Change of Hart (Wells Ranch, #3)(59)
Then. Now. Forever.
She sits upright with a groan. “I’m going to go to the bathroom—need anything? A drink? Snack?”
“All I need is for you to hurry back.”
Her lips curl into a smile as she leans in for a quick peck, then she’s wrapping herself in a fluffy gray robe and slipping out the door. And I’m alone in her room. For the most part, it looks the same as it did when we were kids—beige walls, white furniture, floral bedding. The glow-in-the-dark stars are gone, but after decades of light exposure, the shapes are still visible on the paint. I peel myself from the bed and peruse her room. Barrel racing buckles are arranged in neat rows on top of her dresser, surrounded by photos of Blair and Chief. Then pictures of Blair with her friends, including some that are more recent, with people I don’t recognize. I’m thumbing a university graduation photo frame when her door clicks shut behind me.
“Are you going through my stuff?” She hops onto her bed, watching me. I have no shame in my snooping game, so I continue examining her decor.
“Next is your underwear drawer.” I throw her a smirk over my shoulder.
“As if you didn’t start there, perv.” Blair ditches the robe and slides under the covers naked. “I have better drawers, though.”
“Better than your underwear drawer?” No clue what that could mean, but now I have to know. I hover my hand over each knob, waiting to see if there’s a reaction from her. She’s failing miserably at hiding her discomfort as I move laterally to the far right of her dresser. “Baby, your poker face needs some help.”
Bottom right.
Giving it a firm tug, I slide the drawer open to reveal dozens of notes, photos, every single memory Blair’s ever had of me. With a breathy laugh, I carefully unfold a wrinkled piece of paper to find a drawing I’d made for Blair in eleventh-grade history class. It’s fucking awful—Odessa could draw a better stick figure family—but Blair kept it despite everything.
“I think this was supposed to be a dog.” I hold up the paper, pointing to a mess of brown circles.
“A Labrador, specifically. You were pretty proud of it back then.”
“We make a very cute stick family. Look at the legs on you—total babe.” I wink.
“You’re a dork.” She pats the bed next to her, and I meticulously fold the paper without creating new creases. Naked, I slip under the soft, cool sheets to hold her.
“You’re one to talk. You’re the one keeping fifteen-year-old notes, my cute little dork.” I kiss the top of her head. “Can’t believe you kept my shitty drawings and love notes.”
“Of course I kept them.”
“Are you okay after whatever was going on with your mom tonight? You know you can talk to me, Bear.”
“I’m perfect, now that you’re here,” she drowsily mutters.
Her body curls around me, a leg slung over mine, soft fingers trailing along my chest. I wish she would lean on me. Let me carry some of her weight. But I understand why she doesn’t. She’s always been the type to handle hard things without making a fuss, without asking for help. I used to be the exception—she was safe to let down those walls and be honest with me. But I fumbled my responsibility, and now I’m stuck outside her inner circle.
Chest rising and falling against my side, her breathing slows with each exhale, until she’s softly snoring in my arms. I stretch my arm to maximum capacity, doing my best not to jostle her, and flip the switch on the bedside lamp.
4,982 nights. That’s how many nights I’ve spent missing her. Hating myself. Begging for sunrise. But the nightmare is finally over—I have her in my arms, and this time I’m prepared to do whatever it takes to keep her there.
Blair
The same as so many nights in our past, Denver slips back out my window before sunrise. I clutch the pillow he slept on to my chest, spooning it and taking slow, conscientious sniffs of his lingering scent, as if inhaling too quickly will make it dissipate faster.
My sister’s worried voice rings in my ears. Make sure he’s all in before you fall headfirst.
He said he was all in. He said I was the only one he’s ever loved. He said a lot of sweet things—the same whispered promises he’s broken in the past. I’m sure he’ll find a way to let me down, and my entire world will fall apart like it did before.
Ignoring the churning in my stomach, I rip the pillow from its case, strip the sheets, and pad down the hallway to the laundry room at five a.m. to remove any traces of him from my bed. Then I spend hours doing anything to shut my brain off. I attempt yoga on the crisp grass, clean the kitchen, make breakfast for my parents, and spend twenty minutes convincing Mom to go for a walk with me.
Standing in the middle of the driveway, I squint up at the midmorning sun while I wait for Mom to find her shoes. In the skintight pocket of my biker shorts, my phone vibrates.
Denver: Hot or iced coffee?
I blink at the screen, debating how to answer. The question in itself seems innocent enough, but the inevitable follow-up scares me. If he asks me to have coffee with him…that’s a date. And a date leads to dating, which lends itself pretty well to me being a wreck when the dating part comes to an end. Except these days I have people relying on me—and being incapable of taking care of my family isn’t an option.