Klein rubs the back of his neck. He looks like he wants to say something, but he’s conflicted.
“What is it?” I ask as we step from the lighthouse and into the grass, slick with the rain clinging to the blades.
“Your grandma’s making cowboy spaghetti for dinner, and you said it’s basically your second favorite meal after tacos.”
We reach our bikes. “Uh-huh.”
Klein swipes a hand over his bike seat, brushing off the water that has pooled. “Why are you giving up your favorite dinner, cooked by one of your favorite people?”
I do the same to my seat. “Because my dad doesn’t want to see my mom with her boyfriend. Nobody else volunteered to meet him, so—” I shrug. “I guess I will.”
Sienna and Spencer simply bowed out, sayingI’m not going to accommodate him. I know I could say the same, but there’s a part of me that won’t allow it. No matter what he believes, I never hurt him on purpose, and I won’t start now.
Klein looks at me with tenderness. “You don’t have to.”
I laugh without any sound of happiness. “Yes, I do.”
“I get that, but Paisley,” Klein presses a hand to the small of my back. “Why?”
An uncomfortable huff comes from my throat. “Klein, I said why three seconds ago.”
Klein shakes his head slowly. “You recited the reason your dad gave for not wanting to attend a family dinner. You didn’t say why you agreed to miss out on having one of your favorite meals cooked for you by your grandma.”
I look at my hands, gripping the bike’s handles, knuckles turning white. “I don’t want to force my dad to see something he doesn’t want to see.” I know whereKlein is going with this, and I do not want to follow him there.
“So you’re going to accommodate him?”
“Klein, please.” My voice tunnels. “I can’t, okay? I can’t take on all the family dynamics in one week.”
Klein rubs a warm palm over my back. “I hate that you’re going to miss out on something special with your grandma. My grandma passed away when I was a teenager, and I’d do just about anything to make sugar cookies with her again.”
I parse through the jumbled mess of my thoughts, and can only come up with, “I know, I know. I’m the floor.”
“That’s what you said to me that first night we saw each other again. I assumed you were really drunk and that’s why you said that. But unless you have a flask hidden somewhere on your body?—”
“I might,” I supply, to which he grins.
“Please help me understand what you mean by calling yourself the floor.”
“Paloma was trying to tell me that I let my family walk all over me. She called me the floor, but she meant to say doormat.”
“That makes a lot more sense than what I thought.”
“What did you think?”
“That you were mentally unstable, but hot enough to excuse it.”
I stick my tongue out at his joke, and he wraps an arm around me, pulling me in to his side. “You don’t have to be a doormat.”
“If I’m not a doormat, what will they do?”
“If you keep being a doormat, what willyoudo?”
I’ve never thought about what it does to me. Or what it’s already done. “I just want to keep everyone happy.”
Klein tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “At the expense of your own.”
“I don’t know how to be different.”
