“Okay. Just for tonight.”
Ashton helps get my mother settled in the guest room, while I go to the car to grab the bag I packed for her when we left her house. I assumed she would be staying with me while we figure this out, so I packed a couple of changes of clothes, a toothbrush, pajamas, and her phone charger. Luckily, her phone didn’t completely break when Mark threw it on the floor. The screen is cracked, but it’s still usable. I don’t have anything for myself, but I’m sure I can just borrow something from Ashton.
When I go to his room to ask for a T-shirt, he’s already undressing. I let myself watch the muscles flex in his toned back as he takes his shirt off. Then I shamelessly ogle his ass, tight against his boxer briefs as he slides off his jeans.
“You gonna say something or just here for the show?” he asks, not even turning around. Like he just sensed my presence.
“Funny,” I deadpan. “Can I borrow a shirt to wear to sleep?”
He opens his dresser and tosses me one of his old college T-shirts.
“Thanks,” I say. “I’ll get out of your hair.”
“What?”
“I know it’s been a long day, and you probably want to get some rest. So, I’ll just go to my room.”
“Your room?” he repeats.
“Yeah,” I say. “I know you have a couple of guest rooms, but I’m fine staying with my mom.”
His eyes heat as he walks over to me, bringing his hands up to my cheeks. “Stay with me, Allie. It doesn’t have to mean anything. Just stay with me?”
The second time it’s a question and one I couldn’t say no to if I tried at this point. I nod my head. “Let me just say goodnight to my mom.”
When I get back, Ashton’s in bed with one leg propped up over the blanket. He’s typing something on his phone. I change into his shirt and climb in next to him. He plugs his phone in to charge and turns to me. “I’m so sorry.”
I shrug. “Vicious cycles, am I right? They’re a bitch.”
He moves a piece of hair from my face, rubbing his thumb against my cheek. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“That night you took care of me when I was drunk. You said something about having a fear of vomiting. Does that have to do with your mom? Did you have to take care of her a lot?”
“No,” I answer honestly. “She was never a drinker. It was something else.”
“Oh.” He doesn’t press anymore, but I decide to tell him anyway.
“It happened way before all the boyfriend drama, actually. When I was eight, there was this stomach virus going around school. I came down with it in the middle of class, and when I went to the nurse, she wanted to call my mom to come pick me up. But she had just started a new job, and I knew it paid well. I thought if she had to leave work, they would fire her. So I lied and told the nurse her number had changed. I didn’t have a plan after that, but then a ton of sick students came in, and I told her I would call my mom so she didn’t have to worry about it. She was so preoccupied with the other kids that she agreed. I pretended to call her and signed myself out. It wasn’t a long walk from the school to my house, but I had to stop every few minutes to throw up.” Ashton’s eyes widen as I continue my story. “By the time I got home, I was just dry heaving,” I go on. “I was all alone. I didn’t know what medicine to take or what I should do, so I just laid down on the bathroom floor and cried. My mom found me asleep at the foot of the toilet when she got home. She was horrified, but what was I supposed to do? I didn’t want her to lose her job.”
Ashton doesn’t say anything. He just strokes my hair, holding me like I held my mother earlier tonight. When I look up, his eyes are glassy.
“Don’t feel bad for me,” I say.
“I don’t,” he replies. “I feel bad for that little girl on the bathroom floor.”
My heart squeezes painfully in my chest. Why is that so much harder to hear?
“Can I askyousomething?” I echo his earlier question.
“Anything.”
“That night you were drunk at Declan’s party. You said you were anxious. Is that? I mean—” God, I’m so bad at this. He takes pity on me as I fumble with my words.
“It started when I was in middle school,” he cuts in. “At first, I thought it was because of how everything in my house always had to be so perfect. Knowing I was far from ever being the kid my parents expected me to be made me anxious. It would happen right before a big game or test. Then it started happening randomly. I knew it was more than typical nerves, but I was too scared to tell anyone.”
Now I’m the one sympathizing with a little kid, having to deal with something most adults don’t know how to navigate on their own.
