“It was after a long period of not liking me. Now that you do, you liked me for me. You see me in some ways as she did. Honestly. You are the one person I’d risk getting hurt for.”
I swallow past the lump in my throat. “Lucca,” I whisper, shaking my head and bowing when one tear streaks down my face. I wipe it away with the back of my hand before peeking back up to look at him.
“I’m nothing if not forthright,” he says. “This is how I feel. I thought you should know.”
“You don’t really know me,” I say.
His jaw flexes. “I do know you.”
“Not enough for feelings like these.”
There’s a long pause where I lie in bed and stare at Lucca on my phone screen, waiting for him to reply. For anything.
“Lucca,” I say. “For so many reasons”—I shake my head—“this won’t work.”
He studies me, his throat bobs in a swallow, and he pulls in a long breath.
I bite my inner cheek, waiting.
“I still say you’re worth the risk.” He nods. “So friends, then.”
I go warm—everywhere. My entire body flushes. “Friends.”
Then Lucca Cruz, soccer player extraordinaire, smiles at me. “Friends hang out, Maggie Pie. So, when are we getting together?”
This man is incorrigible.
Thirty
It’s beena week since my heart-pounding conversation with Lucca. And once again, my heart is threatening to leap from my chest. Only, not at all in a good way. I grind my teeth and watch as Lindy packs a bag. “But Wyatt has that playdate this weekend,” I say, grasping at straws.
Lindy gives a humorless laugh. “Do I really need to be here for that?”
No, she doesn’t. But I’m running out of reasons for her to stay.
“I don’t think you’re ready,” I say with a gulp.
Lindy pauses, her fingers still around the black chemise tank she’s packing. She looks over at me. “No,” she says, her tone calm and low. “You’renot ready.”
Well, that’s true.
“He doesn’t even know?—”
“He does know,” she says. “I told Brent last week about my past and about my recovery. He’s fully supportive.”
Only, saying you’re fully supportive and searching Lindy’s possessions for travel-sized shooters are two verydifferent things. He has no clue what we’ve been through, or how far we’ve come. He’s never had to go through her bank statements, searching for suspicious charges, or weed through the trash for cans and bottles, or monitor where she is every hour of the day. He never had to sleep by her side while she suffered through morning sickness and withdrawal symptoms.
Brent can say he’s supportive all he wants, but he doesn’t even know what that means.
“That isn’t fair, Mags.”
“What?” I blink and lick my dried lips. “I didn’t say a word.”
“You didn’t have to. Your face.” She points at me, but I’m not sure what she’s seeing. “You’re listing all the things he isn’t. But you don’t know him.”
“I wasn’t listing his faults, Lindy.” I had simply made a list of things Brent is clueless about. “I just worry.”
“I know.” She rests one hand on her hip. “Worry is your middle name. Margaret Worrier McCrae.”
