“One notification down,” I said. “One to go.”
“Henny, no.”
“You have to call Mom.”
“You said you’d help,” he whined.
“And I will. Call her on speaker, alright?” He glared at me, eyes narrowed as he frowned. “I’ll support you, but you have to be the one to tell her what’s going on.”
“I don’t…”
“You want to be an adult, Wes? You want to betreatedlike one?”
He exhaled loudly, our mom’s name already up on his phone screen. I stabbed at the button to start the call and the ringtone echoed through the room. “Then buck up, because it’s time to start acting like one.”
CHAPTERTHIRTY
Miles
Tuesday morning,Hendrix knocked on my door.
It was 7:30, but I didn’t think I’d gotten more than an hour of combined sleep. Up replaying the conversation, the argument, whatever it was. Then listening to Grayson ramble on about how he’d made the decision to move out of the house had been enough to effectively turn my nerves into firecrackers.
Realistically, I’d known there would come a time when Grayson would leave. The house was mine and I’d wanted him there. He wanted to be there, but at the end of the day, we were friends and nothing more. I didn’t think he had an interest in falling in love and living in a commune with me and Hendrix. Or me and whomever, because I wasn’t sure what the future for Hendrix and me looked like anymore.
It would be great if I could go more than a month without putting my foot in it, but apparently no sense of arrogance or maturity was enough to help me with that one.
I hated the idea of Grayson leaving almost as much as I hated the idea of being alone. How miserable would it be for the house to be emptyandfor Hendrix to have gotten tired of my shit and dumped me?
“You look like shit,” he said, passing me back the tumbler I’d given up the morning before. It was warm against my palm, the scent of coffee wafting up between us.
“Better than looking like an immature child.”
He puffed out a breath, his cheeks filling with air. “Can we talk about that?”
“I don’t know what there is to say.”
He turned his stare toward his feet and I looked down after him. His shiny black oxfords and cuffed slacks against the tattered hem of my plaid pajama pants and bare feet.
What was this man doing with me?
“We’ve had this conversation before,” I reminded him, shifting my weight. “You were tired of it the first time, bored of it the second time. I’m sure you’re positively over it the third time.”
“Is that so?”
“I don’t blame you,” I said. “I just…I’m sorry I couldn’t do better by you.”
“Are you done?” he asked.
“Are you?” I countered.
Hendrix eyed me warily, stare tracing over every inch of my face before his mouth finally softened into something that looked like the start of a smile. “Not even close.”
Before I could react, before I could ask for clarification, Hendrix was on me. He surged forward, crashing our mouths together in that absolutely not-submissive way he had about him. He kissed the surprise right out of my mouth, walking me back into the house. I fumbled around until I found the side table, set my coffee down, then wrapped my arms around him and went back to the kiss.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured against my lips.
“You don’t have to apologize.”
