“He’s the good one, really.” And fuck it, why shouldn’t his family know? “He worked in a kitchen for years after what happened in Brussels, never spending a cent Deacon sent him, and he only ever uses it to help others. He made it affordable to live in my building again, and he wouldn’t admit it, but I know he’s been babysitting for Sheryl’s two boys when she gets called into work.” In fact, everyone who lives there has a story about how he’s helped them, in big and small ways. Turning an empty space in the basement into a free gym, upgrading the laundry, installing shelves in Armando’s kitchen. (Which I’m 90 percent sure was so Armando could stare at his thighs in jeans for an hour, and honestly, I can’t blame him.) “I didn’t know him when he was a kid, but I know the man he’s become, and I’m proud to have him in my life.”
Art and Judy share a look before he places his sketch pad down. I look over to find Judy has abandoned her puzzle.
“This weekend just got a lot more interesting,” Art says, mischief shimmering in his eyes. “How about I break out the secret bottle of red we keep here, and you can tell us some more stories?”
I cross my arms over my chest. “On one condition: you tell me everything you know about Kyle and why he would try to steal from the trust.”
Art’s jaw drops into a laugh. “Ivy, welcome to the family.”
CHAPTER46
MATTERS OF THE HEART
IVY
When we hit the end of the bottle, I excuse myself. My eyes are already stinging as I find the fastest way outside, avoiding any chance of bumping into Kyle by taking the front doors, and walk over to the pergola I spotted yesterday when we arrived.
I need fresh air. I need to pull myself together.
Outside, the kiss of the sun helps. Leaning against a pillar, I close my eyes, drinking in its fierce heat, taking long, slow breaths to dislodge the ache in my chest.
I can’t stop thinking about Mom.
It’s so obvious Lincoln has family who cares about him. Maybe not all of them, but enough. And he doesn’t see it. He hears their care only as criticism, not concern.
Suddenly, I’m hearing Mom’s fears for the first time. How many times have I leaped and left her to stand on the sidelines to watch and hope her words would be enough to keep me safe?
I’m so grateful for her, but I can’t remember if I’ve ever told her that.
When she picks up, I skip right past pleasantries with “I love you” and follow it immediately with “I’m sorry that you have to worry about me so much.”
“Don’t be silly,” she replies, and the sound of a TV gets quieter until I hear the click of a door closing. “I will always worry about you and your sister. But I know I don’t always trust you to make your own decisions.”
“No, you don’t. I have good instincts, Mom, and I’m ready to try things my way for a little while. I want you to be okay with that, but I won’t change my mind if you aren’t.”
“I know.” The fondness in her voice brings tears to my eyes. “Just promise me you’ll keep me in the loop. I don’t handle surprises well.”
That’s an understatement. “I promise. I couldn’t keep a secret from you if I tried.” And I’ve tried. “In fact, you should probably sit down, because there are a few things I need to tell you. Starting with my landlord…”
Sometimes I wonder if my heart works correctly.
Lincoln wants the whole nine yards with someone, and I can’t even decide which ice cream flavor is my favorite. I shouldn’t even be eating ice cream because I’m almost certain I’m lactose intolerant.
Pain lances through my heart, sharp and deep, because I’m stealing something from Lincoln, even if he’s offering it up freely and plentifully.
It hurt waking up next to him, my nose buried in his neck, the faint rumblings of his hummed exhales against my lips.
It hurt when he woke up and smiled at me, fuzzy with sleep and so sweet I wanted to rip my heart out of my chest, so I didn’t have to feel it anymore.
He might want me now, but how long will that last? Maybe he just misses the sex. I know I do. (Every hopeful corner of my heart is screaming that he doesn’t. That he wants more. But it’s still in time-out from the last person it pulled this shit with, so she can scream into the void while I keep us both protected).
Living the fantasy is easy. The reality is so much scarier.
We need to talk about it, but every time I try, it hurts enough that I can’t get the words out.
I’m just asking for one love story before I go. Just one. That’s not too much to ask for, is it? One person out of eight billion?
It can’t be normal to want this much. Some days it feels endless and beyond reach. So much so that I’m scared I’ll never be able to fill the well inside me. That even if I’m lucky enough to meet someone, I’ll ruin it simply by wanting.
