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My dad smirks. “I didn't do anything.”
As they bicker back and forth, a knock at my door pulls my attention away. I get up and walk over to it, but when I open it, there's no one there. Instead, there is just a paper bag. My brows furrow as I glance down the hallway just in time to see Easton enter the stairwell. Grabbing the paper bag, I bring it inside.
“Who was that?” my mom questions.
“Easton,” I murmur as I start taking things out of the bag.
Each item has a little note attached to it, and every single word pulls at my emotions.
Gatorade—to keep you hydrated.
Tums—for when the baby gives you heartburn, or when I do.
Tissues—for when everything just becomes too much.
And lastly, a key—for if you ever need anything, no matter what time of day.
I hold the key to his house in the palm of my hand as my heart swells. Out of all of it, I think the thing that means the most was the selflessness. He didn't stay and try to talk to me. He didn't try to force what he has to say down my throat. He simply wanted me to have these things.
He's changing.
“Well?” My mom asks impatiently. “What is it?”
Tears stream down my face and I quickly swat them away. “Just a few things I needed. Can we talk about this later though? I've got to go.”
“What? You can't just drop a bomb like this on us and then say you have to go.”
My dad shakes his head. “She's a grown adult, Melissa. She can do whatever she wants.”
Mom sighs, and I give Dad a thankful smile. “I love you guys.”
“We love you, too,” they answer in unison.
As soon as I shut the computer, I sit down on my bed and stare at the key still firmly in my hand. I don't think I can find it in me to trust him again yet. The choices he made and the things he did are some that are the hardest to forgive. But if he keeps doing things like this, I can't say it won't happen eventually.
EVERY DAY CONTINUES THEsame way, with a knock three times the way Easton does, and a bag of something left at my door. Day two was a couple books by my favorite authors. On day three it was cold, and he dropped off a hoodie of his that I always stole whenever I was at his house. Day four, a fetal Doppler so I can listen to the baby's heartbeat on my own.
One thing I've noticed is that he always comes around the same time—6:15 p.m., when he knows I'll be home. On day five, I decide to stand near the door and wait for the knock. The second it sounds, I yank the door open just as he's putting the bag on the floor.
Easton's eyes meet mine and he picks the bag back up, handing it to me. “I figured with studying, you'd be hungry. Amelia said this is one of the only things you can hold down right now.”
I open the bag to find lasagna from an Italian place over by Tye and Carter's new house. I've been obsessed with it ever since the restaurant catered their housewarming party, and now it seems to be the only thing the baby wants.
“Thank you,” I tell him sincerely. “I'm actually starving, so this helps.”
He nods slowly. “Well, you should go eat while it’s hot. Do you need anything else?”
“No, but I appreciate it.”
Taking a step away, he stops and then turns around. I stay completely still as he comes closer and presses a soft kiss to my forehead. My eyes close as I feel his breath on my skin, and when he pulls away, he puts his hands in his pockets and walks down the hallway.
I'm so fucked.
TYE AND AMELIA WATCHin amusement as I throw my head back and groan. It's pretty much the only thing I've been doing since I got to work. It's like my brain is such a puddle of mush lately that I can't even formulate a complete thought, let alone make any sense.
“Why can't he let me be mad at him?” I whine. “Being mad at him was easier than this.”
Amelia chuckles. “First you're mad because he's doing everything wrong, and now you're mad because he's doing everything right. He deserves a medal for dealing with you.”
