No matter how often I hear it, those words glide across my skin like the worn feel of his hands frisking me, tingling my inner thighs and making my core flutter.
“Hey.” My response barely comes out before I’m being interrupted.
“I saw Colt at the fair, and he said he’d give me a ridehome.” Jonas answers the question I forgot to ask. “I was tired of hanging out with Dad and Fern.”
A few hours after Colt licked my pussy while I tried to explain the concept of boundaries, Alex and I had a good conversation for the first time in ages. He said he understood why Jonas and I have troubles with trusting him—whether that means anything changes or not remains to be seen. Despite my insistence that he didn’thave todo anything, Jonas suggested the two of them go for dinner so he could still hang out with his friend at the fair.
“Why were you tired of hanging out with them?” I prop my elbow on the counter, eyes flitting between Jonas and Colt. “Was dinner okay?”
“Yeah.” He shrugs, tearing a bite from his pepperoni stick. “Fern’s having a baby, so that’s all they wanted to talk about. It was boring.”
I freeze, breath lodged in my throat. “What?” I choke out.
“Fern and Dad are having a baby.”
My foolish eyes prickle, and I grasp the counter’s edge until my knuckles blanch. The ringing in my ears has my head spinning. Can’t blink. Can’t swallow. Can’t hear. A poisonous fog fills my skull. Colt and Jonas chatter, droning voices I can’t make out. Like I’m six feet underwater with no way to tell which way is up.Drowning.
Somehow, I manage to tear my shell-shocked body from the scene, moving instinctively toward the stairs. As if filled with lead, I suffer through hauling my feet from step to step, clutching the stair railing to keep from passing out.
If either of them says something, I don’t hear it.
The laundry room door shuts softly behind me, and I barely muster up the energy to turn the dryer dial before sinking to the floor. My cheek flattens across the cold tile, and I clutch my unmoving chest.
Breathe.
It comes in a stuttering contraction, each inhalationbarely getting enough oxygen to keep me alive. And within moments, they turn gasping as sobs rack my entire body. Tears pool in the corners of my mouth, then flow freely—puddling on the floor, matting my hair to my head, leaving a salty taste in my mouth.
My knees curl into my chest, bare legs squealing as they drag across the floor. A scream claws its way up my throat, and I slap a palm over my mouth to stop it.
Breathe.
I can’t.
I think my lungs have incinerated inside my chest.
There’s no approaching footsteps. No knock on the door. No squeaky hinges.
And yet, somebody is pulling me into a cradle. Scooping my corpse into their arms. I lean into the familiar scent, and the gentle shushing, and the warm embrace.
“I’ve got you, honey. I’m here,” he whispers, cutting through all the noise inside my head. “I’ve got you.”
I wrap my arms around his neck like he’s a life preserver and whisper his name to be sure it’s really him.
“I’m here. I don’t know what’s wrong, but let me try and fix it, okay?” He smooths his hands over my wet hair, pushing it away from my burning cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble between sobs.
“Don’t be sorry, honey.” We’re gently rocking side to side in time with the clunking of my dryer. “Don’t even stop crying until you’re ready.”
His lips plant sweet kisses on my forehead. And he holds me, arms wrapped tight around my body, bearing the weight of my pain. He keeps me afloat, cooing in my ears until my gut-wrenching sobs become slow, meandering rivulets of tears rolling down my cheeks. Until both our shirts are tear-stained and my heartbeat slows to meet his.
“That’s my girl.” He slips his fingers under my chin and tilts my head. I squint under the harsh laundry room light,barely able to see through waterlogged lashes. Colt’s thumb glides under my eye. “We’re okay, honey.”
It’s easy to say we’re okay when he doesn’t know that in a minute we’ll be very, very far from okay. By now, I should be used to the loneliness and heartache that comes with never being enough.
“I-I…I don’t—”
“Let’s not talk about it right now. It’s okay.”
