Page 82 of Licks

Gwen released a half-groan, half-sigh. “I want to knock on that door eventually, but maybe not now. I want to follow the journal today, learn what I’m dealing with first. Try and discover what happened between my parents. I think I’m supposed to follow those clues.”

I inched closer to her. “Can I come on this journey?”

I didn’t ask where we stood. The no-sex rule could mean she was pulling away, compartmentalizing our relationship into friendship. Best friends. Just friends. Friends who eventually drifted. There was a chance we’d say goodbye tomorrow and never see each other again. If that happened, I’d write a lifetime of sad songs. It wasn’t an option.

She focused on me, and love glimmered in her eyes, giving me hope. “I think you’re supposed to come,” she whispered.

I traced her cheekbone, the smooth slope of her jaw. History and hurt and hope rippled between us. Then I said, “And you’re sure there won’t be any sex?”

A guy had to try. Plus the best way to keep Gwen from anxiously repeating movie titles was to flirt with her, or annoy her. Both had worked as teens.

That (sort of) joke earned me a smile. “Keep your smolder on lockdown, Cruz.”

“Anything for you, Frances.”

Her expression morphed from amused to livid. “No, you did not.”

“Oh, yes, I did.” This was the annoy tactic. Her hated middle name had never let me down before.

Her breathing slowed. Her focus dropped to my chest. “Say it again.”

“Frances.”

She pinched my nipple and twisted. “Jesus fuck, Gwen.” Wincing, I batted her hand away. “What the hell?”

“You know I hate that name.”

“It’s a fine name.”

“It’s the worst name.”

It was also the main character’s given name in her favorite movie. “But then I’m allowed to say, ‘Nobody puts Baby in the corner.’”

Her lips twitched. “You are such a child.”

And she was distracted. Too bad my nipple had taken a hit for the team. I’d do it again, though. Anything for this woman, except walk away from her. There was no way I was leaving tomorrow without knowing we were good. Together. A couple. More lyrics looped through my mind, lines filled with words like passion and addiction and forever, those “Fever Junkie” verses building into a ballad.

Yet there was still a chance I’d lose her.

For now, I’d play by her rules. Shielding my chest, I pulled the diary from her lap. “Where’d you leave off?”

12:30 p.m., 11 ½ hours…

Gwen

I dove back into my mother’s diary, still sluggish, but the underwater fog had lifted. Thanks to my Badass PI partner.

I wasn’t sure I could continue at our frantic pace: twenty-four hours of passionate sex, talks, jokes, and promises, pretending our uncertain future and messy past didn’t affect our seconds. Too many conflicting emotions had been set loose. But having him here was a start.

Forgiving myself was a milestone.

The loss of my father still lingered like a nasty sliver, the kind you struggled to remove. Having never known Ted Mercer meant it couldn’t burrow deeper.

I had, however, known my mother. I was getting to know her.

Learning what had happened between them was top priority. My new birthday wish. To understand her, prove I hadn’t been the root of her despair. Which meant this search would provide me closure, like August had said.

With him beside me, I read more pages, each one teeming with teenage angst. Nothing hinted at an unplanned pregnancy or painful breakup, but she had written an entry about babysitting and shitty diapers and not understanding why people had kids. It was a glimpse of the mother I’d known, the one who’d never wanted children. Not new information, but reading it still stung.