“How fucking dare you?” he asks, his voice broken around the edges. “You don’t get to show up on my porch and say that. Not after everything. Not after?—”
“I didn’t tell Pierce anything,” I rush out, words tumbling over each other, realizing I probably should have led with that. “Brody, listen to me. I didn’t tell him. I swear.”
He freezes.
“I don’t know how he found out,” I barrel on, terrified he’ll cut me off. “Aaron and Jay said he overheard you talking toEric.” The name comes out sharper than I intend. I might be morejealous than I initially realized. “Then he called someone back home to dig for information. I don’t know who he talked to or what they said, but I promise I didn’t tell him. I would never do that to you. I… I love you.”
The last words leave me on a breath that feels like it scrapes my lungs raw. I didn’t plan on saying it, but now I’ve said it three times. Twice to the man they belong to. It’s true though, and it feels good to let it out.
Brody just stares at me. His eyes are shiny in the pale winter light. His chest moves in quick, shallow bursts, like he can’t get enough air. There’s a long, frightening moment where I genuinely don’t know if he’s going to scream at me, hit me, or walk back inside and lock the door.
“You didn’t?” he asks finally, his voice small in a way I’ve never heard from him.
“No,” I say, leaning in. “No. I swear I didn’t tell him. I got mad at him and told him to lay off. He made some comments about me watching you with that other guy, and I put him in his place and pissed him off enough to cause more shit. I thought I was finally doing something right by standing up to him.” My throat tightens. “I should’ve known he’d be vindictive. That’s on me. But I never—ever—would have fed him anything about your family. Not after what you told me.”
A tear spills down his cheek. He swipes it away angrily..
“Fuck,” he whispers. “I… I thought you… I thought…” He looks like he’s going to be sick.
“I know what you thought,” I say, my eyes burning. “You had every right to think it with the way I’ve treated you this year. But you were wrong.”
His face crumples.
One second, we’re two feet apart in the dead grass. The next, Brody is hauling me into him, burying his face in my neck, arms banding around my shoulders so tightly I can feel every line of his body against mine.
I wrap my arms around him automatically, fingers fisting in the back of his shirt. My ankle twinges where it’s twisted under me, but I don’t care. I’d sit in this yard until my leg fell off if it meant I got to hold him.
“I’m sorry,” he chokes against my skin. “I’m so fucking sorry I said that to you. About your dad. I didn’t mean?—”
“I know,” I say quickly, squeezing him tighter. “I know. I deserved worse.”
“You didn’t,” he says fiercely, pulling back to look at me. His eyes are red and wet. “You didn’t deserve that. I was hurt and I lashed out. God, I’ve been so fucking miserable, Beck.”
“Me too,” I admit, because what’s left to hide now? “I thought you hated me.”
He lets out a half-laugh, half-sob and bumps his forehead against mine. “I did,” he says hoarsely. “But I was mostly furious at myself for carelessly falling in love with a rich, uptight douchebag who did everything he could to make my life miserable for three months. I was mad I fell for it. For you.”
My heart free-falls through my body. “You love me?”
He lets out a sharp, shaky laugh that sounds more like a sob. “You’re still a pretentious asshole,” he mutters.
“Yeah,” I agree. “But I’myourpretentious asshole, if you still want me.”
“Obviously,” he mutters. A flicker of his smirk plays at the corner of his mouth.
I kiss him again.
This time it’s softer, slower. Deeper and dizzy with feelings. Messy, complicated feelings. Love and relief and shame and regret.
He leans into it like he’s starving for it. His hand comes up to cup the back of my neck. I make an embarrassing noise against his lips that I’d be mortified by if I had any pride left.
We tip sideways into the grass, bodies tangling, and somehow I end up on my back with Brody braced above me, one knee between my thighs. His hands are everywhere—my chest, my jaw, the side of my throat. I’m pretty sure I’m clinging to him like a drowning man.
“God, I missed you,” he murmurs against my mouth.
I can’t make words happen, so I sigh against his lips and drag him down harder on top of me. We make out like teenagers who’ve discovered each other for the first time and think the world ends at the edge of the front yard. It’s messy and a little frantic, teeth knocking, noses bumping, my stupid ankle twinging every time I shift wrong. He grinds down and I gasp into his mouth, fingers digging into his hips through those flimsy shorts.
For a blissful moment, I forget we’re outside. In daylight. In his front yard. Where just anyone could walk up.
