A giggle bubbles out of me. “You made up for it the second and third.”
“Yeah?” he asks, his cheeks darkening with his blush. “I hope so.”
“You did. Trust me.”
He moans from deep in his throat and places his hand on my waist, drawing me closer to him until our bare chests meet. His mouth connects with my neck and moves down to my collarbone. “This is going to sound so weird,” he mumbles, lifting his gaze a little. “I really wish I had people around to show you off to.”
“Like a prize?”
He nods through a laugh and holds me tighter. “Exactly like a prize.”
“What would you say?”
“I don’t know.” He moves back slightly and rests his head on my pillow. “I’d probably just shout that this really hot girl let me have sex with her.”
I shake my head. “You’re such a dork.”
“I’m kidding.” He rolls over onto his back and holds his arm out, indicating for me to rest my head on it—which I do. “You know there’s never been a time since my parents disowned me that I’d ever wished it were different. I never wanted them to change their minds or to come knocking on my door begging for forgiveness. But right now, I wish it were different.”
I lace my fingers with his and kiss his hand. “Why?”
“Because I’d want them to meet you. I’d want them to know that even though I’ve made mistakes in the past, that I’m still loveable. That if you can find a way to care about me—then they should be able to, too.” His voice cracks and after clearing his throat he adds, “It’s not just that, though. I think they’d really like you, Becca.”
“Yeah?” I ask, unable to control my smile. “You don’t talk about them often.”
“I don’t really have anything to say.”
“But you have to be mad at them, or at least like—”
“I was,” he admits. “I used to be really angry and bitter and when that faded, I was just confused. It’s not like I came from a bad family. They were both active in my life. They supported my skating, encouraged it even. I don’t know… it’s like out of all the things I could do to fuck up; getting a girl pregnant was where they drew the line. The point of no return, you know? Yeah, they went to church and it was against their beliefs, but really? To not even try? It doesn’t make sense. And it’s not like they sat down and tried to talk to me about it, they just shut me out completely. The worst part is I still see her—my mom. I see her around town and at the store or whatever and she looks at me like I’m some kind of disease. I mean, I get that she’s disappointed and hates me… but her own grandson? She won’t even look at him. I doubt she’d even know his name, and if she does, she didn’t hear it from me. She won’t look at Tommy. Won’t even acknowledge his existence. Who does that, Becca? Who the hell can turn away their own grandchild?”
The same ones who turn away their own children, I want to tell him. But I don’t. Instead I say, “I’m sorry.”
He shrugs, but his mind’s elsewhere.
“What’s your dad like?”
“He’s… proud, I guess.”
“Of you?”
“No. Of himself and his life. He was a good dad, don’t get me wrong, but he’s always been stubborn and hated being wrong. Like, my uncle Robby and he are stepbrothers. My grandma remarried and treated Robby like her own. Robby’s dad was successful and came from a line of wealth. That’s where Robby got the funding to start his business. But my dad? He won’t take a cent of it. Even when dad went to college and it was all set up and paid for, he worked to pay it back as soon as possible. He’d never pay for anyone to come to the house to fix things—he’d always spend hours on weekends trying to do it himself. Even though there was trust fund money for dad, he wouldn’t touch it… as if it was dirty money or something.” He shrugs. “I don’t know. He’s just stubborn and stupid.”
“Do you miss them at all?”
“It’s kind of irrelevant, right?” he says, kissing the tip of my nose. “It won’t change anything.”
I wake up before he does and I watch him sleep. With his eyes closed and his mouth parted slightly—his bottom lip quivering with each exhale of breath—I’ve never seen him so at peace, and even though the permanent lines between his eyebrows can’t hide the constant worry that falls on his shoulders—he’s never looked so weightless before. When every single part of me aches to kiss him, I creep to the bathroom, brush my teeth, and then silently sneak back in his arms. “Wake up,” I whisper, lightly kissing his bottom lip. His mouth forms into a smile against mine—his hand finding my waist and gently pulling me to him. One eye opens and then closes quickly. He groans quietly—his voice hoarse from sleep, and rests his head on my chest. Holding me tighter, he mumbles, “Please tell me this isn’t a dream.”
