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Chapter 14
Tate
“Sorry again, Geoff,” I sheepishly apologize into the phone, head rotating back and forth between watching the front door and Viva Las Vegas on our flatscreen. “You know I wouldn’t cancel if I didn’t have to.”
“I absolutely understand,” he instantly retorts, concern dripping in his tone. “Family emergencies are not something we predict. Do let me know if there is anything I can do you or for them.”
“I appreciate that.”
“I will call Nix now and let him know we will be postponing the paperwork a couple days. If there are any other interested buyers, I trust that he will find a clever way to deter them until we can officially sign.”
Sounds like the guy I went to high school with alright.
I’m not sure if he ever gave an English report the day he was assigned.
It was an impressive track record many of us admired.
“Thanks again, Geoff.”
He offers one more sentiment of understanding before hanging up. Afterward, I scroll through my texts hoping that Harper has sent another message, yet there’s nothing other than the one from Friday that basically told me she wouldn’t be coming home all weekend. I had someone pick up my shifts for the last two day in hopes that she was full of shite, but she wasn’t. I’ve been here binging on pizza and pints, policing the door like a bloody puppy in need of a petting, around the clock.
Not answering my messages is one thing.
Avoiding our home is infinitely worse.
And it is our home.
I bought those Dalvegan throw pillows we literally randomly throw at each for fun. And I was the one who picked out the new flowers for the garden. And we repainted the guest room together thanks to my cousins saying all the white made them feel like they were in a psych ward. These floors are cleaned by me, just like the laundry is typically done by her. This couch is where we nap to old movies.
Eat potato soap.
Shag like mad teens with a ridiculously early curfew.
Bloody hell, our lives are so intertwined it’s impossible to imagine ever living them separately again.
Fuck.
We are so intertwined I cannot picture us ever not being.
And that baby she’s carrying – blood fucking hell I hope she wasn’t bluffing – will only have us become intertwined in the permanent way I’ve been dying for since she looked in my eyes that first night she walked back into Arthur’s.
All of sudden, the sound of a vehicle pulling into the driveway, sparks a pounding in my chest. Causes the blood to rush to my ears. Ignites a throbbing I can barely hear anything over. I struggle to take the deep breath I know I need in order to articulate what it is I’m anxious to say.
Beauty of speaking three languages is there’s always one to win women over with while the curse is not communicating in all of them at once when you’re frustrated or livid.
When the front door opens, I immediately greet her with a warm and loving Irish welcome, “Maidin mhaith, álainn.”
As soon as she shuts the door, her stare relocates my direction, prompting me to scrabble out of my seat at the sight of tears staining her cheeks. Knocking her bag off her shoulder is thoughtlessly done in the collecting of her into my arms. In one single swoop, her legs are over my tattoos with her face buried in my chest. Sobs like I’ve never heard, like I’ve never wanted to hear pour from her trembling frame, shaking us both like the ground under our feet will never be sturdy again. Keeping her to me during our descent is difficult; however, I’m too determined to hold her to allow anything else to occur. The instant we’re securely on the couch, I clutch her to me tighter. Rest my cheek against the stop of her head. Hum Elvis tunes so that she knows she’s welcomed to cry without being badgered by questions yet supported by sounds she knows mean something to me.
It doesn’t matter that my gray t-shirt is becoming soaked or that I might have holes from where she’s latched on. Hell, it doesn’t even matter that she cries so long and so hard that she eventually falls asleep. The only thing that I care about is that she’s home.
That she’s in my arms.
That I have her.
Eventually, I stretch the two of us out on the couch, making sure to cover our frames with her favorite Dalvegan Dragon’s blanket. It used to be her grandfather’s. A Christmas gift from her grandmother in one of their final years. Over the months I’ve lived here, I notice it’s always the one she reaches for first. Doesn’t matter the emotion. Happy, sad, royally pissed at me. If we’re near this couch, it’s this blanket. It’s why I go out of my way to make sure it’s always clean, especially after a three-day stint.
I’m not sure how long we’ve been passed out when Harper begins stirring awake in my arms. It was nearing ten in the morning when she walked through the door but with the way the sun seems to be setting already, I could probably guess we slept through most of the day together.
