Slowly, he drags his gaze to his mom’s. “Leave,” he says gruffly. “Please, leave.”
“What? Me? But—but—”
“You came, you saw. You did good, Mom. Now, please, go.”
“I ...” She reaches up and touches the pearls around her neck. “I did good? Vincent?” She looks over her shoulder. “Did you hear that? I’m a good mother.”
I can practically hear Vincent’s eye roll. “Not exactly what he said,” he grunts, the sofa creaking beneath his weight as he stands. He approaches Bridget, places a hand on her lower back, and steers her toward the exit. “I believe your ears only work one way.”
“What does that even mean? That’s not an expression.”
“It should be.”
“You can’t just make up expressions.”
They disappear out the door, and the last thing I hear is a grumbled, “Lord, give me strength.”
I can’t help it. I chuckle. Like, a real chuckle. Who would have thought the two of them could ever amuse me? When I turn to Easton, he’s watching me, a small smile touching his lips. A burst of heat spreads through me, setting my cheeks aflame in the way only Easton can.
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and glance away. “What?”
“You,” he says coarsely. “You’re fucking beautiful.”
My heart pounds, and I slowly look back at him. I shake my head. “Stop. Don’t say that.”
“Why not?”
“Because ...” My throat’s thick—so thick I can hardly speak. “Because if you say it enough ... I might start to believe you.”
“You’re beautiful.”
I roll my eyes, try to look away again, but he catches my chin with gentle fingers.
“You’re beautiful.”
I shake my head again, as if the movement can will him to stop. “Easton.” My voice breaks, drowning the weak plea. “Stop. Please.”
“You’re beautiful, Eva. The kind of beautiful that makes my heart beat out of my fucking chest.” As if to prove it, he guides my hand to his chest and flattens my palm over his thin gown. “Don’t you feel that?”
Bum-bum.
Bum-bum.
Bum-bum.
I nod, but I’m crying too, and he gently eases me onto the bed until I’m lying in the warm, comforting crook of his arm. His fingers stroke my hair, breath touches my cheek, and this time, when he whispers, “You’re beautiful,” the words slide over my skin like honey-dipped satin.
My eyes shut, and I sob into his chest—the chest that beats for me. “You’re beautiful.” He says it again, and again, a rhythmic lullaby I never knew could exist for me. Eventually, when I start to drift away into the lull of sleep, the whisper no longer sounds like words. It’s the slow strums of Easton’s guitar. My Mom’s soft voice humming me to sleep. The feel of my own smile on my lips.
And it’s beautiful.
Eva
Consciousness stirs at the gentle clicking of a keyboard. My eyes drift open to a dark room and a nurse’s back, lit by the soft glow of the computer screen as he types. I blink. It’s the middle of the night. Gradually, I realize Easton’s arm is draped over my waist. We’re squished together on his hospital bed, his stomach rising and falling against my back with heavy breaths. My lips curve into a soft smile, and I slip my fingers between his.
The nurse hits a final button and starts to leave, but on his way toward the exit, he shoots a look over his shoulder to check on Easton. He stops when he spots me awake.
“Eva, right?” he asks quietly.
