My family? Notmeand my family? Does he think I’m going wherever he’s going?
I should ask him. I should get all of this out of the way. But I don’t want to ruin anything. He hasn’t asked me to go where he goes, and that would be a big assumption for him to make.
Hell, I’m making big assumptions right now.
How do you become one of those people who’s chill about everything? If there’s some pill you can take or book you can read, I want it.
Jake’s been talking and I haven’t been listening. He toys with my hair, twisting a curl around his finger. “You alright?”
I force a smile. “Yes. Proud of you. I knew you were bright, but I don’t know. It’s cool to see it in person. Real. A whole part of your life I didn’t know.”
His hazel eyes flick between mine. “I want you to be part of all the parts of my life. And I want into yours.”
I shrug. “You’ve seen it all. Not much to see anymore.”
A little stitch forms between his brows. “Does that make you sad?”
I twist my lips and rub at my forehead. “I’m really not sure. Didn’t sleep very good last night.”
Jake cradles the back of my head, letting his fingers slip into the curls at my nape. He suspends his lips over mine. “Sounds like you needed me.”
We kiss, his lips soft as they stroke mine. I’m fundamentally bummed out. Jake’s kisses used to be an escape, a place to find solace, a place of pure joy. Now I wonder how many more I’m going to get, to be entitled to. I wonder how soon I’ll be another girl he left behind.
We go back to his place and don’t talk much. Clothes come off. He takes me into a bedroom where for the first time, a month and a half into our relationship and a summer since we’ve been headed for each other, I see his bed. Jake’s intense, his dirty talk leaning more toward worship this time. There’s a certain desperation in his thrusts, the curl of his hips, his constant rain of kisses. He’s adoring me as much as ever, and that almost hurts more.
Don’t leave me. Don’t lose me.
And I don’t want it to be the last time. But it feels like it is.
FIFTY-ONE
JAKE
Darcy and I get trashed.
It starts as an innocent margarita while we’re out for dinner. The next thing I know, we’re shooting whiskey at a honky tonk, dancing until our balance doesn’t let us anymore. We get a late-night slice and stumble back to my apartment, where she makes fun of my navy blue sheets. Apparently this is some stereotypical young guy thing? She didn’t say a peep about it when I was fucking her into the bed that afternoon, but I guess the whiskey has her lips a little looser.
In the morning, we slither out of bed, slap together a greasy breakfast, and dance around the kitchen. It’s sweet and cozy. Domestic. I hold her hips and nibble her neck while we cook.
She’s wearing my shirt that’s much too big and slipping off her shoulder. I pepper kisses along the ridge of her shoulders and she bursts into tears. I remove my hands from her, holding them up. “What? Did I hurt you?”
She spins and throws her arms around my neck. “I just love you so much.”
I hold her and laugh. “I love you too.”
She’s laughing and crying. “Sorry, hangover. Makes me emotionally vulnerable.”
I brush her hair back from her face. “Is that it?”
Her eyes fill again, which she waves away. “It’s my favorite place to be kissed, and I remember—” she breaks off with a sob. I’m taken aback by her big burst of emotion. “Sorry, sorry. I remember when you first kissed me there.”
“When you were sick?” I ask.
“Yes,” she cries. “It was just so sweet and nice and—I just really love you, you know?”
I kiss her forehead and she hiccups while I hold her to my shirt. “I love you too, baby. You know I’m not going anywhere, right?”
“Yes!” she shrieks. “God, I know! I told you, this is my hangover thing!”
