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As with every time I see Nova, my first thought isshe’s so damn beautifulbefore my brain and mouth connect to form words. “Are you really that mad your Dad and I are friends?”
“Friends,” she grumbles.
“Yeah, Nova, friends. It happened gradually. He wanted to know me. He knew how you—” I bite my tongue, unsure if telling her everything is a good idea.
Nova’s head spins exorcist fast, and she jumps to her feet with such force the swing knocks the back of her thighs. “He knew how I what? How I nearly slept with you three days after leaving my fiancé at the altar? How I lost my virginity to you and you ghosted me? How I kept waiting and waiting for years. What does he know, Dev? What do you and my father say about me behind my back?”
“You think I’d tell him those things about us? Really?”
“How in the hell do I know what you’d do? I don’t even know you.” She throws her hands in the air, brushing past me.
I grab her wrist, her insults stoking my anger. “Lie to yourself about your feelings, Nova. Lie about me, but don’t dare say you don’t know me. I’m still the man I was in New Orleans. In Oregon. In your shiny little Audi.” I release her arm. “Deep down, I haven’t changed.”
Sniffing, Nova retreats, blinking away the sheen filling her eyes.
“Your dad is the reason I signed with TSG.” I might as well come clean. “My junior year at Cal State I was fielding inquiries, and I had no clue what to do. Willa called your dad, and he suggested, Brad. We never spoke with each other. I sent him an email thanking him for his help, and he offered assistance if I needed anything more. Out of respect for you, I never took him up on it.”
“So, you left me in the dark but communicated with my dad.”
“You know why I stayed away. I didn’t do it to hurt you.” A deep ache settles in her gaze, but she nods. “We never had a physical conversation until he called me the day after we returned from New Orleans. We met for a bite to eat and then stayed in touch. We didn’t talk about you, Nov. Not really. It was about me and baseball. I’m not going to lie to you. I’ve soaked it all up. Every conversation, every text. I’m a man abandoned by his father and living with a trauma so deeply etched in my soul, I can’t even remember the details. I needed him, and I’m not going to apologize to you for it.”
“He knows?” Her question is a quiet gasp. “About what happened? About Tara?”
“A bit of it, yes.” As mortifying as it was to open up to him, it was also somewhat freeing.
“Devin? Nova?” Mom’s voice travels from the back door beneath a pergola on their deck. “Dinner’s ready.”
“We’ll be right there,” I call.
With a far off look in her eyes, Nova’s focus remains beyond me. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have blown up like that.” The sun peeks through the branches, flickering across her face as she returns her gaze to me. “We’re trying to be friends, right?”
Sure. We can tell ourselves that.I nod.
“My dad is the first love of my life, Dev. He’s never failed to support me.” She tips her shoulder. “I’m glad he’s been that guy for you, too.”
“I’m sorry we didn’t tell you—”
Her fingers flutter as if to sweep away my sorry. “No, it’s not even my place to know. You were right. You have no reason to apologize.”
I look back toward the house over my shoulder. “We should go in, huh?”
“Yeah, go on. I’ll be in in a minute.”
thirty-eight | nova
Turningmy back to the house, I gasp for air, heat running up my spine and warming my neck as tears fight to fall. Devin needed my dad, and my dad was there. I didn’t think I could love Dad more, but knowing he’s been a voice in Devin’s life the last year, and even before…
“Oh, stop it,” I berate myself for the tears, swiping beneath my lashes. I can’t be mad or hurt or devastated by any of this. I just can’t.
How does Devin do this? How has he carried on a relationship with Palmer knowing what lingers between us? How can I continue dating Benito, a good man, a nice man? He’s just not Devin Hawthorne, and so help me, Dev owns me as much today as he did halfway through our two-thousand-mile road trip when I was eighteen.
Everyone has found their chairs, thanks to Mom’s handwritten pumpkin seat markers, by the time I make my way to the dining room. After stopping to press a kiss to Dad’s cheek and whispering, “I’m sorry,” in his ear, I take my place between Sharon and Crew. Devin sits across from us, deep in conversation with Myles about MIT. I guess they were introduced while I lingered outside pouting. After a moment, his eyes lift, and he offers a half-smile.
Once our plates are loaded with food and our mouths full, a lull descends on the room. There are moments of banter: the boys bring up football, Crew asks Devin for baseball tips, and Sharon asks Cora about her college choices, but for the most part, silverware clattering and compliments to the cook are the prominent dinner conversation.
“Is that…” Mom’s abnormally loud voice jolts me. “Devin, is that one of Nova’s drawings tattooed on your arm?”
Devin freezes in the act of passing the rolls to Crew, his arm stretched across the table and conveniently, or not so conveniently, in Mom’s eyeline. Necks crane and heads bob for a look at the tattoo previously hidden beneath his rolled shirt sleeve.
