“It’s clearly for the lifetime supply of coconut cake,” he teased, lowering both of her hands. Cupping her chin, he tilted her face until she met his gaze. “Whatever happened, it’s not going to change how I feel about you.” He hadn’t meant for his voice to sound so husky, but his emotions suddenly got the better of him.
Was it his imagination or did her pupils just dilate? Heat radiated between them. He ached to kiss her, to draw her evencloser into his arms and show her how deeply he cared. Instead, he cleared his throat and dropped his hand.
Be her friend, Jayce. That’s what she needs right now.
“Tell me when you’re ready. Or don’t. Just know I’m here for you. Always.”
A tear hovered near the corner of her eye, suspended in her thick lower lashes. Gently lifting her glasses, he gathered the tear on the tip of his finger, lingering against her soft skin a moment longer than necessary. What a cruel, exquisite kind of self-torment, to be so close to someone and yet still feel so far removed.
Someday, a man would come along to kiss her tears away. Then, one day, the same man would most likely become the reason for those tears. That was always the trade-off, wasn’t it? Romantic Russian roulette, except every chamber was loaded with the barrel aimed right at the heart.
He couldn’t protect her from every pain in life.
But he could strive to never be the cause.
Chapter Thirteen
CECE
CeCe’s breathstalled in her throat, strangled by the scintillating sensation of Jayce’s fingertips against her skin. His touch felt smooth yet strong, reassuring yet reckless. For the briefest moment, she allowed herself to imagine Jayce drawing her closer, angling his mouth to hers, kissing away every troubling thought. Heat surged through her, both from longing and mortification.He’s your best friend. You shouldn’t want anything more than that.
Dismissing the inappropriate fantasy, she swallowed hard. “Okay. I’ll tell you.”
He dropped his hand from her face. Even as he slid his arm around her shoulders, she could still feel the subtle pressure of his fingertips, lingering like an imprinted memory on her skin. His hand came to rest on her upper arm, a platonic gesture of comfort that unwittingly added fuel to her internal fire.
Focus, CeCe.She gazed into his striking blue eyes—the same deep hue as the sky after the sunset, before twilight gave way to the darkness. Part of her wanted him to see only the good in her, to appear flawless and above reproach. But at her core, where she yearned to be known and loved despite her imperfections, she valued the transparency of their friendship.
Over the years, they’d seen each other at their worst and bared the ugliest parts of themselves. Like in third grade, when she’d confessed to hiding her father’s passport, which had resulted in a missed flight. Or when Jayce had admitted to cheating on a math test. In both cases—and many others involving similar poor choices—they’d encouraged each other to come clean and accept the consequences. CeCe didn’t doubt that tonight would be the same.
Expelling a deep breath, she said, “I got in a fight with Mama.”
“Really? You two never fight.”
“I know. And I feel terrible about it. I think I really hurt her.” She winced at the mental image of her mother’s wounded expression—both shock and pain, like she’d been slapped without warning.
“What was the fight about?” He casually stroked her arm, as if the reflexive impulse to console her came to him as naturally as breathing.
“My dad.” She scooted closer, resting her weight against him, gathering both solace and strength from his nearness. “He was supposed to come home the other night but didn’t show. He told Mama the expedition had received additional funding at the last minute and had been extended. He didn’t call me, though, which stings.” Her last admission caught her by surprise. But the second the unconscious thought passed her lips, her heart ached. Why hadn’t he called her? He’d simply expected her mother to pass along the message. Couldn’t he spare five seconds to tell her himself? To apologize? To say he missed her?
But then, what else had she expected? Her father never called. Never texted. Never even emailed. A familiar feeling of unworthiness wormed its way into her heart, whispering long-held beliefs.You aren’t enough. You were never enough.
Her eyes welled with unwelcome tears again.
Jayce squeezed her upper arm. “I’m so sorry, Toto. That’s crummy. Your dad should’ve called.”
Sniffling, she roughly rubbed the tears away. Why cry over someone who didn’t deem her worth his time? “Yeah, well, instead of directing my frustration at my dad, where it belongs, I lashed out at Mama. I accused her of lying about her feelings.”
“Is she?”
“Well,lyingmight be a harsh term, but she pretends like she doesn’t care when Dad does stuff like this—when he’s selfish and inconsiderate. But I know it breaks her heart every time. And I hate that she hides it.” The words tumbled out of her now, unfiltered and unencumbered, rising from a wellspring of buried grief. “Whenever she gives him a free pass, when she makes excuses for him, I feel like I have to do the same. I’ve been doing it for as long as I can remember. And I don’t want to pretend anymore. I’m hurt. And I’m angry. And—” She paused as a sudden realization crashed into her. “And I want Mama to finally confront him. I want her to tell him all the things I can’t bring myself to say.” Her fingers trembled with the release of repressed tension—tension she’d carried her entire life like a talisman of her inner turmoil. She curled her hands into fists in her lap to calm the shaking.
“And what do you want to tell him?” Jayce asked softly.
“I want to tell him—” She paused as a painful sob rose in her throat.Don’t cry. You’ve shed enough tears over him. Swallowing past the uncomfortable tightness, she whispered, “I want my father back.”
Despite her best efforts, tears fell as fragmented memories flooded her mind. Tiny, flour-covered hands kneading dough. A young girl, not yet tall enough to reach the counter without a stool. A father’s smile—his laugh lines creased, his twinkling eyes fixed solely on her. Édith Piaf singing “La Vie en Rose” on an antique gramophone. The sweet, buttery scent of chouquettesbrowning in the oven. Happy, hazy snapshots her five-year-old brain had tried so desperately to preserve. The golden days before he left. Before he chose a career over his family.
“I want him to know it’s not fair to say he loves us but not do anything to show it,” she added, speaking for her childhood self—the little girl still longing for her father’s affection.
