“Yeah,” I sigh. It’s not the waiting that’s eating at me. Being in that house tends to make me a little frazzled; my brain’s still catching up from playing mediator, maid, nanny, and therapist for three hours. I’m just lucky today; I didn’t have to be a chef, too.
Brighton’s smile drops, and his jaw ticks noticeably as he stares me down.
“I’m just tired.” I lie easily. He might have signed up to kiss me now and again, but he certainly didn’t sign up for me having a total meltdown about my family.
He moves the truck away from the curb slowly, driving back down toward the Hollow to take us back to the apartment. He’s quiet all the way there, both hands wrapped tightly around the steering wheel and his gaze on the road. He parks down the street like always, helping me out and taking my hand without a word.
The Hollow is busier than usual, but he doesn’t slow; he just weaves through the crowd, guiding me toward the stairs. His hulking frame parts people out of our way until we pop out at the base of the stairs. We’ve climbed them a hundred times in the last few weeks, but tonight I feel like I’m in trouble. Maybe my emotions are haywire, and I can’t straighten myself out long enough to breathe, let alone decipher what he’s thinking, too.
“Brighton,” I say as we step inside, and he locks the door behind us. The sound of the bar beneath us is all-consuming today; it’s like we’re still in the middle of the chaos. But he moves around me, still silent, and wanders over to the living room.
Without explanation, he picks the coffee table up and moves it out of the way, creating space before he wanders back to me, takes the container, and throws it in the fridge.
“What are—”
He ignores me, disappearing down the hallway and returning with a stereo that he sets on the counter and plugs his phone into. He stands quietly, his focus on the screen for a few moments before inhaling slowly, tapping it once, and setting it down. He grabs my hand on the way by and pulls me into the space he created with such an effortless nature to his movements. I twist around and end up with my back against his chest. His chin rests against my head as the music drowns out all the noise in the apartment, even our breathing.
I inhale slowly, and he tightens his grip around me.
I could cry. It feels so good—for the life of me, I can't figure out why it works so well—but I exhale, and it’s like all the muscles loosen in my body.
“Do it again,” he instructs.
I take a deep breath, he holds me close, and I exhale all the stress. I start to laugh wildly, on the verge of tears, and sink my teeth into my bottom lip.
“Why does that feel so good?” My voice quivers.
“My favorite feeling in the world used to be our rucksacks.” He explains. “The weight. Most of the guys hated it, but it helped me breathe.”
“Like one of those blankets…” I laugh gently, and he nods.
“Yeah.” He grunts. “You were overwhelmed."
“No, I wasn’t,” I lie again. He spins me gently to the music and brings me back chest to chest so he can stare me down. “I was… only a little.”
“Why?” His eyes search mine.
“That house holds a lot,” I swallow, “memories, anger, laughter, chaos. Everyone inside stayed the same. It’s like a time capsule and I—”
He cocks his head to the side when I drop my gaze from his. I feel childish. Who complains about that kind of thing—a happy family, a big house? People crave that comfort, and it rubs me like sandpaper.
“I step inside, and it’s like I’m back there. Just that seventeen-year-old girl with absolutely zero control over her life.” I blurt. “It’s disorientating,and infuriating. Sometimes I can’t tell the difference between their happy, playful screaming. It’s like I know it’s Toby and Shana, but I hear Reid and Remi.”
Brighton tenses, his hands tightening around me as we dance lazily.
“So why did we go for dinner then?” he asks, not making me feel stupid about all the other stuff.
“Because—” I huff, and he waits patiently for me to figure it out. “That’s what people do. They meet each other’s parents, suffer through family dinners, and look at embarrassing photos.”
“Hellcat,” his tone shifts so eloquently I barely notice the change until his lips curl to the side and his eyes soften on my face. “I like you.”
“That’s good news,” I scoff, and he laughs gently.
“I mean, I likeyou.” He repeats it with emphasis, but I’m still confused.
“Still kinda vague, Brighton.” I stare up at him, and he nods, understanding that he’s going to have to elaborate just a little more.
“You like me, right?” he asks.
