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“I called her tonight, and she didn’t answer. I called three times.”
“Maybe they went out?”
“With my stepfather? Doubtful. Now that he’s retired, he’s a homebody through and through.” He rolled his shoulders as if he were shaking off his tension. If only it were that easy. “I need to make sure she’s okay. If I don’t and something’s happened, I won’t be able to live with myself.”
“Okay.”
He cast her a sidelong glance, his surprise evident in the quirk of his mouth. “That’s all you have to say?”
Did he honestly expect her to argue with him? “Yeah. That’s it. You have to make sure she’s all right. You’re her son, and you love her.”
“Sometimes I don’t know why I do,” he muttered.
“Because she’s your mom. No matter what.”
He let out a breath, shaking his head. “Yeah. But if she’s okay, she’s not going to be glad to see me. You don’t need to be there for all that. You shouldn’t be.”
The pang in her stomach was just hunger pains. Sure it was. She hadn’t gotten dinner after all.
It wasn’t because he thought he needed to keep her at arm’s length, except when it came to sex. Even then he didn
’t believe he could be himself with her. Not for more than a few minutes at a time. Afterward he brought up his walls even thicker than before.
“I’m your friend. Friends are part of each other’s lives. Or at least they should be. If they aren’t, if you don’t want them to be, you might as well get a blow-up doll and stick it on your couch.”
His mouth curved for a moment. “Blow-up dolls are less trouble. No arguments there.”
“Is that all you want? Less trouble? An easier life?”
He glanced at her, his eyes so dark in the faint glow from passing streetlights that they might as well have been sinkholes. Resistant to light, refusing to let any back out. “You know it’s not.”
She wished she had the nerve to rip into him for always assuming the worst, both with her and apparently with his mother, but the guy was clearly hurting. She didn’t want to cause him any more grief—she wanted to alleviate it.
If he pushed her away, she’d have to prove to him she would stick around this time. Not like in college when she’d been so eager to lace up her own running shoes.
She’d changed a lot since then, and even if this didn’t turn out to be the love affair of the century, she’d be his friend. No matter what.
She reached across the console and touched his wrist just beyond the sleeve of his jacket. He whipped his gaze to hers, and she held her own steady. “Our deal was we’d spend Thanksgiving together. It’s not over yet.”
But when it was, would they be too?
Trying to ignore the bubbles of fear brewing in his gut, Justin strode up the walk to his mom’s home. The difference tonight was that he was cognizant of every step Kylie took beside him.
They hadn’t spoken for the last few miles, and he figured that was probably a good thing. His tendency for making things worse every time he opened his mouth didn’t bode well for heartfelt chats. At least not tonight.
Maybe not ever.
His mother’s house—not his parents’, since he’d never think of that bastard as his father—sprawled out like a well-lit haven in the dark. Warm. Inviting.
Fake.
He tucked his bare fingers in the pockets of his jeans as he hurried up the snow-encrusted steps to the front stoop. It seemed like every damn light in the place was on. They’d already decorated for Christmas, and old-fashioned, multicolored bulbs encircled the railings. A real fir wreath with a big velvet bow hung on the door.
Hell, it was practically the perfect scene for the Cleaver Christmas version 2.0. Which would’ve been fine, had he trusted any of it to be real.
He didn’t.
All the shrinks in the world could tell him his stepfather was “cured,” and he wouldn’t believe it. As far as Justin was concerned, the man was a ticking bomb, apt to explode at any time.
