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Mary finally sighs and opens her door. “Fine, time for us to go in.”
“Us?” I raise an eyebrow. “This is where my journey ends. I’m not coming in with you.”
“Like hell you aren’t. I’m not going in there by myself. What if he throws me out? I'll need a ride home. Come inside with me and then leave.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
I’m starting to see why women have such a hard time with their mothers-in-law.
“Fuck, you’re so stubborn!” I rub my forehead, thumping one hand on the steering wheel.
“Ty never went for the wallflower type, but you really are a ballbuster, aren’t you?” She smirks to herself. “I’m guessing by now you know that the Wilders are a stubborn bunch. Let's go.”
“Yeah, okay,” I finally say, killing the engine and reluctantly getting out of the car. The walk to his front door is agonizing. I’m happy and excited and sad and frustrated all at the same time. I’m the one who knocks on the door three times while Mary hides behind my back. No one answers, and there’s no sound coming from inside. I knock again, harder.
Nothing.
I ring the bell multiple times, and finally walk around to one of the side windows, rapping against the glass with the side of my fist. I peek inside to his living room. The lights are turned off, and the place looks like it’s been raided by the FBI, CIA and a pack of wolves.
“Ty!” I yell. “Open up. It’s me.”
I listen and hear a rustling noise and what sounds like an empty can rolling across the floor. I catch a glimpse of his tall figure floating toward the front door like a ghost, so I run back to the porch. Mary is standing wide-eyed, obviously expecting instructions.
“He’s coming,” I mouth. She turns to face the door, running her hand through her frizzy hair. I hear a chain clinking and jump in front of Mary so she won’t be the first face that he sees. He swings the door open and stands in front of me, shirtless.
And...well, he is definitely not the sex on legs I've gotten used to.
At his prime, Ty Wilder has out-hotted Brad Pitt and Charlie Hunnam. Combined. Yeah, he was that gorgeous. Now? Not so much. He’s gotten scary-thin, frail and looks about as lively as a corpse. His skin clings to his bones like an oversized shirt, his eyes vacant, glazed with apathy. I want to kill myself for doing this to him, and kill him for doing this to me.
“Seriously?” His eyes shoot to his mother. “What’s this, your little revenge on me?”
“Heard you were struggling—”
“So you thought, why not push him over the edge? Shit just got suicidal.”
I feel like he shoved a knife in my stomach and twisted it real slow. “I want someone to take care of you, and that’s what your mother wants to do. Tell him, Mary.” I turn to her.
She takes a step forward. “It’s true, son.” She coughs, trying to meet his eyes. He doesn’t acknowledge her existence.
Instead, he shifts his gaze back to me. “You want someone to take care of me? That seems like a first. Usually, you're the last to give a flying fuck. Now go away and take this fatty with you.” He angles backwards and is about to close the door.
Instinctively, I jam my foot in the gap. I’m floored to hear him talk like this. Even though he swears, he’d never stoop as low as fat-shaming or talked to me like this. This is not him speaking.
Ty slams the door on my foot and I wince in pain, falling sideways and stubbing my toes. This is the second time today my foot is injured on a Wilder’s porch. This family is trying to kill me.
“Fuck. You okay? That was an accident. Fuck.” He sighs, his dimples peeking through when he speaks.
“You kiss your mom with this mouth?” I feign a frown, but my lips are curving into a faint smile.
“No, I’m not. That’s the point I was trying to make.” He rests his temple on the doorframe, looking down at me. The high school sweetheart who escorted me to Dawson’s office the first time I saw him is here again. Sweet-Ty. I missed him so.
I take a step forward and put my hands on his chest. It feels so natural to touch his warm, silky skin, and his body immediately tightens and flexes, reacting to my hands instinctively.
“Actually, Jesse suggested this little reunion. And I think it's a good idea, because frankly, I'm going to become a sports journalist in less than a week, and I'd really appreciate a good headline. Something along the lines of Local MMA Fighter Wins the XWL Welterweight Championship. Think you can manage that?” I whisper the words into his chest, watching it moving up and down slowly to the rhythm of our shallow heartbeats.
