Birthday Girl(68)

And she stares at me, my unsaid reply hanging between us. She falters, realization softening her eyes.

“Just get in the truck,” I grit out, “and let’s go home.”

“But—”

“Now, Jordan!” I slam the steering wheel with my palm.

She sucks in a breath, her eyes flaring. I don’t know if I scared her, or if she’s worried about making a scene, but she quickly pulls herself into the truck and slams her door. She’s tense and pissed and probably thinks she’ll deal with me away from prying eyes later, but I don’t care. I’ve got her, and we’re out of here.

I shift the truck into gear and pull ahead, swinging around and then reversing to do a U-turn. Finally facing back the way I came, I lay on the gas and get us out of there, driving back down the lane and pulling onto the road leading back into town.

I have no idea what her stepbrother or stepmother were probably thinking, and I really don’t care about that either. Let them think what they want for the next five minutes, because that’s exactly how long it will take them to forget she exists again.

No wonder she moved out there in the first place. I don’t think she was abused or anything—I never heard talk like that about her father—but she was definitely neglected. She deserves better.

The trees loom on both sides of the dark highway, and I roll my window down for some much-needed fresh air.

She doesn’t say anything, just sits there frozen, and I could kick myself, because I should’ve just talked to her at the house instead of going through all this. I knew how this was going to end. There was no way she was staying in Meadow Lakes. I wasn’t seriously helping her move tonight. I was finding my mettle.

But what if she wanted to move in with her sister? Or stay with a friend? I still would’ve fought her. I know I would’ve.

It’s not that she can’t take care of herself. I know very well she can.

I just don’t want her to have to. Somewhere along the line I got invested.

No one else in her life can give her what she deserves, and until she can provide it for herself, then I’m taking that responsibility. Screw it. She deserves the best. She’s getting the best.

I stare ahead and lean my elbow on the door, running my hand through my hair. It’s not my decision, though. Is it? Pushing her around doesn’t make me any better than anyone else in her life.

And I don’t want to be someone else who stifles her. She’ll end up resenting me, too. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about relationships—any relationship—is that no one should wear the pants. You have to know when to come in strong and when to back off. Both of you.

Give and take. Share the power.

I ease on the brake and slowly veer to the right side of the road, coming to a stop as a car speeds past me.

Her eyes shift, but she still won’t look at me.

God, what she must be thinking.

“I’m sorry,” I say, my tone quieter and calmer now. “I didn’t mean to command you like that.” I drop my hands from the wheel and try to slow down my heart a little.

“Cole is staying with…” I trail off, knowing she knows who he’s staying with. “For the time being,” I finish. “You’ll have space, and you can have the other spare room. It’s your space. You like my house, right?”

She takes in a breath, searching for words. “Yes, but…”

“I like having help around the place,” I explain. “And it’s nice to come home and not have to make dinner every night. We keep the same arrangement.”

She pauses, and fear creeps up. Maybe I read her wrong, after all. Maybe she’s just trying to find a way to get me off her back. Maybe she really doesn’t want to stay at my house.

“Will you be happy? At my house? Honestly?” I ask. “Happier than back there?”

The silence stretches between us, and I’m beginning to feel stupid. Like I misread everything and she wasn’t getting comfortable under my roof.

But all the times I caught glimpses of her this week—lighting her candles, working in the garden, having a morning swim, or cooking in the kitchen and bobbing her head to whatever awful hair band she’s listening to this week—it seemed like she was at home, you know? She was smiling so much, we’d gotten comfortable enough to joke around, and she was even getting mischievous on me, adding stupid sprouts and avocado to the turkey sandwich in my lunch the other day.

I smile a little, thinking about it.

I don’t want her to trade down because she thinks she’s unwanted at my house or she’s imposing. I want to make sure she knows that she doesn’t have to leave.

I blink long and hard, suddenly weary. And I fucking hate the idea of her in that shithole with no one there who’s going to appreciate anything she does.

I drop my eyes and my voice. “Please don’t make me leave you there.”

I see her head turn in my direction, and I know how I must sound.

“Please,” I whisper again.

She’s staring at me, but I refuse to look at her, because I’m afraid my eyes will say something more or give away something teetering on the edge of my brain that I don’t want to face yet.

She’s happy at my house, she’s safe there, she has a bed, and there’s no fucking mice. It’s that simple.