“Of course she does.”
I look at him then.
Really look.
“She wants me to make a good marriage. Old money. Old Yankee family name.”
His square jaw goes tight. My eyes roam over him.
The wet-dark hair still half unruly from the rain.
The broad shoulders filling out that faded gray shirt.
The tape on two fingers.
The rough hands.
The way he’s holding me like I’m breakable and still somehow making it feel like I’m not weak for being held.
He looks away first.
That surprises me.
Then he laughs once under his breath, no humor in it.
“Unbelievable.”
“Drew—”
“No.” He drags a hand down his face. “No, because I just sat here and held you while you cried over him like somebody died, and now your mama’s got you ready to go back in the game for the same guy who put you here. I think a lot of things about you Isa… but never had gold digger on the list.”
I flinch.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters, but he doesn’t sound sorry for the point, just the sharpness.
I shift, trying to sit up straighter, trying to gather whatever scraps of pride are left to me.
“It’s not like that.”
He looks down at me.
Rain shadows move over the room behind him. The fire catches the hard lines of his face and makes him look even rougher somehow, more carved out of heat and weather than flesh.
“Then tell me what it’s like, Texas.”
My throat tightens.
Because how do I explain it without sounding pathetic?
How do I tell him that Tristan still lives in all these little ordinary spaces inside me? That money is my mother’s thing, not mine?
Coffee dates.
Breakfast runs.
Study nights.
The easy way he fit into the shape of my days.
