Ugly Love(17)

He.
Smiles.
Too.
Miles looks back at the road, but his smile remains for several seconds. I know, because I can’t stop staring at it. I want to take a picture of it before it disappears again, but that would be weird.
He lowers his arm to rest it on the console, but my feet are in his way. I push up on my hands. “Sorry,” I say, as I begin to pull them back.
His fingers wrap around my bare foot, stopping me. “You’re fine,” he says.
His hand is still wrapped around my foot. I’m staring at it.
Holy hell, his thumb just moved. Deliberately moved, stroking the side of my foot. My thighs clench together and my breath halts in my lungs and my legs tense, because I’ll be damned if his hand didn’t just caress my foot before he pulled it away.
I have to chew on the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling.
I think you’re attracted to me, Miles.
? ? ?

As soon as we arrive at my parents’ place, my father puts Corbin and Miles to work hanging Christmas lights. I take our things into the house and give Corbin and Miles my room, since it’s the only one with two beds. I take Corbin’s old bedroom, then head to the kitchen to help my mom finish prepping dinner.
Thanksgiving has always been a small affair at our house. Mom and Dad didn’t like having to choose between families, and my dad was hardly ever home, since a pilot’s busiest times of year are the holidays. My mother decided Thanksgiving would be reserved for immediate family only, so every year on Thanksgiving Day, it’s always just been me, Corbin, Mom, and Dad, when Dad is home. Last year, it was just Mom and me, since Dad and Corbin were both working.
This year, it’s all of us.
And Miles.
It’s strange, him being here like this. Mom seemed happy to meet him, so I guess she didn’t mind too much. My dad loves everyone, and he’s more than happy to have someone else helping with the Christmas lights, so I know the presence of a third person doesn’t bother him in the least.
My mother passes me the pan of boiled eggs. I begin cracking them to prepare them for deviled eggs, and she leans across the kitchen island and rests her chin in her hands. “That Miles sure is a looker,” she says with an arch of her eyebrow.
Let me explain something about my mother. She’s a great mom. A really great mom. But I have never been comfortable talking to her about guys. It started when I was twelve and I got my first period. She was so excited she called three of her friends to tell them before she even explained what the hell was happening to me. I learned pretty early on that secrets aren’t secrets once they reach her ears.
“He’s not bad,” I say, completely lying. I’m absolutely lying, because he is a looker. His golden-brown hair paired with those mesmerizing blue eyes, his broad shoulders, the scruff that lines his firm jaw when he’s had a couple of days off work, the way he always smells so fantastically delicious, like he just stepped out of the shower and hasn’t even towel-dried yet.
Oh, my God.
Who the hell am I right now?
“Does he have a girlfriend?”
I shrug. “I don’t really know him, Mom.” I take the pan to the sink and run water over the eggs to loosen the shells. “How is Dad liking retirement?” I ask, attempting to change the subject.
My mother grins. It’s a knowing grin, and I absolutely hate it.
I guess I never have to tell her anything, because she’s my mom. She already knows.
I blush, then turn around and finish cracking the damn eggs.



Chapter eight

MILES

Six years earlier
“I’m going to Ian’s tonight,” I tell him.
My father doesn’t care. He’s going out with Lisa. His mind is
on Lisa.
His everything is Lisa.
His everything used to be Carol. Sometimes his everything was
Carol and Miles.
Now his everything is Lisa.
That’s okay, because my everything used to be him and Carol.
Not anymore.
I text her to see if she can meet me somewhere. She says Lisa
just left to come to my house. She says I can come to her house
and pick her up.
When I get there, I don’t know if I should get out of the car. I
don’t know if she wants me to.
I do.
I walk to her door, and I knock. I’m not sure what to say when
she opens the door. Part of me wants to tell her I’m sorry, that
I shouldn’t have kissed her.
Part of me wants to ask her a million questions until I know
everything about her.
Most of me wants to kiss her again, especially now that the
door is open and she’s standing right in front of me.
“Want to come in for a little while?” she asks. “She won’t be
back for a few hours, at least.”
I nod. I wonder if she loves my nod as much as I love hers.
She shuts the door behind me, and I look around. Their
apartment is small. I’ve never lived in a place this small. I think
I like it. The smaller the house, the more a family is forced to
love one another. They have no extra space not to. It makes me
wish my dad and I would get a smaller place. A place where
we’d be forced to interact. A place where we’d stop having to pretend
that my mother didn’t leave way too much space in
our house after she died.
Rachel walks to the kitchen. She asks me if I want something
to drink.
I follow her and ask her what she has. She tells me she has
pretty much everything except milk, tea, soda, coffee, juice, and
alcohol. “I hope you like water,” she says. She laughs at herself.