And with so much love, so much attention, Beck washes my hair.
It’s gentle and thorough, and, holy shit, worshipful.
He nudges me under the stream and coaxes the suds from my hair while I run lazy fingers over his shoulders and chest.
Then he turns me in his arms, so my back leans into his chest, grabs my conditioner, squirts a glob into his hand, and works it through my hair.
The sigh that rushes through me is soul deep. I close my eyes and without warning, I’m picturing Beck kneeling over the side of this tub, washing the hair of a little girl, and my heart squeezes so hard, I lose my breath.
“Do you want kids?” I blurt, and, yeah, it’s loud enough that Pop probably heard it.
To his credit, Beck’s touch doesn’t freeze or falter.
“I do,” he says roughly. “Do you?”
I’ve always known in a vague way I wanted kids. But that little girl in the tub? I want her fiercely. I want the kids I have to be Beck’s.
“Yes,” I answer, throat tight. And then I just go for it. “Especially if they’re yours.”
He spins me in his arms so I’m facing him again. “Oh, they’ll be mine,” he says, leaving no room for doubt.
And I want to raise them here.
I don’t say this aloud, but this is what I want. What I want to work for. And despite the way he takes on every challenge, this is not just on Beck’s shoulders.
I need to help him.
And I will.
I know just where to start. Maybe for the first time in my life, I know what has to be done, and I know I have the power to do it.
The following afternoon, the reunion with my parents is almost comical.
They are ecstatic to see me.
Riveted to hear all about Summit House.
They practically levitate when I tell them about my plans to finish school and open Hattie’s Attic.
My dad pledges full financial support.
That is, until I announce that I am selling my new townhouse in order to help Beck buy out his uncle.
We’re in their living room when I drop this little fun-nugget, and my dad’s jaw turns to stone.
“Hats, that’s not funny,” he says, glowering.
I rock triple-time in the double-wide rocker, back straight. “It’s not a joke.”
Okay. It’s not a joke. But it is a bluff.
I do not want to sell my townhouse. But I would. If that were my only option, I would.
But it’s not my only option. Mom and Dad don’t know it yet, but this is a negotiation. I want access to my trust fund.
Mom tilts her head like a dog hearing a pitch humans can’t register. “But… you can’t be serious. W-we just bought you that house… for you to live in… o-on your own.”
I nod, acknowledging the facts as they exist. This is what they want. This is what I want. But I want something else even more.
