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I’m not good enough at hiding the emotion behind the word because she suddenly spins toward me, golden hair rioting over her shoulders and around her breasts. She’s so beautiful, so fucking perfect and not mine, that I flinch.
“Lucas,” she starts.
I hold up a hand and look away, unable to stand the apology in her eyes. “Don’t. It’s okay. We both know that was a long time coming. It doesn’t have to be more than an itch we scratched.”
I think I’m giving her an out—doing the right thing—but instead, she flinches.
That tidal wave rises again, but instead of promising bliss, it’s poised to deliver extinction.
“Celeste—”
“No, you’re right.” She smiles, brave and false. “That was great.” She gives a little laugh. “Thanks.”
I almost throw up in my mouth. Before I can think of something to say to fix this, she lurches off the bed, grabs her clothes, and disappears into the bathroom.
I’m still sitting on the bed, elbows on my knees, head in my hands, the scent of us all around me, when the door opens and she reappears fully clothed.
She breaks the strained silence. “I’m sorry I can’t…” Her voice trails off, but the intended continuation of her thought floats between us for a moment before falling like lead to the floor.
Be what you want.
Love you back.
And I realize with a sucking, sinking feeling that she heard the words that escaped as I climaxed inside her.
Three damning words.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, and then she’s gone.
28
“Mom? Are you okay?”
I close the photo album in my lap and hurriedly wipe my wet cheeks. “Y-yes. Fine. Hungry for lunch?”
My son’s eyes narrow, a familiar expression of exasperation on his face. Sighing, he crosses my bedroom to plop onto the edge of my bed.
“You’re such a bad liar.” His gaze falls to the album still perched on my knees. “Dad?”
Before I can respond, he grabs the album and opens it. Frozen, I can only watch as he flips through the pages, his eyes reflecting first surprise, then curiosity. The ancient plastic sleeves crinkle under his fingers as he takes in the series of photos I haven’t looked at since before he was born.
“He seems like a nice guy,” Damien says at last, lingering over a photo of Lucas and me sitting at the edge of my parents’ roof. We’re grinning, a bright orange sky behind us. My mom had taken the photo.
“You guys were super close.” Damien’s eyes meet mine. “What happened? Did you and Dad have a fight with him or something?”
I clear my throat, wishing I could sink into the mattress and disappear. “Nothing like that. We just grew apart, and when your dad died, Lucas, uh… it was hard for him to see me. Us.”
Damien’s gaze shifts to another photo. Lucas at sixteen, sitting on a crowded couch at a house party, a plastic cup balanced on his knee. His hair was longer then, flopping into his eyes. He’s not quite smiling in the shot, but there’s a soft look in his eyes as he stares straight at the camera.
At me.
“You know I’m not stupid, right, Mom?” asks Damien softly.
I blink at him, my throat squeezing as my stomach drops. “Of course I know that! What are you talking about?”
My son. My beautiful, smart-as-hell son, watches me with his father’s dark eyes. I brace myself for his condemnation, but he only sighs and closes the album. Standing, he walks toward the door.
A million words press to my teeth, but none emerge.
