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“What happened to controlling only what we can?”
“You can control your safety, Fiona. You’re the only one who really can.” Bringing her hand to her chest, she presses down over her heart, her breathing growing ragged as she gets sleepy. It’s time for her late morning nap, and her body just knows. “I won’t be around much longer, Fiona. I just want to make sure you can take care of yourself.”
My nose burns, fire cascading down my throat at her words. “I’m not ready to stop taking care of you.”
She squeezes my knee. “I know, my sweet girl. You’ve been such a ray of sunshine for me the last few years, and I don’t think there’s anything I could ever do to repay you. But I can’t keep on like this. My body is tired of fighting.”
I take her hand and bring it to my cheek, letting her palm cool my heated flesh. The question is unspoken between us, my presence at her demise a coin toss. One where you lose either way it lands.
An itch forms behind my left ear, and I scratch at it furiously, achieving no relief.
I don’t want to say yes. Don’t want to acquiesce my mother’s existence on this planet. My heart is selfish and wants her to stay, but as I watch her grow more exhausted and incapable with each passing day, I can’t find it in me to ask her to try.
To hold on, just for me, when I’m not the one in pain.
So, even though the second my mouth opens, tears well up behind my eyes and spill over onto her bed, I nod slightly.
She reaches out, pulling me into her chest; I curl up under her chin and hold her cold hand, the anxiety in my body lessening as our hearts beat in a syncopated rhythm, relaxation settling in despite the chilled air settling around us.
Later, I pull into the church parking lot, scanning the area for my brother’s girlfriend Juliet—a friendly face, even if we haven’t actually spent that much time together.
Frankly, she’s usually too busy hopping on Kieran’s dick when she’s around, so I don’t even see much of her.
But I’d recognize her signature golden hair anywhere; as I step out and start walking toward the St. Francis Cathedral, I spot her near the tall doors at the front of the stone church, talking to a brunette who keeps stealing sips from a tiny flask.
Straightening my shoulders, I head their way, deterred only when a hand clamps down around my wrist, halting me. I whip around, my fist raised to fend off the attacker, and the breath whooshes from my lungs.
Boyd stands there, so close I can taste the alluring cologne he has on, a navy suit stretched across his tattooed body. He looks downright delicious, a tall glass of water that any other time I’d be excited to gulp down, but irritation spikes instead, reminding me of how he dismissed me at his house.
How I’m supposed to be done with him.
There’s a purple spot above his eyebrow, half bruise and half gash, the skin sewn together with little red stitches, and I struggle to remember if he had it the other night.
What demons are you fighting, Boyd Kelly?
My core pulses at the sight of him, at our proximity, but I clench my thighs to make it go away. “What are you doing here?”
He shrugs. “Same as you, I assume. Didn’t know you were gonna be here, though.”
“Would it have kept you away if you did?”
“Why would I ever want to be somewhere you’re not?”
Knots form in my stomach at his words, waves of conflict rippling through them. Gritting my teeth, I yank my hand from his and cut the sound on the comms unit in my ear, wishing mine had a microphone so I could tell my brother what I think about him right now.
“You have a hilarious way of showing you want to be around me,” I snap, turning away.
Catching up easily, his long legs eating twice the distance mine do, Boyd nudges me with his shoulder. “I’m sorry about the other night, Fiona. It’s just, there’s a lot going on—”
“That I don’t know about, yeah. I get it. Really. And it’s fine. If you don’t want to tell me, you don’t have to, but don’t come around here pretending you give a shit about me if that’s the case.”
Gripping my bicep, he stops me again, glaring. There’s heat in his eyes—anger and arousal intertwining until I can’t separate the two, and it makes my core clench around nothing, aching for him.
“I do want to tell you,” he rasps.
“Then do it! Prove that to me. You told me I’m yours, make me fucking believe it.” I swallow, licking my lips; his hazel gaze latches onto the movement, jaw flexing as he stares.
“Tell me about your sister, Boyd. Or your real mother. Give me something more than a slightly embarrassing hobby and the fact that you went to therapy as a kid—newsflash, everyone tries therapy at least once.”
