“I just want to be able to see you,” he says. “Any time I want. And maybe it’s selfish of me, but I don’t want to drive through Rixton Falls on my way home every night and know that you’re a few miles away and completely inaccessible to me.”
I move toward him, placing my palm against his chest.
“I’ll come to you,” I say. “We’ll meet at your place.”
There’s a hint of relief in his softened stare, and he runs his hands through his messy locks. There must be leftover product in them, because they stay where he leaves them. No wonder his hair always smells amazing.
I smirk at the idea of Royal primping and preening in front of a mirror every day. He always was a pretty boy. Pretty eyes and a pretty smile to contrast with his masculine, chiseled features.
“Your parents aren’t going to like this, you know,” he says. “You running off every night to be with me.”
“Yeah, well. I’m not seventeen anymore,” I say. “They can’t tell me who to be with.”
“So you’re with me?” The left corner of his mouth rises until a dimple centers his cheek.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
“Then what was last night?”
“Last night was just . . . sex.”
“I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about what you said.”
“Oh?” I hide my smile with my coffee mug. Heat sears my cheeks when I think about how I told him I loved him last night. I’d wanted to say that to him since the second I saw him again last week. But I also wanted to slap him that night too. I’m a confused girl, and I’m going through a lot, so I can’t be held responsible for the crazy shit that falls out of my mouth half the time.
“You said you loved me.” He sips his coffee. “Did you mean it?”
I exhale, staring out the kitchen window above the sink behind him.
“I’m always going to love you, Royal,” I say with a sigh. “When I’m ninety years old, on my death bed and looking back on my life, you’re probably going to be in the forefront of my mind. You have this permanent place in my heart, and I can’t shake the feelings I have for you no matter what I do.”
He studies me, listening to my words with devastating intensity, like his life depends on them.
“And I’ve enjoyed these last two weeks with you,” I say. “Despite everything that’s going on right now, you’ve been this unexpected rock for me, and I appreciate it. And I love the way you make me forget about everything, even if it’s temporary. But if you take away all of that, you and I are still a couple of strangers who loved each other once upon a time.”
He blows a held breath and glances away.
“So no, Royal. I’m not with you. And I’m not going to move in with you. But I do want to keep seeing you,” I say carefully. “I have a lot of hurt. A lot of questions. And I have a lot of healing to do yet. And looking at you, I think you do too.”
Our eyes meet, and my hand runs down his rippled abs until it finds his. He takes mine, threading our fingers.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says. “I want you to know that. I’m never leaving you again. Not unless you want me to. And when you’re ninety years old, lying on your deathbed, I don’t want you thinking about what we once had when we were kids. I want you to think about the beautiful life we had together. Because I want that with you. I want us to spend our whole lives together. I can’t imagine being with anyone else but you, Demi. And if you decide I’m not what you want, if we go our separate ways, even if I find someone else someday, you should know that I’ll never love her half as much as I love you.”
“Royal.” My hand lifts to my chest. No one’s ever loved me the way he has, and I don’t think anyone ever will.
“Fine,” he says. “You’re not mine now. You’re not with me now. But someday you will be. And I’ll wait, because you’re worth waiting for.”
He leans down, kissing the top of my head, and I burrow into the crook of his warm, bare shoulder.
“You really love me, don’t you?” I ask.
“You’re the only thing I’ve ever loved.”
Thirty-Eight
Demi
* * *
Mom’s rolled sleeves are covered in flour dust as she rolls a piecrust on the kitchen island Thanksgiving morning.
“Look who’s up,” Daphne teases, peeling and slicing apples by the sink. She got in from Paris a couple of days ago, and I’ve been spending as much time with her as I can, balancing my nightly visits with Royal with catching her up to speed.
Daphne confided in me last night about her French lover. He was almost twice her age, and Mom and Dad would flip if they knew. Although she only spent a semester away, it’s like she came back years older and wiser, and she wants to go back for another semester. Her lover has the hookup for a graduate residency at a centuries-old art museum in the south of France, but I have a hunch she mostly wants to go back to see him.
My sister was surprisingly unfazed by and at the same time supportive of the Royal reunion, and she wants to see him before she goes back to school after break.
“Late night?” Daphne winks when Mom’s not looking, and I lift my fingers to my lips to shush her. It feels like we’re back in high school again. It always somehow seemed like Daphne was the one covering for me when I’d sneak downstairs into Royal’s room at night.
I’m twenty-five, and they can’t control who I spend my time with, but I don’t think they’d appreciate me sneaking in the house at one in the morning most nights. And no matter my age, they can always pull the “my house, my rules” card, and there wouldn’t be a damn thing I could do about it.
“Demi, sweetheart, why don’t you roll up your sleeves and start peeling potatoes?” Mom asks. “I’ve got a five pound bag over there. Peeler’s in the top drawer.”
I get to work, my heart racing in my ear when I think about dropping the news on them.
I’m not staying here for Thanksgiving dinner today.
It’ll be my first Thanksgiving without my family. Ever. And I don’t know how they’re going to take it, especially with Daphne being home from Paris for the first time in months.
Biting my lip, I drag in a slow breath and clear my throat. “I’ll help you cook today, Mom, but I won’t be staying for dinner.”
Daphne drops an unpeeled apple, brushing a wave of blonde hair from her frozen face, and Mom turns to face me.
“Since Royal’s not welcome here, I’ll be spending Thanksgiving at his mother’s house.” The collective weight of their stares prevents me from speaking another word. I need a reaction. I need to know how upset they are with me.
“His mother?” Mom asks. “Is he in touch with her?”
Her curiosity and the fact that she didn’t sweep any mention of Royal under the rug makes me hopeful. She always did have a soft spot for him.
“They reconnected.” I clear my throat. “She was there for him when no one else was.”
Mom returns to her piecrust and Daphne picks up the slick, naked apple and slices it into thin strips.