“My cheeks hurt from laughing so hard,” she said as she led me up to her room.
It had been Dean’s idea that she show me. I’d almost high-fived him on the spot before I’d remembered that he was kind of like a dad to her and it would be a little inappropriate. I’d wanted to spend time with her alone since I’d arrived.
She opened a narrow door on the second floor that exposed an equally narrow staircase, leading up to what I assumed was the attic. “So this is it,” she said, standing in the middle of the tiny space and motioning her hand through the air. There was a bed with a nightstand on one side pushed up against the corner, a desk, and one of those temporary wardrobes, which had a few clothes hanging in it. And about two feet of free space. The room made mine look like a mansion.
Her laugh pulled me out of my daze. “I know it’s not much, but I survive.”
“I know that . . . but you can’t take one of the bedrooms downstairs?”
She shook her head. “The kids have them.”
“They can’t share?”
“They can, but they have nightmares sometimes, so Mary likes them to have their own space.”
I nodded, but I found it hard to imagine what life was like there. I glanced quickly at the tiny window, the only one in the room, the one she had stood behind and watched me leave from the first night we met.
“You should be careful. You’re gonna hit your head on the ceiling.”
I looked up at the beam a few inches in front of me. “Shit,” I breathed out. “You’re lucky you’re short.”
She laughed at that.
“So, my mom—” I took a step toward her, hitting my head on the beam.
“Oh my God,” she squealed. “I just warned you.”
Pressing my hand against my forehead, I tried not to curse. “I know.”
“What is wrong with you?” She grasped my forearms and pushed me back until I felt her bed behind my legs. “Sit!”
I sat.
“Let me see.”
I let her see.
“You’re such a baby. There’s barely a lump.”
“You’re mean.”
“Cry to your mama.”
Then her face fell, and she frowned.
“Speaking of my mom . . .” I raised my eyebrows in question.
She stayed silent.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out my keys to show her my new key chain: Mom’s six-month-sobriety chip. “She came and spoke to me when she got home.”
She looked down at the object in my hand, and her frown turned to a smile. “Really?”
I nodded, my eyes fixed on her lips. “Yeah. She said that you gave her the courage to talk to me. Apparently, she’d been wanting to for a while, but she was afraid of how I’d react. She thought I hated her.”
“And you don’t?”
“No,” I sighed. “I really don’t. I think that I was disappointed in her. And it may have made our relationship worse because I think she should’ve at least seen how I was feeling. That’s what I told her. But no, I don’t hate her. Honestly, I kind of miss her.”
Her smile widened.
“She didn’t go into too much detail, though. She said she needed time, but hopefully soon. There’s a family thing at her AA meeting coming up. She asked if I wanted to go. I don’t know if I’m ready for that. It seems like a big step. What do you think?”
“Me?”
I laughed. “Yeah you.”
“I don’t think I know your mom or your relationship well enough—”
“But you know me,” I interrupted. “And your opinion matters to me.”
She chewed her lip, her gaze looking past me, into the distance. “I don’t know,” she said so quietly I almost missed it. “It’s your mom, Blake. I know that I wouldn’t walk away from an opportunity to get closer. Maybe this way you can stop missing her?”
It took a few seconds for me to find the words. “Thank you, Chloe. I don’t think you actually realize how long it’s been since my mom and I have had a decent conversation. One car ride with you and it’s . . .” I shrugged. “It’s just nice.”
Chloe
I continued to chew my lip and looked down at him.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “Did I say something to make you uncomfortable?”
I shook my head.
He spread his legs and pulled me forward by the fabric of my dress until I was standing between them. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.” No. He hadn’t said anything. His presence alone was reason enough to make me nervous.
“What’s going on?” He sounded concerned. Maybe it was because I was no longer able to form complete sentences. I had to do something to take my mind off the fact that we were in my room. Alone. With his hand on my hip, gripping me tighter with each passing second.
I couldn’t look into his eyes. Or at his lips. Especially not his lips. So I zoned in on where the lump was beginning to form on his head.
“What are you thinking?” His voice was hoarse.
Then I made the mistake of looking into his eyes. Fire.