Me: I’m just around the corner if you want to get your stuff ready to go.
I send the text to my mom when I’m stopped at the light and then turn into my neighborhood. I look at the response when I come to a stop sign, idling for longer than I should while staring at the words.
Mom: I’m not at your house with Luke. Sidney is.
Sidney is?
My initial reaction is no. Just flat out no. This is my mom’s way of meddling. This is my mom’s way of pushing an issue I’m not ready to broach yet.
Sure, Sidney and I made up yesterday. Sure, we agreed to try to figure out what this is between us. But this? Her being with Luke where he can become more attached than he already is? Christ, this is not what I meant by taking it day by day.
It definitely isn’t something my mom should get to decide without asking me. God, I love the woman, but she’s driving me crazy.
All I’ve thought about since I left my parents’ house is Sidney. All I did during downtime was lay in those cots and stare at the ceiling while all of my crew snored around me and wonder how in the fucking world she got to me? How did she stalk those heels up to my porch, tell me I was in a contest I didn’t want to be a part of, and how did that lead to me not going ten minutes without thinking about her?
I never expected to say that shit to her. Sure, I’ve thought about it—especially when staring at the ceiling most nights after we talked, but I never thought I’d say it aloud. I thought the feeling would die. I’d expected to be too scared to voice it.
Once shit is out in the universe, you can’t take it back.
I scrub a hand over my face. I’m so fucking screwed.
And confused.
Because I said it. And I meant it.
That leaves the one thing I have left to figure out, and, of course, my mom is trying to fucking force my hand.
I may have told Sid that I wanted to try to make this work, but I have no fucking clue how to invite her into our lives further without possibly messing with Luke’s head.
Do what you’ve been doing, Gray. Little bits at a time.
It’s the logical answer, but it’s way easier said than done when it comes to a little boy desperate for a mother figure.
By the time I pull into the driveway, I’m fucking fried. The mixture of exhaustion from work, the confusion from everything with Sidney in the last couple of days, and the knowledge that I’m going to have to convince Luke that Sidney and I aren’t getting married is enough to have me on edge by the time I unlock the front door.
The family room light is on, but the house is silent. Sidney’s purse is sitting on the counter, but there is no sign of her anywhere. Back door’s locked. Bathroom is empty. Television isn’t even on. I set my stuff down and climb the stairs. When I make it to Luke’s room, I swear to fucking God that every single part of my heart shatters, and I’m not sure whether it’s a good or a bad thing.
Sidney is lying on the bed beside Luke. He’s under the covers and she’s on top of them in her shorts and tank top. A Harry Potter paperback is folded open and slightly off her lap, but he’s holding her hand, and her chin is resting on top of his head.
They look like a mother and son.
The sight knocks the wind out of me.
How odd. Until right now, I hadn’t realized how they could pass as related so easily.
I’m exhausted and starving, but I stand there in the doorway and watch the two people who are part of my life, day in and day out, as they sleep. How did this happen? How did I let this happen?
If this were a test, she just passed it with flying colors.
But it wasn’t.
Or maybe it was my mom’s way of testing me. Maybe it was her subtle way of saying “Test this woman any way you can and she’s going to come out on top each time.”
The two of them. Side by side. Asleep. At ease. Peaceful.
Things I’ve said I never wanted slowly stir to life inside me, and the effort is half-hearted to shove them back into the usual place I keep them hidden.
Tears burn in my eyes as the sight just reaffirms what I already know: Luke is missing so much by not having a mom. The quiet comfort. The woman’s touch. A different view of everything.
But seeing Sidney here, being able to study her in her sleep with my son in her arms, makes me want to hold on tighter. This woman—with the Converse and shorts and tank top—could fit in here. Does fit in here. She’d be willing to give me the things that I want.
But the woman with the red soles and designer wardrobe who first walked into my life . . . Sunnyville doesn’t have enough to keep her. At some point that editor-in-chief position of a fancy fashion magazine will call her name, and its glamour will shine brighter than the charm of this town. And just like that girl I used to listen to in the diner who couldn’t wait to leave town, she’ll leave again.
What are you doing, Gray?
The doubt creeps again. The questions rage. The need to protect flares.
And yet, here I am, staring at her. Wanting her. Needing her. Begging myself to let her in. Convincing myself that people change. That she’s changed in the months since she’s been here.
Or maybe she’s always been her, and I’ve just been looking at her through Claire-tainted lenses.
Fuck. I scrub a hand through my hair, confused as fuck and not wanting her any less, regardless of my thoughts.
Screw the contest.
Can’t I just have her as the prize?
I’m not naïve enough to think that prizes don’t come at a cost.
I step forward and slowly untangle Luke’s arms from Sidney’s. They both stir some but neither wake fully. I slip my arms beneath her knees and under her neck and pick her up.
It takes me a second to find my balance as she slips her arms around my neck, but the moment I do, she knocks me completely off kilter when she murmurs, “I love you, Grayson.”
I stand there with her cradled in my arms, my son asleep in front of us, and stagger under the weight those words hold.
It’s been almost eight years since I’ve let a woman say those words to me. Eight years since I’ve allowed myself to react to them. Eight goddamn years since I’ve wanted to say them back.
I can’t. My tongue ties and every damn thing I was just thinking comes back and hits me again. Sunnyville doesn’t have enough to keep her. So, even if I do . . . could love her, even if I do ask her to stay, that would be asking her to be someone she isn’t meant to be. That would only end with her leaving.
This is who we are. Changing for each other would mean compromising who we inherently are, when that isn’t what a relationship is about.
So, I do the only thing I can . . . I carry Sidney into my room and lay her on my bed. I don’t know how much time passes as I try to calm what those words did to my insides, but I stand there and memorize everything about her as she sleeps.
The rise of her chest. The line of her nose. The curve of her hips. The shape of her lips. The smell of her perfume.
I wonder a thousand what-ifs before I shove them down, lock them away.
It doesn’t stop me from wanting to show her how I feel about her. It doesn’t stop me from testing the same three words out on my own lips as I stand in the darkness of my own room. It doesn’t stop me from leaning over and kissing her with every ounce of embattled emotion that I feel.
When I do, when that soft sigh falls from her lips in response, when her lips react in turn before she fully wakes up, I know I’m a goner. I know she’s the one I’ve waited for, even though I know she was already gone before she stepped foot back in Sunnyville.
There are no words between us. There is no rush as we touch and taste and enjoy. Hands running gently over skin. Sighs filling the room. Unspoken emotions filling our hearts. There is nothing but us as I slip into her and show her how I feel in a way I can’t express with words.
As I show her I love her in the only way I’m capable of letting her know.