“When our mom passed away, we were young. He would crawl in bed with me and tell me ‘Don’t cry sissy.’”
“How old were you?”
“Toddlers. He was three and I was four.”
The library fades around me. All I can see is Parker as a little boy, consoling his sister. That version of him.
“He didn’t want me to be alone. I don’t remember much from that long ago, but I’ll never forget that.”
My throat is dry and feels like it sometimes does before you cry because she’s given me another part of him.
Noelle watches me. “He’s like that with people he cares about.”
“I can tell how much he loves his family by how he talks about all of you.”
“Hey, tomorrow night I’m having margarita night with a couple of friends, Sutton and Birdie. You should come. No football. Just girl talk.”
My mouth hangs open. “I shouldn’t.”
“You should. Trust me.” Noelle pulls a pen from her tote, leans down and scribbles her address and phone on my notepad.
“Thanks. Have fun on your day out.”
She gives me one last warm smile before heading off.
I sit there for a long time after she’s gone. My phone feels heavier in my hand when I pick it up. I stare at Parker’s name. My thumb hovers.
Should I?
No.
But then I type.
Me: Are you busy tonight?
I hit send before I can overthink it.
Because for the first time in forever—I don’t want to pretend that nothing happened.
NINETEEN
PARKER
I’ve straightened the house twice. Which is ridiculous because I paid Paulina, my niece, to clean it two days ago.
But now it’s sparkling like a showroom. Counters are wiped down. Floors vacuumed. Couch pillows arranged two on each end. Noelle bought them and told me where to put them. One candle burning that Sutton gave me, smelling like bourbon and oak. From the look of my house, she might think I have my act together.
I don’t.
It’s an illusion.
I step back into the living room, scanning everything one more time and put my hand behind my neck. This isn’t a date. She messaged me and asked if she could see me. This is a session and I assume it will take place in the living room. Me lying on the couch spilling my fears. Her in the chair writing them all down.
My home is ready for a professional house call.
Except nothing inside me right now feels professional.
Nothing about the way I’ve replayed our night together is professional. But her text,Thanks, I’m good,like she could easily shut the door and walk away from what is happening between us personally.
