Jesse sat down on the sofa, a pink thing that you really could have a nap on, looking completely out of place. “I’ve never been in a treehouse before.”
I sat down next to him and tried not to feel like shit. His childhood had been nothing like mine, and I wanted to cry for the boy who never had what he should’ve been entitled to.
“Most aren’t like this. Maybe you should build a tree cave in your garden.”
He nodded, looking at the floor between his feet. “With a pink sofa.”
I swallowed, really thinking before I allowed the words to come out of my mouth. “If you had a daughter. Or maybe she’d prefer a blue one. Athletic colours.”
His shoulders stiffened. He stayed looking at the floor.
I didn’t apologise for my words. I knew enough about trauma to understand a little about how Jesse might find the idea of being close to someone in more than a physical sense difficult. Since getting home from France, Imighthave done a little reading into that sort of trauma. I knew he went to a therapist. I knew he’d had an abusive childhood. I knew there was no cure, no easy fix for what he’d been through, no fix at all in all likelihood.
He raised his head, staring at the huge dolls’ house opposite that was actually full of model cars, because that was how my nieces rolled at the moment.
“I’ve never thought about having kids, but maybe a treehouse would be good. I can hide in there when the team crashes mine.” His smile was half forced. “Maybe you can help me decide on what furniture it’d need.” His hand slid on top of mine.
I gripped it back, a shiver running from my hand up to my shoulder and cascading down my body.
Jesse’s eyes darkened. He’d felt it too.
“I can.” I moved a couple of inches closer to him, his cologne wreaking havoc with my heart rate. “We could make sure it was comfy.”
The hesitation that had glimmered in him disappeared, leaving that sultry darkness I’d seen before in France.
“I want to kiss you, but it feels wrong to do it in here.” He used his hand that wasn’t holding mine to tip my chin, lifting my gaze to his. “Not where your nieces play.”
“After our date, then.”
His nod was subtle. “Date.” He looked like he was almost in shock at saying the word.
“Don’t overthink it. I want to ask what’s made you change your mind, but I’m afraid you’ll change it back.” The words were laced with worry; I knew it was a stupid thing to say; by saying it, I was asking the very thing I’d said I wouldn’t.
“I won’t change it back.” His hand left mine and wrapped around my shoulders instead, pulling me closer into him.
The tension he was carrying bled into me. “It’s okay if you do. I don’t break.” And I wouldn’t.
“I don’t want to break you. The idea of you hurting because I did something makes me want to…” He shook his head. “I know I’m going to fuck this up, Jerrica, because I don’t know how else it works.”
I tipped my head and pressed a kiss to his jaw. It was soft, barely any pressure. “Newsflash — no one really knows how it works.”
“Will you hurt me?” He moved us so my back was against his chest, his chin resting on my head.
It felt so good to be held by him after a week of nothing. I hadn’t let myself mope — in fact, I’d been semi-lost in the new book I was writing — but his arms wrapped around me made it feel like I could breathe deeper than I had in days.
“I can’t promise that I won’t hurt you, just like I know you can’t promise that either. But I can promise I’ll always be honest with you, and you’ll hear things from me first.” It was a lesson my mother had taught Nate and me when we were younger and she and our father had a blazing row that was loud enough for a neighbour to knock and ask if we were okay.
My dad had done something really stupid, like not fixed a cupboard door after she’d asked about a dozen times, and it had eventually fallen off onto my head. My mother had hit the roof and all sorts of shit was flung between them — clearly it had been a row that had been brewing for a while.
Our parents didn’t argue a lot. They would sometimes bicker and they often teased each other, but I only remembered a handful of proper arguments. After that one, my dad headed out of the house — probably to the pub — and my mother poured herself a glass of red wine and pressed an ice pack to my head, then passed on her advice.
I told Jesse about the row, knowing he would’ve heard and seen far worse, but then it might be easy to have the idea that normal relationships were perfect.
“You can have an argument and shout and say things that maybe you usually wouldn’t, and still be okay afterwards. My dad fixed all the cupboards the next day, and my mum ended up curled next to him on the sofa, making him watch some daft Saturday night programme we knew he didn’t really like.” I laughed at the memory of it. “She also said most relationships don’t work out and that’s normal. Not everyone stays with the first person they kiss for the rest of their life.”
Jesse’s finger drew patterns on my forearm, the rhythmic movement almost hypnotic. “I know. I’ve seen healthy relationships. I know they exist.”
“You have healthy relationships. With your lovers and with your friends. Your teammates.” I wanted to ask if he was still seeing the women he hooked up with, if he’d been with any of them since we’d returned from France.
