“You have more bedrooms in your house than you could ever sleep in. Which is it? Status or something else?” she shoots back at me. Desperation tinges that accusation. As if I’ve poked at an emotional sore and she’s batting my hands away from it.
Interesting.
We’re coming back to that too.
“I bought my house for my parents.” Her eyes widen, and her soft gasp brushes my chin.
“Cyrus,” she breathes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t ...”
I shake my head, cutting her off. “No way you could’ve. They’ve been gone for twenty years, but ...”I’ll never stop being their son. I’ll never stop living for them.“When my parents died, we lived in an apartment, but their dream was always to own a home with a backyard for me to play in, for Mom to have her garden and Dad to grill out. Even though he’d never grilled in his life.” I smile at that dust-streaked memory, so old I’d forgotten about it. “They didn’t have the chance, but buying the house was my way of giving them—giving us—what we should’ve had—what they deserved. It’s too little, too late, and logically I recognize they couldn’t possibly know, but ...”
Then there’s the fact that my parents’ deaths stole the ideal ofhomefrom me. Forever. And for the last two decades, I’ve been trying to find it again, to replace it. That house is my latest attempt.
“It’s never too late to honor our loved ones. And I can’t tell you if they know or don’t know, but I also don’t think it matters. Buying the house was for you to feel closer to them, to show your respect and admiration for them as persons and for their lives and their sacrifices for you. That doesn’t require an explanation. Although, just from how you’ve described them to me, I’d guess they’d say who you’ve become is honor enough.”
I turn my head away from her. This time it’s me not wanting her to glimpse what’s in my eyes. Because how can the pressure of gratefulness, of grief, of need for this woman that’s waiting against my chest like a hailstorm not be reflected in my eyes?
“We should head over. The concert’s going to start shortly.”
I don’t see her dip her head, but I feel it. Stepping back, I give her room to move forward, and I close the door, then lock the car. As we thread through the crowd, I settle a hand on the small of her back, and yes, it’s to help guide her through all the people headed to the venue. But it’s also an excuse to touch her, even in this small way. And just the press of palm to shirt-covered skin brands my palm. Stirs images of the night she welcomed my hand on her chin and the other on her stomach.The night she eagerly tipped her head back and sought my mouth, my tongue, my kiss. The night she’d gifted me with her control, leveled me by surrendering her choice.
Decimated me with her trust.
Once we’re seated close to the stage in the amphitheater, her excitement and energy emanate, infecting me. She’s not the only one who hasn’t ever had a chance to visit this place. I haven’t either. My life has been about survival and then studying and then work. Not a lot of room for play that wasn’t directly related to work or the plans I set out for my future. But this ...
This is one of the few inexplicable splurges I’ve indulged in that have nothing to do with clients or partnerships or ironing out contracts. This is ... mine.
“I would’ve never guessed you for a Chicago fan,” Zora says, a grin flirting with a corner of her mouth. “Lemme guess. It wasKarate Kidthat did it? ‘Glory of Love’ made you a lifelong fan?”
I slide her a look packed with all the disdain I can muster. “Technically, ‘Glory of Love’ was only Peter Cetera, not Chicago. And to answer your question, no. I grew up loving them. Maybe I didn’t have a choice in the beginning since they were blasted in my house from the time I could walk, but I soon got with the program. They’re the shit. Not to be confused withKarate Kid Part II, which was just shit.”
Her grin grows, and laughter warms her eyes to a golden brown.
“Fact. Finally, something we agree on.” She tilts her head, her gaze roaming my face. “Thank you for inviting me. I, uh ... I ... well, damn, this is awkward.” She chuckles, giving her head a small shake.
“Say it.”
“I figure when you bought the tickets, you thought it would be a completely different woman sitting beside you. I’m sorry if this brings you any kind of hurt.”
And she means that. I barely manage to swallow my loud bark of laughter. WhoisZora Nelson? If it’d been Val, she would’ve beenlivid that I invited her to a concert intended for another woman. She would’ve ripped the ticket in half and stormed off in a dramatic exit worthy of an Oscar. Or a Golden Raspberry.
“It doesn’t hurt.”
A crease appears between her eyebrows, and doubt shadows her eyes. She doesn’t believe me.
“True, I did purchase the tickets while Val and I were together, but I never invited her to go with me. She wouldn’t have enjoyed this.”
And we weren’tthis.
Hell, I doubt she even knows I like Chicago, much less why. We didn’t share personal things with each other. Not like ...
I yank my gaze from Zora to the stage. But that doesn’t halt the confusion and, dammit, anger from mating and swirling inside me in a crazy, elemental dance.
What am I doing with Zora? And not here, in Red Rocks. I mean period. What am I doing? That day in the restaurant, Zora told me we didn’t belong. She’s not wrong. For years, I’ve forged this careful schedule and agenda about how my future should and will go. No deviation. No surprises. The first half of my life was filled with surprises and uncertainty; I can’t stand them. Now, lately, that’s all I’ve been thrown. One monkey wrench after another, and my carefully organized world has become fucking unrecognizable. I’ve become unrecognizable to myself.
And this woman is the epicenter of that chaos.
And I’ve kept her here with this admittedly out-there fake relationship. I don’t doout there. Or I didn’t, before her. Just like I didn’t do sharing. I didn’t do evenings of Netflix and chill. I didn’t do Saturday nights at concerts.
