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Time moves at a snail’s pace before Devin murmurs, “Okay.” And then his heat is gone, a rush of cold settling in my bones.
Devin’s making his second cup of coffee, third if I count the one he drank before I arrived, and the girls are finishing eating when Archer and Willa finally make their appearance—suitably shocked to find me in their kitchen. I lean back in my chair at the table, alternating bouncing Briar on my knees and letting her down to run and play as they eat and pepper Devin with questions about the Sharks and Miami.
There are a few times when they ask something that his gaze slides my way, and he’s careful with his replies. I’m not sure if he’s trying to keep things from me or uncomfortable with answering, but I use that as my excuse to head out.
“I’m gonna go. I know you guys have a flight to catch in a few hours and—”
“What? No.” Willa reaches across the table and grabs my hand. “Stay. We’ve barely talked since you moved.”
“We’ll talk soon. I don’t want to take away from your time with Dev.”
Though Willa pouts as she grapples for a reason to keep me here, Devin stands. “I’ll walk you out.”
It’s not like I expected him to argue or wanted him to, but his easy agreement surprises me. Giving the girls, then Archer, and Willa hugs and kisses, I promise to see them soon.
Devin shoves his hands in his jeans pockets as we walk to Dad’s Range Rover. “I talked to my mom, and she’s calling yours about dinner tomorrow. I know you said we should come but are you sure? I’d understand if you’d rather we didn’t.”
On the flight I agreed we could be cordial. Uninviting him and Sharon for Thanksgiving negates that. Not that I actually want to. There’s a piece of me that was happy my mom extended the invitation. As hard as it is to be around Devin, I also can’t get enough. It’s a sort of bittersweet torture. And besides, between the buffer of my family and his mom, we shouldn’t have a problem getting through the day.
“I wouldn’t have agreed with the invitation if we didn’t want you two there. Plus, you can meet Myles since he’s driving home from school today.”
The locks beep as we near the vehicle, and Devin steps in front of me, opening the driver’s side door. “Okay, as long as you’re sure.” I nod and hoist myself into the seat. “I’m glad you came today, Nova.”
“Well, thank you for trusting me with such classified information. The pancakes were delicious. Sweet, but good.”
Propping his arm on the door frame, he leans into the opening, his tattoo—my tattoo—in my face. “Sugar was one of the main food groups for two kids with an exhausted single mom.”
So different from my household, where Mom researched everything and worried over our health.
“Okay…well…” Devin looks at the neighbor’s house, then back.
“Yeah.” I mutter, making no sense.
“See you tomorrow.” He steps back and closes my door as I start the engine.
Moving to shift the car intoDrive, I reach for the window button instead, rolling it down. “Hey, Dev? When did you get it? The tattoo.”
He pauses and runs a hand down his forearm, almost on instinct, glancing down before meeting my eyes. “After New Year’s. After I knew I lost you.”
thirty-seven | devin
Parking Mom’scrossover in front of the Pratt’s house, I rub my palms on my pant legs. Why did I have to answer Nova with the truth? She said nothing, only the beat of silence and tension between us as our stares clung, before driving off. And nothing has been said since.
I jog around to Mom’s side.This will be fine.
“Are you sure you’re up for this?” Mom hands me one of the pies balancing on her lap when I open her car door.
“We’ve been through this. We’re just friends.”
She gives me the hairy eyeball, and I turn for the house. “Devin.” Mom hooks my elbow.
“Mom. Please, don’t do this. I’m making peace with things.” We had a lot of talks yesterday while doing some pre-Christmas shopping and baking pies. We discussed Palmer and Nova, my ongoing therapy sessions—
“I’m not talking about Nova, honey. I’m talking about the stuff with Tara.”
My confidence wavers, my spine rigid. “Yeah.” I run my tongue over my bottom lip. “Yeah, I’m good. This will be good for us. Being with people who care instead of sitting at home.”
Yesterday, the day before Thanksgiving of all days, Mom received a call letting her know Tara may be released from her mental facility in the next few months. Since the afternoon I walked out of the Salem Police Department five years ago, I’ve asked Mom to keep me out of the loop when it came to Tara and her criminal case. My therapist said I was avoiding the truth—and I was—but more than that, it was my need to move on. To not be defined as a victim. Damian was the victim who paid with his life. I’m a man who has vague memories of distressing situations and an issue with intimacy. I’ll be okay. I can move on in a way Damian was denied.
