She shakes her head. “Not if it’s not what you want. If someone gives you an ugly sweater, that doesn’t mean you have to wear it.”
I scoff. “Have you met me? It absolutely does.”
Grace laughs. “It seems like maybe that’s not true anymore.”
And then I’m laughing too. “I don’t think it is.”
CHAPTER 35
DAN
The next three weeks with Carson are so good, I want to retroactively kick my own ass for hiding my feelings from her for so long.
We spend a few more nights together on the futon in my room while she works to clear out her parents’ old bedroom. A woman from a local nonprofit that collects furniture for people starting over after leaving abusive partners comes by and picks up the bedroom set. I help Carson haul the old mattress out to the street. She orders a new one, and when it arrives, she places it in the middle of the room on a standard-issue metal bed frame.
“It’s a little frat boy, but I want to take my time buying furniture,” she says. She doesn’t say that she’s thinking about buying furniture for an entirely different house, but I see her scrolling Zillow at all hours of the day.
Unfortunately, we make it only one night in her new bedroom before she declares that it feels like her parents are watching her.
The next morning the woman from the nonprofit returns to pick up the futon, and I move her new mattress into my room.
And every night after that, she curls up in the nook of my shoulder and traces her fingers across my tattoos while I tell her the story of each one—the ones that mean something and the onesthat simply mean I wanted another tattoo. When she lets her fingers wander down to play with the metal in my cock—one of her favorite activities—we end up staying up later as I make her scream my name.
But every night, she eventually falls asleep in my arms.
I sleep well for the first time in my life.
Most mornings we wake up with the sun and head to the gym. Her confidence grows right along with her strength. I teach her to squat, and her form is impeccable—as is her ass.
Most days we tumble into bed as soon as we get home.
The pipe in Decker’s apartment gets fixed, but neither of acknowledge it. It goes unspoken that I should stay.
Other than the gym and trips out to the quarry (where we have yet to don swimsuits), we keep our romance mostly within the walls of the house. Neither Carson nor I is ready to submit to the watchful eyes of the residents of Cardinal Springs. People have guessed what’s going on between us—Mrs. Eberle certainly didn’t keep her mouth shut—but my family knows better than to talk to me about it. Carson refers to this period of hibernation as our “long sex weekend.” I’m happy to go with that.
“Should I wear the red socks or the black socks?” Carson asks, holding up two pairs of knee-high athletic socks. She’s getting ready for her first scrimmage with the other new skaters today. “I’m trying to decide if I want to go all black or if I want a pop of color.”
“All black. You’ll look extra badass,” I say. I’m stirring a pot of high-protein chili for dinner. Between her lifting and her derby practices, she’s going to need it. There’s a cast-iron pan of cornbread in the oven to go with it, and I’m going to pick up muffins for dessert.
She leans in and kisses me, then turns and skips over to the kitchen table to put them on. She’s already wearing the black shorts that I love peeling off of her so much and her new practice jersey. It’s black with the Bloomington Bruisers logo on the front, her name and assigned number on the back. After she gets draftedto a team, she’ll get to pick her derby name and her own number. There’s a list of names on the fridge that we’ve been adding to for a couple of weeks. The current frontrunner is Gluteus Maxximus, Maxx for short—my suggestion.
“We have track setup at ten, and then we’re doing a freshie class lunch. We’re supposed to be back at four for final setup and warm-ups. Doors open at five, scrimmage starts at six,” she says, running through her mental schedule.
“I know, babe, you’ve told me six or seven times, and the schedule is on the fridge,” I say, laughing.
“I can’t help it. I’m nervous! I get hyper-organized when I’m nervous.”
I go over and plant a kiss on the tip of her nose. “How about doing a little swipe of eye black for the scrimmage? That’ll look tough as shit.”
She grins with delight, her nose wrinkling. “I love it,” she says.
I love you, I don’t say. I’ve been thinking it for weeks, and the words have been on the tip of my tongue for days. But she’s been so busy preparing for the scrimmage, so busy making plans for her future, that I don’t want to put anything else on her. I want her to focus onher.
“I’ll be there around five thirty. I’ve got a tattoo appointment at four. Someone requested a nightshade tattoo from my weeds flash, but I don’t think it’ll go long,” I assure her. “I can’t wait to see you kick ass.”
She’s practically vibrating as she jumps out of the chair and does a spin. She looks incredible in her scrimmage uniform. Like the feisty little fighter I know she is.
“Okay, I’m going to head out,” she says, but she doesn’t move. She looks like her feet are glued to the floor, and I can tell that the nerves are taking over. I take her shoulders in my hands and give her a little shake.
