Page 22 of When We Were More (Aron Falls #1)

H enry

I wasn’t kidding when I told Matilda she drives me crazy.

I didn’t tell her that it’s not solely because she’s stubborn as hell.

It’s also because there’s something about the woman that stirs up desire in me.

Desire I haven’t felt in a long time. But I won’t act on it.

I like her, and I do want to be her friend.

I’m not going to screw that up by trying to turn things physical.

No matter how much her body and her sass turn me on.

She was right tonight. I don’t doubt that the women hanging around our group at the bachelor party would have been down for sex.

They made that perfectly clear. But I couldn’t muster up any interest. It’s not my scene anymore.

It’s also no secret that my family has money, thus the worry that someone is drawn to me because of that is often at the back of my mind.

Looking back, I’m guessing that’s half the reason Jeana was attracted to me in the first place.

At least I ended up with two amazing kids, whom I wouldn’t trade for the world. I also got a painful divorce.

When I spotted Matilda across the bar, my heart rate picked up.

So did my mood. I watched her for a few minutes.

The woman is beautiful. She also seems to be pretty damn smart…

and independent. Which explains why I turned back to her table after telling Harrison I was heading out and found her gone.

As I stand on her porch and knock on her door, I fight the urge to tell her that she’s terrible at following directions. Something tells me that wouldn’t go over well.

I knock, and she answers within a few seconds. God, she’s gorgeous.

“Did anyone ever tell you you’re stubborn?”

“I’m not stubborn. But I can take care of myself. You can’t be too careful.”

She turns on her heel and walks toward the living room. I toe off my shoes and pull off my coat, hanging it in her closet.

“Isn’t that kind of an oxymoron?” I make sure I call it out loud enough that she can still hear it.

I catch up with her as she continues through the living room into the kitchen.

“What are you talking about?”

“To say you can take care of yourself, but then, in the next sentence, say you can’t be too careful. Wouldn’t it make more sense that if you can’t be too careful, you’d wait and let me walk you to the car?”

“I have wine, or if you want, there’s some beer in the fridge.”

“Way to change the subject,” I say. “Also, look what I got.” I hold up the bottle of wine I bought before leaving the bar. She enjoyed it, and something in me wanted to do something nice for her.

Her eyes widen. “Is that?—”

“Yep. Want some?”

“Most definitely.”

I walk over to the refrigerator and peruse her selection of craft beer.

I choose a wheat ale. When I see that she’s pulled out a corkscrew and is reaching for a glass, I grab the wine opener and uncork the bottle.

She turns with the glass in hand, but before she can say anything, I gently put my hand on her wrist to steady it and pour her a glass.

She’s quiet while I do and looks up at me through thick lashes when she pulls her wrist back.

“You’re not having wine?” Her words are hushed.

“No. I prefer a beer. I bought it because you really seemed to enjoy it.” She pulls the corner of her lower lip into her mouth, and her cheeks turn a pale pink.

“Thank you. That was nice.” Her voice is hushed. She almost seems awed that I’d do something—even this simple—for her. Jesus, what kind of men has she been with if a gesture this small surprises her?

“You’re very welcome. It was my pleasure.”

She pierces me with her eyes, and I have no idea what she’s thinking. She watches me for several moments.

“Before, I meant that you can’t be too careful with people . It’s best to keep your circle small and not put yourself in a position where you need someone and they’re not there… or where they can hurt you.”

Shit, hearing that sentiment from her hits a little too close to home since it sounds similar to what I say about love and the pain it can cause. Oddly, it doesn’t sit right with me that she feels like that. I hate thinking someone or something did that to her.

Tillie grabs the bottle of wine and walks back into the living room, setting it on the coffee table. She climbs onto the couch and curls up with her legs tucked under her, her body angled toward me. I follow her lead and sit.

When I take a sip of the beer, it's not bad. I don’t plan on drinking much tonight, but I wanted to spend time with her, and this seemed like a setting she’d be comfortable with.

I glance at the end table and notice her inhaler sitting there. “Shouldn’t that be with you when you go out?”

“I have one I keep in my purse for when I’m out. Don’t worry about me. I’ve dealt with this for a long time.”

Seeing the inhaler brings back the memory of her telling me about her father lighting a cigarette in front of her. At best, doing that is recklessly inconsiderate, especially knowing how challenging certain environments can be for someone with asthma.

“I’m sorry you weren’t well on the holiday. Has your dad done that before? Smoked in front of you even though he knows about your asthma?”

She shrugs and looks down at her tights, picking at lint I can’t even see.

“My dad is… different. He’s not the kind of man who does anything for other people, especially if it puts him out.”

“Not smoking for a few minutes would put him out?” I can't hide the annoyance in my voice. “That’s ridiculous.”

“When it’s me, it does put him out, I guess.

If it were my sister, it wouldn’t be a big deal.

She doesn’t have asthma but hates the smell of smoke.

He doesn’t smoke when she’s around. She doesn’t go to his house, either.

He usually meets her somewhere or goes to my mom’s to visit her.

They’ve always been close, and he’s different with her compared to me. ”

“Do you see him often?”

“I see him more now since my grandmother passed. He was her son, and no matter how poorly he treated her, she never gave up on him. She went regularly to take him food, even though he was disrespectful and dismissive of her. Sometimes I get angry because I wonder if all the stress from worrying about my dad put extra strain on her heart and made it weaker. Not that he necessarily cared. He didn’t even come to the funeral. Neither did my mom or my sister.”

