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How the hell did we get to that assumption? The dumbass is wearing a strip club t-shirt.
“What?” He squawks. “No! Why would I be bisexual?”
“Lorraine,” Dad grumbles.
“Well, how should I know? These are our children, Frank. We should know who they are, so they can talk to us if they need to.”
“Not about their sex lives,” he complains, and I have to say I agree with him wholeheartedly, even as my mother’s motherly response sinks in. She doesn’t mind.
“Oh, well, don’t worry, Dad,” Miranda reassures. “I’ve got mine figured out already, and Jesse doesn’t have one.”
“I do too!”
“Your hand doesn’t count.”
“Jesus, I’m going to bed,” Dad groans.
There are four rocking chairs on that porch. No matter how long I’ve lived away in the city, I still can differentiate between the sound of Dad’s and the others. He’s up, and he’s moving. Fuck.
Tiptoeing in steel toe work boots is not a simple feat. Taking the stairs two at a time, I make it to the fourth step before my speed and the moonshine catch up with me. My shoulder bashes into a picture on the wall of Bradley and Bethany, knocking it askew. I catch it before it has time to topple off the nail and set it to rights, but the sound of the screen door shutting tells me I’ve been caught.
My blurry gaze meets Dad’s. His mouth parts as though he feels obligated to say something, since it’s obvious that I might have heard the talk on the porch. A man of few words, however, he doesn’t deviate even now, seeming to struggle to piece together reality with the gossip. As his gaze flicks up to the top of the stairs and back to mine, my stomach flips.
Short of the salt and pepper at his temples, we bear a strong resemblance. Except, frozen mid-step, caught sneaking upstairs to see my boyfriend, I can’t help but wonder if I’ve let him down yet again. He’s already seen me deal with my OCD symptoms my entire life. Then, I moved away, giving up my namesake, wasting the farmer’s build that his genetics passed down to me by working in an office.
He’s never been one to judge other people’s lifestyles and has never said a word about me moving away. His only strong opinions are regarding apples, the Seahawks, and the weather. Have I met his limit?
His mouth closes, sending a sliver of horror through me at the thought of him saying nothing. I want to know where I stand because I know where I want to stand in my life more than I ever have.
Shoulders squaring, his mouth ticks up at one corner in the semblance of a smile. “Good work today. You and your… friend.” After his struggle for a description of Cam, he gives me a nod. “Night Pete.”
“Goodnight.” I nod back dumbly and watch him disappear down the hallway.
My feet move. I end up outside of my bedroom door without knowing how I got there.
A smile and a nod. That’s it? Just like that? How much did I drink? Because if the last twenty minutes were all a moonshine-induced hallucination, and I have to do this over again in the morning, I’m never drinking again.
They love me the way I am.
The realization dances around in my brain as I stare at the doorknob. They always have in their own unique Carver way. I think I’ve spent too many years hating what I’m not to fully appreciate loving what I am.
Heart full, I open the door only to have it overflow again. Lounging barefoot on my bed in sleep pants and a t-shirt, Cam smiles up at me in surprise. The impact of the day’s events hit me like a roundhouse kick.
I’d have given up my family for him if needed, but it’s looking like I won’t have to and have gained more than I ever imagined. I don’t think it was therapy or a pill that I was missing my entire life. It was peace, and he brought it with him when he walked into my office. Life is suddenly about as perfect as it can get.
CHAPTER 23
Cameron
The door wrenches open, startling me. I drop my tablet onto the bed beside me and find Pete standing in the doorway.
“Hey,” I greet.
This is a nice surprise. I didn’t think I’d see him again until morning. I don’t know how he manages to work all week at the office and then pull day-long shifts on the orchard.
Shutting the door, he tromps toward the bed without a word. Wow. Someone looks exhausted, but he’s still sexy, even with bags under his eyes.
Sliding his knee onto the end of the mattress, I’m about to move my feet so he can sit down. Instead, my lower half is crushed when he drops forward, collapsing on top of me. Burying his face in my stomach, he hugs my hips with his forearms. I’m officially trapped, but I don’t think you can call a position that you’re perfectly content to be in “trapped”.
