I scrub my hand through my hair but can’t turn my back on her yet, even if it’s just to bring in her luggage. “You must have a nice house in Florida.”
“A tiny one-bedroom apartment, actually. I need somewhere bigger but…” She gives a tired shrug. “You know how it is.”
“You always wanted a house with your own backyard.”
“I wanted a lot of things.” She glances down at the urn. “One thing came true, though. I became close to my dad again.”
She always worshipped her dad, even though he packed his bags when she was a kid. At least he kept in touch with her, more than a lot of deadbeats do.
Except her old man was never a deadbeat. He just needed to get away from Kelly before he made something of his life.
Just like Jas.
It drills through my brain, but I can’t escape it. Was it Kelly she needed to get away from, or me?
…
Jasmine
Ty walks back to the car, and I look around for somewhere to place the urn. His house is a nice sized end-of-row with a garage, which isn’t any surprise. He always said he could never live anywhere that didn’t have a lock-up for his precious bike. Guess he wasn’t joking when he said the Hammer turns a good profit.
The living room has a leather couch and a couple of armchairs, a coffee table scattered with bike magazines, and on the wall is a massive flat screen.
There aren’t any framed photos or personal stuff. No bookshelves. It’s like he’s only just moved in and hasn’t finished unpacking yet.
I stifle a sigh and check out the other room. There’s a dining table and chairs, but otherwise it’s as empty as the front room. Since I can’t hug the urn for the rest of the day, I place it on the table and bite my lip. Why did I tell Dad I’d bring Mom’s ashes to Florida? I should’ve let the people at the crematorium deal with this, too.
By the sound of it, Ty’s hauling my luggage upstairs. I grip the back of a chair and bow my head. He’ll never know how much it meant to me, him turning up today, or how much I was dreading spending tonight in that apartment.
Or how much I wish that tomorrow will never arrive.
I go upstairs and find him in the master bedroom, a pile of laundry in his arms. He gives me a half smile as though he’s embarrassed I caught him doing something so domestic.
“Just clearing up the shit.”
“I don’t mind mess.” At least his bedroom looks as though it’s lived in. Although I probably don’t want to follow that line of thought, as the only way that can end isTyandbedroomequalscountlessgirls.
Although, to be fair, it doesn’t look like a den of iniquity. And stacked against the walls are piles of books, novels and nonfiction, and nostalgia twists through me. He wasn’t a great reader when we met. Just bike magazines and the usual soft porn that teenage boys hoard. He never laughed at my obsessive love of reading, the way so many people in my life did, seeming, at some level, to understand it was my escape from reality. And sometimes he’d pick up one of my books and we’d spend secret hours sharing an imaginary world.
“Yeah, well.” He shrugs and comes to stand by me at the door. “Why don’t you go have a long soak in the bath, and I’ll start dinner?”
My jaw drops—can’t help myself. “Dinner?” My voice comes out in a disbelieving squeak. “You mean order takeout?” I know that’s not what he means, but he can’t be telling me that he’s going tocooksomething? He never boiled as much as an egg when we were together. It was almost a badge of honor to be useless in the kitchen, even though I offered to teach him some basic culinary skills.
“No. I mean I’m going to fix us dinner.” He grins, as though my shock is funny. “Hey, I’ve been living alone for five years. It was learn to cook or die by takeout. Anyway, no one can live for more than twenty years with Angie Jenson and not pick up a few tricks.”
I have several retorts to that remark, but none I’d ever repeat to Ty. Angie’s his mom, after all. “Well, don’t let me stop you. And I’d love a bath.” There was only a shower at the apartment, and the thought of a soaking in a tub of bubbles sounds like bliss.
He nods along the hall. “Bathroom’s right there. Take as long as you like.”
I watch him go downstairs, dirty laundry still in his arms, and my chest compresses with grief. For Mom, for Ty, for everything we might have had.
The bad boy I fell in love with grew into the best man I ever met.
…
The steamy bath helps clear my head and loosens the knot in my chest, and when I emerge from the bathroom wearing faded jeans and a T-shirt, the mouthwatering aroma of real food cooking almost knocks me off my feet.
Whoa. He wasn’t kidding when he said he picked up a trick or two. I sniff appreciatively as I enter the kitchen where he’s leaning against the counter drinking a glass of wine and checking his phone. A multi-tasking pro.
