We’d been friends for long enough that it wasn’t the first time she’d used my lap as a pillow, nor the first time I’d played with her hair. But it was the first time I allowed myself to truly indulge in it and savor the softness of her hair.
I lost track of time, until Clara yawned.
“I love it when you play with my hair.” She made a soft noise of contentment that went straight to my chest.
Clara had been branded on my heart and soul for so long and having her in my life was like breathing. Natural and impossible to live without. I don’t know how I didn’t realize it sooner. “I’ll play with your hair anytime you ask, little wren.”
“You’re still calling me that.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Why wouldn’t I?” I’d called her that since the day she’d so fiercely protected my youngest brother from bullies.
She shrugged, the movement awkward from where she laid. “Don’t couples use cheesy nicknames for each other? Like ‘baby’ or ‘sugar’ or ‘pookie’?”
“I’ve always called you my little wren. I don’t think I need to stop using it for something unfamiliar simply because we’re … exploring new territory.”
She was quiet for long enough that I got nervous.
“Is that all we’re doing? Just ‘exploring’? Or is this more?”
My heart dropped at her first question. I was such a dumbass and needed to choose my words better. I wanted to pull her closer, but she’d sat up and moved to the cushion on the other side of the couch. It wasn’t far with just one empty cushion between us, but it felt like miles.
I didn’t know what to say for a second and just sat there like a moron, searching for words. Any words.
“Clara, no. I’m sorry. I – I’m bad with words. I do want more. I’m selfish, really.”
“What does that mean?” Her voice was soft. My chest tightened at the hint of sadness and fear in her voice.
I knew if I didn’t confess everything I felt, I’d lose her.
“I’ve been in love with you since we were sixteen. Maybe earlier than that. I want everything with you. I want our friendship as the unbreakable foundation for a forever kind oflove. The kind they write stories about. But I will take whatever you are willing to give me.”
I held my breath and placed my hand in the empty space between us, palm up, an invitation.
Chapter Twelve
Clara
My heart thundered in my chest. Beckett’s palm lay open a few inches from me.
I stared at it for a heartbeat. Two.
Five heartbeats. Then ten.
There were so many reasons to trust him – the most compelling was our decade-long friendship during which he’d never once wavered.
The callouses on his palm were rough against my skin, familiar and comforting.
I met his gaze. “I want to find out what more we could be, too.” His shoulders sagged in relief. “But I’m scared.”
Beckett didn’t move except to squeeze my hand. “Me, too. Tell me, and we’ll figure it out together.”
I knew I could trust him with my heart, knew that it was safe in his hands. My fears, my vulnerability, was … harder. Not because of him, no. The only people I’d ever been truly vulnerable with were my parents. They did their best, and Inever doubted that they loved me, but they also let me down more than once, until I learned to rely on myself.
“It’s irrational, but I’m scared you’re settling for me because you haven’t met anyone else. I’m scared that people will talk and somehow come between us. My brain is messy and even though I know none of these worries make sense, I can’t help worrying about them. Plus, oh my god, what if your parents decide they hate me dating their son and then I lose all of you?” I shook my head. “I don’t want to lose any of you.”
Beckett let me spill all of it in one go, and squeezed my hand to stop me only when I started rambling about losing his family.
“You will never lose us. Ever. You’re like a sister to Thatch and Noah, and they’ll kick my ass if they even suspect I wouldn’t let you near them if something goes wrong. They’d pick you over me in a heartbeat, trust me.”
