Don't Let Go(43)

I let go of him and went back to the fridge for another water bottle, not offering him one this time. Not even looking at him. I couldn’t get through even the summarized version if I did. I put the icy cold bottle on the back of my neck, closing my eyes as the cold chilled down my blood.
“My parents pretended it never happened,” I said, keeping my eyes shut. “No one talked about it, no one grieved with me but Ruthie. The days went by in my house as if he never exis—” I swallowed back tears, determined not to cry again. “Even when Becca came along years later, everyone acted as if it were the first time, even my mother. She gave me pregnancy tips like I’d never been there before.”
“Did Hayden know?”
The thickness of his voice, heavy with emotion, pulled me out of my reverie and I opened my eyes. His face was tight and his eyes reddened as if he were fighting tears himself.
“Yes.” I looked away and twisted the cap off my water. “He pulled me out of a self-destructive place and I loved him for that. I always told him the truth.”
“Which explains last night.”
I let out an exhausted breath. “Not really. He’s never acted like that. I’m sorry,” I said. “He just—” I swallowed hard against the guilt that always danced there. “I learned early on not to count on anyone but myself, and I guess he had too many years of being on the losing end of that.”
I took a deep breath and held my head up as I watched his expression change. He turned and walked slowly to the door, stopping before he reached it and putting his hands on his hips like he knew he needed to keep walking but couldn’t. My chest burned with that same need to stop him.
“I’m done with this, Noah,” I said to his back quietly, thankful he wasn’t looking at me. “I really don’t want to talk about it anymore. I’ve got my own problems, and you have a second chance at fatherhood sitting right next door.”
He nodded, not turning around, and pushed through the door as I took a deep breath and sagged against the counter. There weren’t any more tears. I was just exhausted. Mentally, emotionally, and physically spent.
I covered my face with my hands, still seeing his face—his eyes—in my mind. So close I could have kissed him three different times. Shit, shit, shit. Everything we used to be in another lifetime was still there, pushing and tugging and teasing. It wasn’t just my imagination. I’d seen it in his eyes as well.
I had to stay away from him. That was all there was to it.



Chapter 11

I needed normal. Like, in a big way.
I needed to just come to work, do my job, go home, argue with Becca, go to bed, and do it all over again the next day. Well, Becca’s piece of that pie was still covered, but not in a comfortable way. And what wasn’t in the pie, but basically the whipped cream on the side—no pun intended—was Patrick. Or someone like Patrick. Someone to feed that adult side of me that didn’t require major maintenance or deep feelings.
Unfortunately, I’d probably burned that bridge, and I felt bad about that. Not for me, but for him. He was a good guy and treated me like a queen. He even had started to pick up on things—little things that were important to me. Like a boyfriend might do. Which put him back in that maintenance category that probably needed trimming back. Just maybe not in the manner I’d trimmed it.
And now, with the current change in tide, I wouldn’t have been satisfied with the side of whipped cream anymore, anyway. I wanted more pie. The original pie.
I was screwed.
Ruthie kept eyeing me for the next hour as I pulled extra copies of older titles from the shelves and loaded them into a box for donation to the library. My mother used to make a big event of that, advertising for people to come drop off their used books, making little stickers to attach to the insides of the books that said Donated with love and sparkles from Book Enchantment.
I just couldn’t get into all that. Ruthie would if I gave her half a chance, but I didn’t have the patience. I needed to stay busy and not hover and obsess over Becca’s life, and not think about mine at all. Anything was better than what wanted to invade my thoughts.
“Hey, did you turn in an idea for the store decoration?” I asked, completely not caring whatsoever. And she knew that.
“Yes, ma’am,” she said with a wink.
“And?”
“And I’m on it,” she said, haughty little head tilt in play. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Works for me,” I said, already not worrying about it.
“Are you okay?” she asked when I tossed the box on a chair. She stopped me and made me look at her. “Seriously?”
I swallowed and nodded. “Yes.” Then I shook my head. “No. But it’s okay.”
“I worry about you,” she said, her dark eyes soft.
A small smile relaxed my face muscles. “I know. I’m good, I promise. I’m gonna go—” I pointed at the box and lost my train of thought as I gestured toward the door.
“To the library?” she asked, squeezing my arm.
“That would be it.”
“Yeah, you’re good, all right,” she said with an eyebrow cocked. Conceding, she let out a sigh. “Headed over there right now?”
I grabbed my purse and balanced the box on one hip. “Good a time as any.”
“Because there’s an awesome old rocking chair over at The Brass Ass I want you to look at when you get a chance.”
I blinked. “A rocking chair.”
“For Story Time,” she said. “It’s beat up, but Frank can restore it and make it look really cool.”