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“Thank you.”
“Do you need, like, pickles and ice cream?”
A small smile curls the edge of my lips. “That’s for pregnant women, idiot.” I shift, adjusting the pillow under my back. “But I would like some tea,” I say in a small, helpless voice.
Another coughing fit muffles through Cindy’s door. He rolls his eyes. “Oh for the fuckin’ love o’ God. Fine. But only because I’m fixin’ to check on her anyway.”
I smile. “With honey,” I call after him.
His grumble floats in from the hall. I snuggle deeper into the pillows as he moves about the kitchen preparing my order. He sets the steaming mug on the coffee table and plops back down on the couch. With the pad warming my belly, I can finally unwind. I stretch my legs over his lap. He lifts his arms like a roller-coaster belt, then sets them back down as soon as I’m comfortable.
The crinkling of a wrapper perks my ears up like a puppy. I look over as Jace shoves a chocolate cookie into his mouth. “Are those Thin Mints?”
He elbows off my advance. “You got your tea. These are mine.”
“C’mon,” I beg.
“You’re so fuckin’ annoying,” he warbles around a minty mouthful, but he pulls two from the sleeve and hands them to me.
I nibble on my prize, then scrape the crumbs off my shirt. “In all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine,” I whisper along with Humphrey Bogart. “I love that line. It’s heartache personified.”
“So what is it with you and these shitty old movies, anyway?”
Listening to Sam tickle the ivories brings back some of the best memories of my life. Memories I hold dear, times I hold sacred. I fear that letting Jace in will only taint them. “You wouldn’t understand.”
He offers up two more cookies as a bargaining chip. “Try me.”
I take a sip of my tea and collect my thoughts. “When I was really little, Mom and I lived in this tiny motel off the side of the highway. It was one of those pay-by-the-day places with the doors on the outside, you know?”
“The kind meant for hookers and truckers?”
A small giggle floats off my tongue, but it’s more about his tone than the words. In reality, nothing is funny about it. Before we rubbed elbows with New York’s elite, we lived among thedregs of society. We ate canned ravioli and ramen noodles—anything that could be bought at the 7-Eleven down the road and microwaved in our room. Most people would have thrown in the towel, but not Sarah. We starved for her dreams.
“Yeah. Like that. The television reception was awful, but the classic movie channel came in crystal clear. So at night, I’d fall asleep to these old films while my mom traded stock on her old laptop.
“It’s funny,” I say with another humorless chuckle. “Out of all the fancy vacations and shopping trips and red carpet walks, cuddling up next to her under that threadbare comforter when we had nothing was probably the best time of my life.”
He rests his hand on my thigh. “I get it. It’s like that old truck. It’s dirty and burns gas like crazy, but my dad drove it that way, now so do I. Reliving these small moments is a way of making us feel closer to those we lost.”
My chest burns. “I didn’t realize the truck was your dad’s.”
“Yep. ‘Cept my memories are of huntin’ and fishin’; Dad teachin’ me how to maneuver the stick shift. Mama gives me shit for not goin’ to his grave, but to me that ain’t nothin’ but dirt.” He shakes his head, a puff of air escaping through his lips. “Inside the truck is where I feel him with me.”
“Jace,” I whisper.
“Don’t gimme that weepy look. Watch your dumb movie.”
He runs the back of his hand over his face, shaking away the emotion bubbling through the cracks in his hardened exterior. Our shared loss sits between us like a third party. I wish Jace would see that I’m not an enemy. I’m someone who knows how he feels. Someone who understands what it’s like to lose a person so important that it takes a piece of you with them when they go.
I didn’t know Jace before his father died, but something tells me he was a very different boy back then. He’s erected thesewalls around his heart for fear of letting anyone else break it, but by avoiding the bad, he’s also keeping out the good. He won’t allow anyone else to love him because he’s too afraid to love them in return.
I extend my hand, an olive branch reaching for his pain. “Will you lay with me?”
Conflict rolls across his gaze. He hesitates before sliding up behind me. I adjust my position to give him space, then melt into his warmth as soon as he’s settled. He awkwardly fumbles with where to put his hand. I gently bring it to my stomach, replacing the pad with the heat from his palm.
Another breath leaves my lips, this one a sigh of contentment. “Is this okay?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I murmur, but it’s more than okay. It’s perfect in every sense of the word. His heart beats against my back, his breath hot on my neck. Encased in him, I’m complete.
