Crazy (The Gibson Boys #4)(69)

“I think I’m going to stay here,” she says.

“Dylan, I … I didn’t invite her here.”

“I know.” She forces a swallow. “I guess, really, there’s nothing wrong with it. I mean, she’s your friend. Right?”

Her attempt at being reasonable knocks the wind out of me. I pull her into me and kiss the top of her head.

Something washes over me. It’s a feeling I’ve never had before. It’s the best, warmest, quietest feeling that’s also the most powerful thing I’ve ever felt. I feel … calm. Which is completely at odds with this circumstance.

The doorbell rings again, and Dylan sags into me.

“I’ll go handle that, and then we’ll have a movie night, okay?” I look her in the eye. “I just …” I gulp. “I’ll be right back.”

She nods, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

My insides twist as the words I was about to say so nonchalantly are still sitting on my tongue. Are they true? Do I really feel that way?

Before I can think about them too much, I have the door handle in my hand. When I swing it open, Molly is standing on the porch. I’d hoped she’d changed her mind and left.

“Hey,” I say, shutting the door behind me. “What’s up?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“Well, here I am. Shoot.”

She looks over my shoulder, presumably to see if Dylan is anywhere in sight. “I, um, I just … I don’t want to talk about it here. It’s private.”

Irritation claws at my brain as I try to stay calm. I just want to get back in there with Hawkeye and watch our stupid romantic comedy and eat popcorn that will make my stomach hurt all night.

“Fine. What do you want to do?” I ask.

She starts down the sidewalk. I follow. When she hits the gravel of the driveway, I start to wonder if something really is wrong.

This is unlike Molly. She’s usually so self-centered that she plays a very forward card.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

The night is dark, but the sky is clear. The moon gives off plenty of light to see. Stars sparkle overhead. Molly sits on a wicker bench by a patch of sunflowers that have seen better days.

I sit next to her. “Look, I’m happy to help you, Molly. But I have plans tonight, so if you could spit it out, that’d be great.”

“Peck, I’m scared.”

“What are you scared of?”

She shrugs.

“Like, is someone messing with you? Are you afraid of the dark? Did you sleep with someone’s boyfriend? Again?”

She shoots a dirty look my way, but I’m not sorry. The question is reasonable, considering she’s come to me for advice about this very thing three times before.

She sighs. “Do you remember when you, me, and Vincent camped out behind your house? And there was that serial killer on the loose in Iowa, and Vincent had us scared that he was going to find us?”

“Yeah. I’d forgotten about that.”

“Vin came to see me today.” She smiles sadly. “After he left, I just … Things were so much easier back then.”

I nod. “They were in some ways. In others, they’re easier now.”

“How do you figure?”

“Well, we control our own destiny now. Back then, we were at the mercy of our parents. Now, we could be the parents.” I grin at the thought. “We decide who is in our life and who isn’t. Where we sleep. What cell phone company we want to pay the bulk of our paychecks to.”

That gets a smile out of her.

“I’m just figuring things out,” I say. “There’s a lot I don’t know yet. But one thing I’m realizing is that life is never easy, and when you do find something, or someone, who does seem effortless, you better lock that shit down.”

My body pulls toward the house. The popcorn is probably done by now, and Dylan’s probably watching the previews.

I glance over my shoulder.

The lights are all on, and the girl I can’t get enough of is inside. She’s waiting on me, knowing I’m out here with another woman.

But the longer I sit with Molly, the more definitively I know that I don’t have real feelings for her. I never did. In the twenty-five or so years that I’ve known her, I’ve never come close to feeling what I feel for Dylan.

“You like her a lot, don’t you?” she asks.

“I do. I like Dylan a lot.”

“Do you love her?”

I stretch my legs out in front of me. The question somehow tightens every muscle in my body. But, for whatever reason, it doesn’t get an automatic no from me. I almost lean toward yes.

“You do, huh?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” I say carefully.

Her eyes fill with tears. “Do you love me, Peck?”

It’s a loaded question, maybe the loaded-est question I’ve ever been asked. As I watch her struggle with reality and the tears fall down her cheeks, I know the answer.

I don’t love her. Not like she’s asking me. The way I feel about Molly is similiar to the way I feel about Sienna or Hadley—a friend that I’d take a beating for, but not one that I’d go to war for. Not like I feel about Dylan.

“That’s my answer,” she whispers.