“I love your home,” I say with delight when it comes into view as he takes the driveway and parks in the garage.
“Our home,” Keaton instantly corrects and I don’t even bother trying to change that distinction. I like it. Possibly too much, but that’s a problem for a later Lily.
I’ve never really had one. Not truly. The house I grew up in had been until it was revealed to be an illusion my father created on deceit. Then it was tainted.
Needing to exit the vehicle before I start weeping, I grab the door handle to escape, only to hear the unmistakable click.
“Did you just activate the child lock so I can’t get out?” It’s a question, but I know the answer.
“Say it,” Keaton requests. Oddly, it doesn’t come across as a demand. Instead it’s more like a plea. As if he needs to hear me admit it.
Wanting to give him this, I dutifully respond, “Our home.”
If only.
Keaton leans toward me, presses a kiss to my forehead, and turns off the safety feature before opening his door. The garage door has closed behind us, enclosing us in a shaded space that’s deceptively cozy. Where I was once in a hurry to put some distance between us, needing a moment to deal with how badly I want this to be my home, now I’m content staying here. The interior smells of Keaton and I sniff the air, wanting to inhale a lungful of it so it never leaves me.
I’m in so much trouble.
Chapter Three
Lily
Saturday…
Mom and I moved to Midland, her hometown that she hadn’t been back to since leaving for college three decades ago, in hopes of a fresh start. I fully supported Mom’s choice, knowing how difficult it had been for her to constantly see places that reminded her of my father and the life she thought they’d had. Midland held none of that for her.
When she’d brought it up, she made me promise to choose what was best for me, not what I thought she needed or wanted. Honestly, it was an easy decision. Unlike my father, my loyalty is with my mom and I wasn’t too keen on staying in Springfield. People I’d known my whole life treated me differently, like I was fragile and my mom was naïve. Some were sympathetic to our plight, offering a supportive hug or never touching on the subject to be sensitive to our situation. Both were hard to endure. Others had the gall to imply that my mother should’ve known my father couldn’t be faithful because of his job. As if that excused him for betraying their vows.
We looked for jobs and residences, mom urging me to find my own place, declaring that we each needed space to processthe cause and effect of all the changes we’d experienced in a brief time.
I saw Midland as a chance for us to start over and hoped, eventually, she could find a man worthy of her. I never thought that might happen for me, too. I’m not saying I’m all in or that Keaton is nothing like my father, only that each are a possibility.
Hence, needing my mom.
I’d waited until Keaton left for a workout he and his best friend, Gareth Bach, had scheduled, something I insisted he keep despite his offer to cancel it. He’d informed me of it while we ate the dinner we’d prepared together last evening and discussed our weekend plans. Since I only work five days a week, and I don’t have any volunteer hours today, I didn’t have any to share other than hanging out, putting away what I did bring, and maybe working on a few sketches.
I don’t design tattoos as much as I used to, but I’ve been contemplating visiting a few of the local shops to see if they have a chair I can use for limited appointments. Plus, I wouldn’t mind adding to my own personal artwork. Mom even expressed interest in getting matching ink, created by me. I’ve been messing around with a few ideas involving a phoenix. I know it sounds cliché yet it’s very on point.
I wonder if Keaton has any. Perhaps I should ask, strictly for research purposes, of course. I can critique the artist’s technique, all while hating the fact someone else permanently marked him.
Come to think of it, I hope he doesn’t. I’d rather he was a blank canvas. Maybe I can talk him into letting me be the first.
My fingers are aching to put pencil to paper and get started on it. Even if he declines, the desire to draw is getting to strong to ignore.
But I need to do something else first.
Grabbing my phone, the second my mom answers I declare, “I need help.”
“Bail money or a shovel?” I laugh and the pressure in my chest eases just a bit.
“Why are those always your go-to options?”
“Because they’re extremes and I’d bring either should you need them. If neither are necessary, then the actual problem is solvable.” There’s a strange logic in that. “I’m assuming this has to do with your quarterback.” We don’t keep secrets from each other, a vow we made after my father’s were revealed, so she knows all about how I met Keaton and the sleezy reporter. What she doesn’t know is me being bombarded by a ton of them at my place last night, Keaton rescuing me and bringing me to his, and our decision to make the pretend engagement a real marriage. Well, to at least keep that option open. Once she’s updated on the new happenings, she chimes in with, “If either of you are doing this only to save your careers…”
“I like him, Mom, and I think he likes me.”
“And that’s why you need help. You’re scared.” She can’t see me nodding, but she doesn’t have to in order to know she’s right. “Because of what your father did.” Are all moms this smart or did I get lucky getting her as mine? I realize the distinction doesn’t matter because both can be true in this case. “I saw the picture of you two. Saw how that man looked at you and you him.”