I run my fingers through his hair. “It’s not a dream, baby.”
“Sure?”
“Positive.”
He’s silent a moment, and just when I’d assumed he’s fallen asleep, he mumbles, “Good, because I have to tell you something…”
“Yeah?”
“Yep.” He moves up a little and presses his lips to my bare shoulder. “I’m kind of crazy in love with you, Becca.” Then he jumps out of bed before I can respond. “And I need to go potty.”
“What kind of jerk declares their love for someone and then announces a potty break!” He just laughs as he closes the bathroom door behind him, all while I sit there, my heart pounding and my emotions forming a puddle in the pit of my stomach. I open my mouth, the words I love you too on the tip of my tongue.
I wait for minutes that feel like hours and when he finally reemerges from the bathroom—his hair and lips wet and his entire body still drunk from sleep—I sit up and pull the covers over my bare chest.
He smirks, his eyes focused on mine and I self-consciously tighten my hold on the sheets. “So…” I say, shrinking under his gaze. “Did you want to order breakfast… or…”
He settles his palms flat on the bed, his arms outstretched as he leans forward, his face less than an inch from mine. The muscles in his forearms and shoulders flex with his movements—movements that intimidate me and cause my breath to catch. “Or…” he answers, taking my bottom lip between his. He pulls back slightly. “Definitely ‘or.’”
We “or”ed until we we’re forced to stop and when we’re satisfied, he holds me to him, his thumb grazing up and down my arm. “When I was a kid,” he says, pausing to kiss the top of my head, “my dad made me this skate grind rail. I had no idea he was doing it but the look on his face when he saw my face was just… it’s how I try to remember him, you know? Anyway, that weekend Hunter came around and we spent every second messing around on it. His dad kept calling on the Sunday afternoon telling him he had to go home. I stayed out there until my mom made me go inside for dinner. I couldn’t sleep that night. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. And I hated that I had to go to school the next day and be away from it. I remember thinking that I wished I lived two lives. The skating and the reality, and I wished I could live them both at the same time. I hated school for so many reasons but mainly because it took me away from something that made me so happy… something I loved.
“Yeah?” he asks, his cheeks darkening with his blush. “I hope so.”
“You did. Trust me.”
He moans from deep in his throat and places his hand on my waist, drawing me closer to him until our bare chests meet. His mouth connects with my neck and moves down to my collarbone. “This is going to sound so weird,” he mumbles, lifting his gaze a little. “I really wish I had people around to show you off to.”
“Like a prize?”
He nods through a laugh and holds me tighter. “Exactly like a prize.”
“What would you say?”
“I don’t know.” He moves back slightly and rests his head on my pillow. “I’d probably just shout that this really hot girl let me have sex with her.”
I shake my head. “You’re such a dork.”
“I’m kidding.” He rolls over onto his back and holds his arm out, indicating for me to rest my head on it—which I do. “You know there’s never been a time since my parents disowned me that I’d ever wished it were different. I never wanted them to change their minds or to come knocking on my door begging for forgiveness. But right now, I wish it were different.”
I lace my fingers with his and kiss his hand. “Why?”
“Because I’d want them to meet you. I’d want them to know that even though I’ve made mistakes in the past, that I’m still loveable. That if you can find a way to care about me—then they should be able to, too.” His voice cracks and after clearing his throat he adds, “It’s not just that, though. I think they’d really like you, Becca.”
“Yeah?” I ask, unable to control my smile. “You don’t talk about them often.”
“I don’t really have anything to say.”
“But you have to be mad at them, or at least like—”
“I was,” he admits. “I used to be really angry and bitter and when that faded, I was just confused. It’s not like I came from a bad family. They were both active in my life. They supported my skating, encouraged it even. I don’t know… it’s like out of all the things I could do to fuck up; getting a girl pregnant was where they drew the line. The point of no return, you know? Yeah, they went to church and it was against their beliefs, but really? To not even try? It doesn’t make sense. And it’s not like they sat down and tried to talk to me about it, they just shut me out completely. The worst part is I still see her—my mom. I see her around town and at the store or whatever and she looks at me like I’m some kind of disease. I mean, I get that she’s disappointed and hates me… but her own grandson? She won’t even look at him. I doubt she’d even know his name, and if she does, she didn’t hear it from me. She won’t look at Tommy. Won’t even acknowledge his existence. Who does that, Becca? Who the hell can turn away their own grandchild?”
