julian asks, because apparently my internal weather system shows on my face. His hand rubs slow circles under my collarbone. “You just went way too still, hon.”

“Just thinking.” I swallow the rest, about how thinking is exactly the problem. “About the hospital. About… everything. I’m stuck in my head, I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t question a single word.

He doesn’t know how sorry I am. How much more I have to be sorry for than he thinks I do.

“We’ll get through it,” he replies. “I shifted my schedule, by the way. I’ll be here all weekend. Monday is a maybe, but I’ll push it if I’ve got to. I already texted Megan to cancel the fundraiser breakfast. Your mother needs us. You need me.” He doesn’t say it to brag, I know that. But something about the way he says it makes me itch. Maybe I’m losing my mind. “I’ll makeyou breakfast in a sec? Think Eleanor’s help will let me in the kitchen, or will I be shot on sight?”

A laugh escapes me in surprise. “I honestly can’t say. You may get swatted by a spatula.”

“Kinky,” he teases.

He props himself up on an elbow and looks down at me. He is ridiculous in the morning, sleep-tousled, eyes soft, all that sophistication dialed down to something human. He touches my cheekbone with his thumb. “Hey. I’ve got you.”

I want to believe him. I want that to be the whole truth. I nod, because nodding is easier than the eighteen explanations and disclaimers in my head.

He kisses me again. It’s chaste and sweet. Not the kind of kiss that starts a whole axis spinning and slides out of bed. He moves around the room with an economy I used to find soothing. Shirt, belt, cufflinks, all neat in a small, controlled storm. He pulls one of my sweaters from the chair and drapes it over my shoulders like he’s covering a birdcage to convince the bird to sleep.

“Fifteen minutes,” he says. “Don’t move.”

I do move. I shuffle to the bathroom because mascara is a hell I am not revisiting today. I pull my hair into a low knot and splash cold water on my face until I can pass for someone who has slept. The mirror is rude anyway. My mouth is a little swollen. I know why. I grip the sink and tell myself: we’re not doing that.

We’re not thinking about Finn’s mouth in a mirror while my fiancé is making me eggs like a rom-com boyfriend of the year.

The kitchen smells mouthwatering when I pad in with bare feet and an old pair of sweat shorts. Julian has coaxed thestove into a truce: eggs scrambling in a pan, toast in the toaster, coffee dripping into a carafe like salvation.

The lake winks beyond the windows, all postcard and lies.

A bunch of roses slump in a vase on the counter, party leftovers, browning at the edges, too much doing their best today.

Julian turns and grins. “I found them. Eggs. Hidden behind two jars of capers and what I think might be a taxidermized lemon.”

“You’re a hero.”

“Put it in writing.” He plates eggs and slides them over. “Eat.”

“I’m not hungry,” I sigh.