“Honestly, I care about what you think. Not them.” I take a deep breath and continue. “I know I could apply for spring intake, but I’m not ready. I need to be ready first, Mom.”
“Grace.” Her voice is stern, her expression stubborn. “You can’t be serious—”
“Mom, please. My choice, remember?”
Her expression clears, and she nods. “Next fall. What are you going to do in the meantime?”
“Open a lemonade stand and advertise the hell out of it,” I joke.
My mom laughs. “Remember that time when you were six and you insisted on making your own lemonade the way Regina taught you, then sold it to everyone on the block?”
“I was good, wasn’t I?” I laugh, remembering how young and optimistic I was.
“You had a good marketing strategy, and it helped a lot. Plus, your cute little face and adorable eyes won everyone over.”
Silence falls around us as we think about the past. I remember how much I enjoyed coming up with the plan to sell the lemonade. Maybe there’s something to this memory after all.
I tuck my legs under me. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Just tired.” Her forehead creases, and she seems troubled. But I know my mom. She won’t discuss whatever is bothering her until she’s ready. We are very similar in that way. “Nothing a good night’s sleep can’t cure.”
We stare at each other for a few moments: me, weighing the truth behind those words. Her . . . well, she’s just assessing me. I can’t crack that look on her face, and it makes me nervous.
Her next words stop me short, the disappointment in her features making me panic. “I saw you and Sol out the window. He’s leaving, Grace. How are you two going to walk away from this when he leaves?”
My mind is in chaos as I scramble to find a viable explanation, but all I can come up with is, “Are you spying on me now?”
She stares at me, chin raised, lips flat in an unyielding line of disapproval.
“I just . . . I really enjoy spending time with him.”
“Did you have sex with him?”
“What? No!” I groan under my breath, heat splashing across my cheeks. “We’re just hanging out. I promise.”
She nods and then tries to cover the lingering doubt with a frown. “Sex is, um, it’s just one of those things that is special, you know. You have the power to decide who you give yourself to. You need to be sure.”
“I know, Mom. Jeez. I’m not going to have sex with him, okay?”
She sighs wearily, rubbing her hands down her face. After a deep inhale, she stands up and heads for the TV console. “Hey, want to watch One Tree Hill? I really want to know what happened after Nathan and Lucas fought.”
I grin wide and nod, appreciating her peace offering. Of course, I know what happened after the fight between Lucas and Nathan. I’ve watched every episode of OTH more times than I can count, but for her sake, I let her believe I’m eager to see what happens too.
We settle on the couch to watch, but my mind, my body, my thoughts, every single part of me tingles at the memory of Sol’s hands and mouth on me.
But mostly Sol’s words.
I love you.
The week goes by quickly, and before I know it, it’s already Thursday. Sol and I haven’t seen each other as much as I would have liked. In fact, it seems as though we’ve hardly seen each other at all. I text him, and he texts back, but he seems distracted. His responses are made up of a maximum of five words. I wonder if I’m being too needy, and old insecurities begin to resurface.
Maybe now that he’s had the time to think about what I said, I’ve scared him away? Or maybe he realized what he said and is giving me an out. If I were in his shoes, I’d probably be freaking out, too. Sol and I are just two hearts gravitating toward each other, regardless of the odds stacked against us.
Ugh.
I’m driving myself crazy. I hate feeling like this, which is the reason why I avoided getting involved with anyone after Gavin.
I sigh, shaking my head to disperse those thoughts, and concentrate on finishing serving breakfast at the diner.
At eleven o’clock, I hang up my apron and then drive to St. Peter’s Church for my weekly confession. This has always been my little ritual on Thursdays, a source of comfort.
MJ and I planned to hang out at her place later today. I figured since I was trying to put myself out there and make friends, spending more time together and getting to know one another would be a good place to start.
I’m sitting in the third row of the church, trying to untangle the chaos in my head. I don’t know what I’m feeling right now. It’s not love. It’s more than that.
More lethal. Potent.
It flows through my veins, infecting my blood with its poison. I’m not even sure how I’m still breathing. I should be dead. Instead, I’m sitting here, looking over my shoulder at the main entrance every few seconds like a forlorn lover waiting for her love to return home from war. The worst thing is, the antidote for this poison is the one person I shouldn’t be fantasizing about. The person I shouldn’t pin my hopes on because he will never be mine, but my heart, my stupid, desperate heart is already invested in him. Building castles in the air and dreaming of happily ever afters.
I force my gaze back to the front and stare ahead at the altar, waiting for confession to start. Something bumps my thigh. The scent of motor oil and cologne slams into me. My head whips up, and I come face-to-face with Sol’s blue eyes.
“Hey,” I whisper. After a few minutes of simply staring at each other, butterflies take flight in my stomach.
“Hey you.” His mouth tips up at the side, my favorite smirk making an appearance, but it’s shadowed by apprehension. Is he nervous?
God, he looks so hot. I’ve missed that beautiful face of his.
“You lining up for confession too?” I ask, hoping my face hides what my heart is feeling. I don’t want to get my hopes up again, only to have him disappear like he did the past few days.
He shakes his head, his eyes darting around us before returning to me. His leg is bouncing, and his finger taps a frantic beat on the pew in front of us. “Can we talk?”
“Now?”
“Yes? Look, I know I’ve been an ass the past weeks—”
I laugh and shake my head as if it was nothing. “You don’t owe me anything, Sol.”
“Yes. Yes, I do.” He drags his fingers through his hair. “Come on. Please? Just five minutes.”
“Fine.” I stand, pressing my palms down my black and white plaid dress to stop them from shaking. I’m dying to touch him.
He nods. “This way.” He grasps my bicep and tugs me to the side, then all of a sudden, he changes direction and heads for the confessional booth.
“What are you doing?” I whisper in panic.
I catch a glimpse of Mrs. Grinsberg’s white head bowed—one of the church patrons—clutching a rosary in her knobby hands. Three other patrons are sitting nearby—one sitting in the front row, and the other two sitting several rows behind.
He tosses me a look I can only describe as roguish before reaching the confessional door, opening it, and shoving me inside. He looks around the church one more time before joining me, squeezing his large frame into the small space.