The same ones who turn away their own children, I want to tell him. But I don’t. Instead I say, “I’m sorry.”
He shrugs, but his mind’s elsewhere.
“What’s your dad like?”
“He’s… proud, I guess.”
“Of you?”
“No. Of himself and his life. He was a good dad, don’t get me wrong, but he’s always been stubborn and hated being wrong. Like, my uncle Robby and he are stepbrothers. My grandma remarried and treated Robby like her own. Robby’s dad was successful and came from a line of wealth. That’s where Robby got the funding to start his business. But my dad? He won’t take a cent of it. Even when dad went to college and it was all set up and paid for, he worked to pay it back as soon as possible. He’d never pay for anyone to come to the house to fix things—he’d always spend hours on weekends trying to do it himself. Even though there was trust fund money for dad, he wouldn’t touch it… as if it was dirty money or something.” He shrugs. “I don’t know. He’s just stubborn and stupid.”
“Do you miss them at all?”
“It’s kind of irrelevant, right?” he says, kissing the tip of my nose. “It won’t change anything.”
I wake up before he does and I watch him sleep. With his eyes closed and his mouth parted slightly—his bottom lip quivering with each exhale of breath—I’ve never seen him so at peace, and even though the permanent lines between his eyebrows can’t hide the constant worry that falls on his shoulders—he’s never looked so weightless before. When every single part of me aches to kiss him, I creep to the bathroom, brush my teeth, and then silently sneak back in his arms. “Wake up,” I whisper, lightly kissing his bottom lip. His mouth forms into a smile against mine—his hand finding my waist and gently pulling me to him. One eye opens and then closes quickly. He groans quietly—his voice hoarse from sleep, and rests his head on my chest. Holding me tighter, he mumbles, “Please tell me this isn’t a dream.”
I run my fingers through his hair. “It’s not a dream, baby.”
“Sure?”
“Positive.”
He’s silent a moment, and just when I’d assumed he’s fallen asleep, he mumbles, “Good, because I have to tell you something…”
“Yeah?”
“Yep.” He moves up a little and presses his lips to my bare shoulder. “I’m kind of crazy in love with you, Becca.” Then he jumps out of bed before I can respond. “And I need to go potty.”
“What kind of jerk declares their love for someone and then announces a potty break!” He just laughs as he closes the bathroom door behind him, all while I sit there, my heart pounding and my emotions forming a puddle in the pit of my stomach. I open my mouth, the words I love you too on the tip of my tongue.
I wait for minutes that feel like hours and when he finally reemerges from the bathroom—his hair and lips wet and his entire body still drunk from sleep—I sit up and pull the covers over my bare chest.
He smirks, his eyes focused on mine and I self-consciously tighten my hold on the sheets. “So…” I say, shrinking under his gaze. “Did you want to order breakfast… or…”
He settles his palms flat on the bed, his arms outstretched as he leans forward, his face less than an inch from mine. The muscles in his forearms and shoulders flex with his movements—movements that intimidate me and cause my breath to catch. “Or…” he answers, taking my bottom lip between his. He pulls back slightly. “Definitely ‘or.’”
We “or”ed until we we’re forced to stop and when we’re satisfied, he holds me to him, his thumb grazing up and down my arm. “When I was a kid,” he says, pausing to kiss the top of my head, “my dad made me this skate grind rail. I had no idea he was doing it but the look on his face when he saw my face was just… it’s how I try to remember him, you know? Anyway, that weekend Hunter came around and we spent every second messing around on it. His dad kept calling on the Sunday afternoon telling him he had to go home. I stayed out there until my mom made me go inside for dinner. I couldn’t sleep that night. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. And I hated that I had to go to school the next day and be away from it. I remember thinking that I wished I lived two lives. The skating and the reality, and I wished I could live them both at the same time. I hated school for so many reasons but mainly because it took me away from something that made me so happy… something I loved.
