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That's what I signed up for.
There's no way I'm taking advantage of that trust.
Yeah, this isn't how I imagined my life when I was her age. That guy would kill somebody if he knew he was going to grow up to get his furniture at Ikea.
And, fuck, if he had any idea how much pop-rock he'd listen to on the way—
I'm not proud of what a judgmental shit I used to be. But I did stand for something. Well, against something. Against all the bullshit my parents jammed down my throat.
Now that I am a parent—legally, at least—I get it.
It's hard taking care of someone. Wanting what's best for them. Trying to figure out where to draw the line.
That doesn't excuse my mom's constant reminders that I'd never be good enough.
But it does explain them.
I promised myself Emma would never go through any of the shit I did. That she'd never hear that who she was or what she wanted was wrong. But fuck, it's hard. She tests my resolve all the time.
Even Kaylee pushes my resolve.
"Brendon? You okay?" Her voice is soft. Caring.
"Yeah." I push myself to my feet.
She stares at my empty coffee mug. "You're going to leave that there?"
I nod.
"I'm fine with that." She slides her purse onto her shoulder. The grey one with the gorilla key chain. "Really, I am."
"Of course."
She tries and fails to pry her eyes away. "Really?"
I chuckle. "Not that it bothers you."
"You're doing it on purpose."
"Why would I do that?"
"Cruelty." She grabs the mug, brings it to the sink, shoots me a you win look. "Why else?"
She's adorable flustered.
Too adorable.
It's sending my thoughts straight to my bedroom. To her splayed out on my black sheets, wearing nothing but those glasses and that tiny turquoise cardigan.
"Brendon?" Her fingers curl around my forearm. Her index finger slips. Traces the lines of my sleeve tattoo. "We can leave later if you have something to do."
Yeah, I do, but it's going to take all fucking day.
Go to my room, take off your dress, sit on the bed and wait for me.
"And delay our three-dollar meatballs?" I force my voice to something light. "I don't think so."
She follows me to the car. Her cheeks flush as she folds her arms over her chest. She tugs at her purse, pulling it closer. "Three dollar meatballs?"