“Shit. I’m sorry, Tillie. I can’t imagine acting like that with my mom, and I definitely can’t even fathom treating one of my girls better than the other.”

I’m outraged for her. I want to find the guy and give him hell for making her asthma flare up. Add in the fact that his preferential treatment of one of his daughters over the other has hurt Tillie, and I’m furious.

Especially when she can’t meet my gaze, but stares across the living room. She looks like she’s almost in a daze.

“My sister, Claire, is three years older than me. She and my dad always had this special bond. I think he’s capable of love, but only for a select few.

Now, looking back, I assume he used up all of his ability to care about another person on Claire.

I got what I got. In retrospect, it was so obvious, even in everyday things.

But I was a kid, and I didn’t understand.

I assumed I had to work harder, do better, and he’d love me, too. ”

She pauses, and her lower lip slips between her teeth. She’s biting down slightly.

That fucker.

Her sass and independence may make me nuts sometimes, but I’ll take that any day over the lack of confidence I see in her right now.

She shakes her head. “Shoot, sorry. That got depressing real quick. Let’s talk about?—”

“Why do you still see him?” My voice is calm, even though I’m anything but inside.

Downcast, she rolls the fabric of her sweater between her thumb and forefinger.

“I don’t know. Sometimes I think it’s because it’s what Gram would have done, so I do it to honor her.

But that’s not the only reason. I guess I want to make sure that, when all is said and done, I can live with myself.

That I was true to who I am, and I was compassionate and kind, even if he doesn’t deserve it.

Growing up, I believed I had to earn his love.

It took me a long time to realize I was never going to be able to do that.

I sure tried long and hard enough, though. ”

“What do you mean, you ‘tried hard enough’?”

“I did whatever I thought a good daughter did. I got great grades, I didn’t talk back, and I did my chores. Everyone probably says this, but I truly was a good kid. Especially because I knew how easy it was to get into trouble around there.”

“Gosh… my dad was like the extreme opposite. I grew up confident there was nothing I could do or say that would make him love me any less. I’m fucking sorry you didn’t have that.”

“It’s okay. I’ve dealt with it. It’s odd because I realize now, as an adult, how hard it is to love him. But when I was a kid, I loved him without effort—I just did—and that made me weaker. I’ve made a lot of dumb mistakes because of it.”

“Tillie.” My voice is rough. Fuck, I want to decimate anyone who’s ever hurt her.

“Shit.” She makes a show of looking at her watch.

“I’m missing the start of my show.” She grabs the remote and turns on the television, clearly done with the direction of our conversation.

She turns and looks directly at me, a forced smile on her pretty face.

“You’re welcome to stay, but I doubt you like true crime shows. I can walk you?—”

“I’ll stay.” It’s almost amusing how big her eyes get, and I’m secretly happy when her mouth hangs open. “What? You don’t know if I like true crime or not. Maybe I love it.”

She narrows her eyes at me.

“You’re not one of those people who talk during TV shows, are you? I don’t like that, so if that’s how you are, then…”

I take my left hand and pretend I’m zipping my lips. I can see the hint of a smile trying to escape her tight hold on it, while she rolls her eyes, then shakes her head.

“All right. I guess we’ll see how it goes.”

Two hours later, I’m freaked out by what I’ve seen on the show, but I wound up sucked in. It was like a bad accident that you don’t want to see but also can’t turn away from. Oddly enough, when Tillie turns the television off with the remote, I’m disappointed.

“That’s it?”

“There’s more, but let’s save some for another night. I’m ready to go to sleep.”

She stands and grabs my beer can and her wine glass off the table. When she disappears into the kitchen, she’s back in less than a minute. I rise, and she walks me to the door.

“Thanks for letting me hang out tonight. Also, for introducing me to your world of true crime addiction. I’ll be sure to call you at three a.m. when I’m having nightmares,” I tease.

“Hey, I gave you the option to leave.”

“You did. It wasn’t that bad.”

“How would you know? You talked through half of it.”

“Well, I had a lot of questions.”

Our conversation is light and teasing. I’m happy we’re ending the night like this instead of after all that talk about what a dickhead—my words, not hers—her father is. We’re at the door now, and I slip on my coat and step into my shoes.

“I had a great time. I’m a little creeped out, but it was still fun.” I grin at her, and the smile she gives me back is radiant.

I pull the door handle and open the door. “Goodnight, Matilda.”

“Goodnight,” she practically whispers.

I step out onto the porch and am halfway to my car when her voice cuts through the silence of the cold winter night. “Henry?”

I turn to look at her. “Yeah?”

“Why do you call me Matilda sometimes? Instead of Tillie, I mean. Is it to annoy me?”

“It’s not to annoy you. It’s because it suits you. Why use a nickname when the meaning of one’s full name is so fitting?”

“Oh. Okay.” Uncertainty spreads across her face. “Goodnight, Henry.”

I wave to her and continue to my car. I hear the house door as it closes, and I climb inside my car. Maybe she’ll look up the meaning of her name, but maybe she won’t. Just in case she doesn’t, I’ll send her a text.

Matilda- Meaning - battle-mighty. Your name describes a strong woman. A woman who conquers challenges and succeeds, no matter what kind of battles life throws your way. It suits you. Goodnight.