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“She was, yeah. We didn’t have a lot,” I tell him, feeling compelled to keep talking for some reason. “It was a shitty neighborhood and everyone was struggling. But she made the best of it. She kept things light and fun no matter what was going on outside the house. And she was tough, too. There’s a story people always liked to tell about her, about a time when some asshole came up to our house and tried to take my bike where it was parked in the driveway. My mom saw him from the window, and she marched right outside with a spatula and told him to back the fuck off. I guess he was so surprised that he just ran away.”
Rory laughs, and it’s a soft sound. “I can see where you get your toughness from, then.”
I like to think that I got some of it from her, but Dad is—was—definitely a part of that too. Still, I don’t bring him up. I’m not ready to talk about him. This is more than I should be saying anyway, and I’m showing so much more vulnerability with Rory than I meant to.
“It’s just… it’s weird, you know?” I murmur, unable to help myself. “To know you’re never going to see someone again.”
I glance up at Rory, and he’s looking right back at me, something I’ve never quite seen before burning in his eyes. I scramble internally, trying to think of something to say to lift the mood or change the subject, but before my brain or my mouth can get very far, Rory leans in and kisses me.
I immediately stiffen a little, not sure what to do or how to react. My head spins with the question that won’t stop eating away at me.
Does he know what Sloan did?
He wasn’t there, but I have no idea if he was in on it or not. All of the guys have been acting like nothing happened, and it’s fucking impossible to tell who knows what. I should be shoving him away or at least making some excuse and getting him out of my room. It’s too uncertain, and I don’t want to be here, kissing someone who might have been part of my dad’s death.
But his lips are on mine, and we’ve done this enough times that kissing him is almost familiar by now. My body responds, no matter what kind of torment my mind is in. Maybe I just need the comfort and the connection.
It’s not a long kiss, and when we break apart, Rory’s gaze finds mine.
“I know what you mean,” he tells me. “It is weird. It’s awful, losing people you love. When Piper was born, I wished more than anything that my parents were still alive—that they could’ve met their granddaughter, and that she could’ve known them. But all I can do is try to be the best dad possible to her, and to show her the kind of love my folks raised me with.”
I lick my lips, still able to taste him on my skin. They feel bereft without the firm warmth of his mouth pressed against them, and I lean back a little in an effort to resist going in for another kiss.
“How do you reconcile your job with your kid?” I ask, my fingers twisting into a knot on my lap. “Those two halves of yourself—how do you make them fit together?”
A look of surprise passes over his face, but he doesn’t seem put off by the question. “I mean, I’m not going to sit here and say it’s easy. Piper’s my whole life, you know? And Jen… we were never really together, never really deeply in love or anything like that, but I care about her. She’s my friend and the mother of my daughter. She matters a lot. We’re doing this together, even if we’re not together, together. I know firsthand what it’s like to grow up without parents, and I don’t want Piper to ever have to feel like that, so I do as much as I can. And I keep all the gang shit away from her as much as I can. Jen, too. She doesn’t belong in that world. I’d do anything to keep them safe.”
There’s protectiveness in his voice, like he’s really serious that he’d do anything it took to protect Jen and Piper, to make sure nothing bad happens to them, and I like hearing it. The love and loyalty is so plain in the way he talks about them, like he really means it when he says his daughter is his whole world.
I remember seeing them together. The way Piper threw herself into Rory’s arms and how he scooped her right up and swung her around, laughing so happily. It was the sight of a dad who was genuinely glad to see his child.
It reminds me of my own dad in a way. How he always made sure I was his whole world, or at least that I felt that way.
Fuck. I really, really want to believe Rory doesn’t know anything about my dad.
I want to believe that someone with that much genuine care for other people wouldn’t be able to sit here with me and talk about dead parents and how much he cares about his own family with a straight face if he knew. I really fucking want to believe that I wasn’t that wrong about him.
He’s always been the one who’s the most laid-back and easygoing. The one with the quick smiles and teasing comments. He’s still part of a dangerous gang, and I know it’s dumb to think he’s never killed anyone before, but I just need to believe he’s not the kind of person who would go behind my back like that and then lie to my face.
At a loss for what to say or what else to do as emotions tangle almost painfully inside my chest, I close the distance between us once more and kiss him, putting one hand on his shoulder for balance.
I know I shouldn’t be doing this, but I can’t stop myself. I’m so fucking confused about what I should be feeling, and the part of me that’s still in shock and mourning my dad’s death is desperate for connection. For something to make me feel less alone. Less broken.
Rory doesn’t pull away. In fact, he puts his arms around me and draws me closer, making a soft, hungry noise against my mouth.
My eyes flutter closed, and I lean into it, moving with him, pressing my lips harder against his as if the contact between us will solve everything.
As if I’m searching for answers to all my questions in this one kiss.
3
I don’t find the solutions to my problems or my questions while I’m kissing Rory.
But still, as much as it probably shouldn’t, it eases something in my chest.
The fierce ache fades a little, until it no longer feels like my heart might simply stop beating, giving out under the weight of the grief I’m carrying. Rory’s lips move against mine, slow and unhurried, nothing like the way he kissed me when he pressed me up against the fridge the morning after I slept with Levi.
He knows I’m fucked up in the head, and he kisses me like he’s trying to remind me that he’s here—that I’m not as alone as I feel.
