Page 63

“That’s very sweet. And totally unnecessary.” I offer a small, teasing smile, and say, “I guess I’ll be in here tonight, then?”

I expect he’ll make a quip demanding how we’ll both fit on that bed, but he merely says, “If that’s what you’d like.”

He didn’t take the bait. I try again, because the “flirting” thing is new to me, but sort of fun. “I’ll probably get too cold in here,” I protest. “Might have to find somewhere else to sleep.”

He should respond with something like My arms are always available or I happen to have some room in my bed. He says, “Wherever you’ll be comfortable.”

Hmm. I take the straightforward route. “I want to sleep in your bed.” Because I do. He’s warm and always knows how to position himself to maximize our skin contact so I won’t get cold.

He says, “I’m glad.”

Okay, then.

His arms slink around my waist from behind, and I want to snippily ask why he thinks he can be so handsy off the bat. Now that we’re this close, though, something feels different. Off. He’s sagging against me, like he’s struggling to hold up his weight. His arms hug me more desperately than sensually. The corners of his eyes are tinted pink.

I turn into his chest to properly see him. His arms remain rooted around me, hands locking at the small of my back. “What’s wrong?” I ask.

Aaron blinks in bewilderment, his eyes flitting between mine before he abruptly turns his back to me. “Nothing,” he says. “The taco bar is done—want to eat now? We watched Dunkirk during our first sleepover, so I have it pulled up.”

“Another historical movie?” I ask skeptically, following him to the kitchen. I won’t push yet.

“I was really into you,” Aaron says, grinning sheepishly.

“You must still be, if you’re willing to watch it twice and let me ramble about historical accuracies.”

“I just like the sound of your voice,” he admits, and I get this soft, fuzzy feeling in my stomach. I approach the counter, where Aaron has prepared a slew of toppings—onions, tomatoes, lettuce, cilantro, salsa, and sour cream. “All gluten-free,” he says, slapping a corn tortilla onto my plate.

“I know,” I say, spooning ground beef into my taco. “I trust you.”

Aaron watches me make up a plate before creating his own. The sun is low enough that golden light shoots sideways through the window, bathing the house in an ethereal glow. Aaron has layered blankets in front of their mounted TV, so I take my place to his right, leaning back against the couch cushions.

As we watch, Aaron starts slumping, and his eyes are glazing, like his thoughts are drifting away. He’s clearly bothered, and knowing this distracts me through the end of the movie.

“Next we played board games while drinking wine,” he says. He’s working the cogs and wheels of his gadget toy, his fingers quivering. “I won most of them, but maybe you’ll get lucky. Oh, but you don’t have to drink if you’re not comfortable. Then we baked gluten-free brownies and iced them. Afterward, I’ll start the firepit—”

“Aaron?”

He stops, peeking down at me. I push on his folded knees until his legs are stretched out flat, then sling myself over them and center my weight on his thighs. I hold his face steady in my palms—a method he uses against me when he doesn’t want me to look away. My stern expression startles him. “What?” he asks.

“Something’s bothering you,” I tell him. “You shouldn’t push through this night and pretend everything is okay because you don’t want to disappoint me.”

Aaron looks utterly baffled. His blank stare might normally make me laugh, but he’s clearly hurting. “Getting your memories back…that’s the priority,” he says, his voice small and weak. The sound of it makes me want to curl him up and tuck him into my chest. “I won’t ruin that because I’m in a bad mood.”

“My memories aren’t a priority,” I say sharply. “This moment is. Here. Now. A relationship should be balanced—you can’t go above and beyond for me when I’m hurting, then keep me from doing the same when you’re hurting.”

Aaron studies me in that meticulous, intense way I can’t stand, but this isn’t a conversation I’m willing to duck my head for. His lips twitch up at the corners. “Relationship?” he whispers.

I open my mouth but close it just as quickly. Shoot. I wasn’t planning on springing that on him. “I’m just saying this is a two-way street, so if I can’t hide how I’m feeling, you shouldn’t hide how you’re feeling,” I snap. “Just because I’m dealing with things doesn’t mean your pain hurts any less.”

Aaron doesn’t respond for a while. It’s torturous. I’m not sure if he’s thinking intently or if he’s doing this to embarrass me. If he likes anything about me, it’s how I look when I’m flustered, so I wouldn’t be surprised.

Finally, he grasps my chin. “Despite how much you’ve changed, you’re still the same,” he says softly. “You’re so relentlessly kind and considerate of others. You make me want to be better.”

“You’re already a good person,” I try to say, but he shakes his head.

“I was a selfish brat for years. Borderline cruel. Whenever I met with my mother, I’d leave feeling so guilty that I would act out and make myself everyone else’s problem. I wanted people to be angry with me. Especially my dads. Because then there was a reason. A logical explanation for why she didn’t want me.”

His palms spread over the backs of mine. He lowers them from his face so he can fiddle with my cold fingertips instead of his gadget toy.