When he’s finished, he rises and holds out a hand for me to take, pulling me to standing. I’m a puddle of mush on the tiled floor when he tugs me into his arms and plants a kiss on the top of my head. “I’ve got another couple hours left of work,” he says into my hair. “If you’ll be home when I get out, I’ll grab some takeout and stop by your place so we can talk.”
I smile against his chest, grateful he can’t see the triumphant look on my face.
Because my planworked.
“I’ll see you then.”
CHAPTER 34
Declan
I watch Elsie’s living room curtains flutter closed as I make my way up to her front door, a paper bag with about seven or eight cartons of Chinese food clutched in one hand. I knock on her door with my free hand and wait, listening to her hurried footsteps inside.
When Elsie throws the door open, with a sweet smile already on her makeup-free face, my heartthump, thump, thumpsat the sight of her. With her face bare, her damp hair tucked into a knot on top of her head and a set of navy blue silk pajamas on, she looks soft in a way that I want to sink into. Not literally, though I wouldn’t mind that either – but more like I want to wrap myself around her and rest for a while. A soft place to land after a long day, and an even longer week.
“Declan,” she says. “Hi.”
I love the way she always says my name first, and always with a tiny note of surprise, like she can’t quite believe I’m here.
“Hi, honey.” The moniker slips out before I can think better of it, but fuck, am I glad it does. Her face softens and she bites her lower lip to hide her grin.
“Come in,” she says, turning back toward the kitchen, where two unopened beers sit on the counter. I set the bag full of food next to them, unloading it while Elsie pulls two plates from the cupboard and silverware from the drawer beside the stove. “I figured you could use one for whatever it is you’d like to talk about,” she says, nodding her head toward the drinks in front of me.
There was a time when I would have been tempted to crack one open, my years of sobriety be damned. It’s been a long while since I’ve felt that way, though.
“I actually don’t drink,” I admit. It’s always an awkward thing to tell people at first, though I’m not ashamed of it. But when I don’t give an explanation – which I almost never do – I’m sure most people assume I’m an alcoholic. It’s not the case, but it’s easier to let people come to their own conclusions.
“I’m so sorry,” Elsie says, her cheeks turning a deep shade of red. “I shouldn’t have assumed. Let me just –” I close my hand over hers before she has the chance to snatch the bottles away.
“It’s okay,” I tell her. “I don’t have a problem with alcohol, and you don’t need to forego it on my account. I just choose not to drink it.”
She meets my eye and holds my gaze, like maybe she’ll find a different truth hidden there. Apparently satisfied with what she sees, she slowly, almost reluctantly, puts one of the beers back into the fridge and hangs onto the other.
“Come on,” I say, nudging her arm and tipping my chin toward the buffet of food. “Grab something to eat and I’ll tell you about it.”
For maybe the first time ever, Iwantsomeone to know and understand the things that make me who I am. It’s a new feeling forme, and I decide to roll with it rather than examine thewhyof it all too closely.
A few minutes later, we sit next to each other on Elsie’s couch with heaping plates of food, drinks and country music playing softly from the old radio in the kitchen.
Elsie sits facing me with her legs tucked beneath her and her plate balanced in her lap. She spears a piece of sesame chicken and pops it in her mouth, chewing silently for a few moments. “So,” she finally says. “You wanted to talk.”
“I do.” I push the food around my plate with my fork, not sure where to even begin. “I’m sorry for being weird the last couple days.”
“It’s okay. I’d love to know the reason why, though.”
I nod, taking a bite of kung pao chicken. It’s spicy, and I take a swig of my seltzer, though the carbonated drink does nothing to help ease the burn.
I realize I’m stalling, and I’m sure Elsie does, too. She’s patient with me, though.
“Our dinner the other night really threw me for a loop,” I finally admit. “If I’d had it my way, you wouldn’t have met my family for a long time. Maybe ever,” I joke, though I’m not sure I’m actually joking. Sheltering Elsie from my past would be a fucking dream.
Unfortunately, this is reality.
“How come?” she asks, and god, her innocence has me reeling. I don’t want to tell her about all of the shit from my past, to shatter whatever notions she has about me and paint me out to be someone she should pity.
Because shewillpity me. How could she not?
“My family dynamic is… complicated.” I expect Elsie to have more questions, but she waits patiently, popping another piece of chicken in her mouth and giving me all the time I need to tell my story.
