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And wondered how in the hell I’d fallen in love with this girl so hard and so damn fast.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE
Aspen
I think I was in love with Thatcher Reed.
I didn’t know when it had happened, but the how…
Damn.
Seeing him last night had only solidified it, and I wasn’t talking about how he’d made my body sing, which he had. What we created together sexually was freaking amazing and only added to how I’d felt earlier that night about him. I’d been sick even thinking about picking up my cello after what had happened at Carnegie Hall, but not only had I done it…
I’d loved it.
I truly loved my craft, and he had helped me see that. He brought the passion out of me again. I hadn’t even known he played piano, but he’d stepped up for me in my hour of need.
And then there was the hospital.
I was truly embarrassed by that, and my mom’s voice had certainly been in my head when it’d all been going down. How I couldn’t take care of myself and I needed her, but Thatcher was right that I had this handled. I could take care of myself, and I didn’t need to play weak to make my mother happy. I truly had this, and he helped me see that.
I was smiling when the sun hit my face that morning despite still being in the hospital. I think that was because I knew I’d see him.
“What would you say if I told you I’m having feelings for you?”
I wasn’t sure how deep Thatcher’s feelings went, but he’d admitted them.
One thing at a time.
I was hopeful… for whatever this was happening between us, and I did plan to tell him how deep my own feelings had gotten. Maybe this guy was making me brave.
I sat up that morning, a lot easier to do now that I wasn’t in so much physical pain. I was still aching in my shoulder joints and my hips, but they weren’t locked like they had been last night. Dr. Kearns had said I just needed to take it easy while I got caught up on my medications. With some movement exercises, heat, and of course, my meds, I’d be right back to where I was. I just had to give it time, and though that made me sad since I did want to play my cello now, I’d give it all the time I needed for my joints to heal.
Flowers.
Something floral hit my nose, and when I turned, my eyes flashed wide. I wasn’t the only one in the room, but the other person wasn’t Thatcher.
“Mom?” I blinked once, then twice. A woman with braided-back locs in a peony-colored suit arranged a huge bouquet of flowers by the window. For a second, I hoped she was a nurse who’d just decided to forgo her scrubs for something more fashionable that morning, but the moment the woman angled around, I knew my wishes fell on deaf ears. I gasped. “Mom…”
What in the entire… fuck was my mother doing here? I didn’t know, and I definitely one hundred percent hadn’t called her. I wasn’t exactly talking to her after she’d set up for me to play at a charity event I hadn’t wanted to play at. That charity event had turned out to be for a fraternity, and though I hadn’t known it was Thatcher’s, I’d quickly found out when I discovered him there last night. All the frat guys had worn pins on their lapels.
Everything had turned out okay in the end obviously, but still.
Mom glided over, her expression a mix of concern and frustration. I knew the look well. She never enjoyed pushing me as much as she did. She loved me, cared about me, but she also wanted me to be the best. She put her hand on the bed, then me. “How are you doing? Damnit, Aspen, you should have called me the moment your flare happened.”
So she knew about it? How? I started to adjust but stopped, still stiff. “You know?”
“Of course I know. Despite the fact my daughter didn’t call me about it.” Her frustrations rang now, and she didn’t bother to hide them. She huffed. “The hospital called me. I’m your emergency contact here on campus, you know, and you should have called me.”
Maybe I should have, but I hadn’t. I didn’t need to. I was okay.
She smoothed out my bedding. “I imagine this happened because you weren’t taking care of yourself. You got behind on your medications, didn’t you? I knew I should have called you every day to remind you. Jesus, Aspen, what were you thinking?”
I wasn’t, and that’d been the point. I was so goddamn tired of thinking so much, of being perfect.
Where’s Thatcher?
