I close my eyes and repeat the words. “Life is short.”
“Damn fucking right,” he replies. “Life is short. Do you really want to spend the whole of it running? Or would you like to slow things down and live a little?”
His words pierce me like an arrow through the chest. “I wanna live.” I drop my face into my hands and groan, elbows on the table. “Oh god, I’m so tired of running.”
“Then go home to that sweet idiot who loves you,” he says, his voice in my ear as the music gets louder. Shelby is on the stage now, ready to belt out some Kesha.
I glance up, meeting his dark gaze.
“Stop living life like you’re fucking scared of it. I lived that way for ten years. I’ll never get those ten years back. Go.” He shoves my food away from me and points over his shoulder towards the doors. “Go home, Tess.”
Home.
I’ve never had a home. My mother’s apartment certainly wasn’t a home. Neither were any of the half-dozen guest rooms and couches I drifted around as a kid. And even as I was madly in love with Troy, our home never felt like a space I defined. We lived in his family’s property, using their decorators, mirroring their tastes.
The closest I’ve ever felt to feeling like I had a home was when I lived with Rachel. But even then, the apartment itself never felt like home. We made it homey with our decorations and the smells of our cooking and baking, the sound of our laughter. She was my home.
Go home.
Now Rachel has a new home and he’s sitting right next to me. Caleb is her home. Caleb and Jake and Ilmari. Maybe that’s why she and I get along so well. We don’t find our home in places or things. We find them in people. For however brief a time, Rachel was my home. Now, we both need to move on.
Go home to Ryan.
That’s what Caleb is implying—that despite all the odds, despite all the feelings of insecurity I have, telling me I don’t deserve this, I have a home again. It’s not Ilmari’s bungalow. It’s the man sharing it with me. The sweet, twenty-two-year-old man who plays hockey and loves Mario Kart and can never answer a single text message. The man who always puts the oven on the wrong setting even though you tell him three times. The man who needs a haircut and fucks me like a god. The man who makes me laugh and listens when I speak and holds me when I cry. The man who’s been showing me every day since the day we met how he intends to put me first.
Ryan Langley.
My Ryan.
My home.
“Tess?” Caleb says, a dark brow raised.
I turn to face him, fresh tears in my eyes.
He looks at me, his gaze darting left then right. Then he smiles, just the corner of his mouth lifting, satisfied with what he sees. “There she is. Hey, stranger.”
I smile, swallowing back the emotion thick in my throat. “Tell Rachel I went home?”
He nods, patting my thigh. “You got it.”
Shoving myself up from the picnic table, I hurry after Ryan, not bothering to look back.
51
I stand outside the front door of the bungalow. Ryan’s car sits in the driveway. I thought about what I want to say to him the whole drive home, how I want to apologize, what pieces of me I want to offer to him. He needs my vulnerability. He deserves it. I can’t keep holding back from him if I want to see where this could go.
Vulnerability. Great, my favorite thing.
I could stand out here all night, freezing my butt off, or I could go inside and face the freaking music.
Big girl panties, Tess.
Taking a deep breath, I slip my key into the lock and turn it, letting the door creak softly open. The living room lamps are on, letting off a warm glow. The TV is on too. I can hear the telltale sounds of Mario Kart. Hurt Ryan came home to play video games, taking comfort in the familiar. Is his heart aching like mine?
I step inside the door, shutting it softly, and lean against it.
You made it inside the house.
Now I just need to walk down the hall.
“She’s not here,” he calls after a minute.
I grip tighter to my keys. “What?”
“Cami,” he calls. “She’s not here. You don’t have to hide by the door, Tess. It’s just me.”
I will my body to move, walking down the little hallway. I pause at the end, peering around.
Ryan sits alone on the middle of the couch, game controller in hand. He glances over at me, his hurt expression tearing me apart. The Mario Kart theme music is the soundtrack for the heavy silence hanging between us. I’m convinced those repetitive, high-pitched jingles will play over the sound system when I eventually arrive in hell.