The Plan (Off-Limits Romance, #4)(56)

“Jesus…”

“I didn’t trust you,” he says in the darkness. “Didn’t want to.”

“Do you remember that night? When you came home and you had that concussion from that fight night thing? You wouldn’t let me touch you.”

“I was feeling like an asshole.”

“What does that mean?”

He shakes his head.

“I want to know.”

He shuts his eyes. “Just couldn’t stand it.”

“Having me fuss over you?”

Tears gather in my eyes again as he nods once. “So I left.” I laugh, soft and bitter.

Gabe urges me on my back. “You’re not going to think about that, Marley.” He kisses my belly, his mouth dragging down, so to my cunt he whispers, “I’m not either.”



*

Gabe





When we’re finished, she sits up and takes my hand and leads me off the bed.

“Get dressed,” she says. “We’re going to the boardwalk.”

I laugh. “Are we?”

“We need to get some fresh air.”

She looks so damn cute with her hair in a messy bun and those purple glasses magnifying her brown eyes.

“We’re going to ride our bikes there.”

“Are we now?” I grin.

“Yes, city boy. The sidewalk down to there is lit. Once we get down there, we can get a burger and some fries, eat it by the lake, and then go walking on the trails.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“Oh no—your feet!”

I can’t help smiling at as she drops down to her knees in front of me and presses two more Band-Aids on.

“They’re fine.” I ruffle her hair.

“No walking on the trails.”

I stretch a long strand of her hair above her head, rubbing the silky tress. When she looks up at me with her wide, Marley eyes, I pull her to her feet and kiss her temple. “I’m fine, Marley. Thank you for the fixing up.”

She wraps an arm around my waist. “You’re welcome.”

“I’ve gotta to grab some cleaner clothes. Meet you out front in a minute?”

“Sure.”

With boxer-briefs pressed in front of myself, for when I walk in front of the small, ruby-toned foyer windows, I head upstairs to the green room and put on different boxer-briefs, a ragged out pair of jeans, an off-white sweater my editor gave me last Christmas, some thick socks, and some loafter-ish type shoes that are more casual than loafers. More like low-top boots, I guess.

I look down at myself, and I hear Marley’s soft sound. She’s standing in the doorway, smirking at me.

“What?” I give her a mock outraged look.

“This is your room?” She looks around. I can’t deny it, because this place is fucking messy.

“Not the cleanest,” I say.

“Is that your computer?” She walks over toward it.

“Marley, Marley…”

“I forgot. You’re super private, aren’t you?”

“No,” I murmur, taking her hand. “I’m just ready to get going.”

She turns back toward the door, and I can see her eyes catch on the table: one that’s covered in pictures of Gen.

“You can look,” I tell her gruffly.

She walks slowly over, picks a frame up. “Gabe, she’s beautiful,” she whispers.

I watch as she stands there with her head bowed, studying the only other girl I’ve ever really loved. Been able to. I really tried with Madeline. I cared for her. Sometimes I wonder if the reason it never progressed was because she was always seeing Oliver behind my back.

“It was more like very close friends with her mother,” I whisper. I’m not sure why I do, because Marley didn’t ask. I feel the need to make her understand, though. “We met after I left Iowa—I went to college there for just a little while, but didn’t like it. Madeline and I were part of the same writers’ group.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I know.” I step beside her and squeeze her hand, hoping that she’ll listen. She nods. “After you…I wanted different things. I knew why…I lost you,” I manage. “Not just drinking.”

Marley’s eyes on mine are soft…forgiving. So I swallow and continue. “I had the sense that I had wasted all this. All that time we lived together. I would always leave you waiting for me. I’d be out doing those fight nights, or locked in the room writing. The fucked up thing about it is, I think I liked it. I liked knowing you were…there waiting. It made me feel…calm.”

“It made you feel secure.” She slides her fingers between mine. “So you wanted to really get involved with someone after. Right?”

I nod. “And Madeline—when I met her, she was on the rebound. From this guy. The one who…”

When I don’t finish—I can’t fucking say it—Mar nods slowly.

“She pursued me. By the time her interest in me tapered off, she’d moved into my place.” I rub my head, which suddenly is aching. “From then on, I took care of…” I shake my head.

I took care of both of them. When Madeline had Gen eleven weeks early, she was on a deadline for a script. So it was me who sat in the NICU most days. “I always thought she looked like me.” I want to reach out and touch one of the pictures of my girl. I want it to be me she looks like.