Page 47 of Every Heartbeat After

Before I can answer, Mom inserts, “Your father and I were young once, too. We know how those hormones rage. We just ask that you be respectful, is all.”

I glance between the two strangers who’ve body snatched my parents. “I’m sorry, where are the people who threatened military school if I was ever caught having premarital sex?”

Dad shrugs. “We’ve gotten mellow in our old age. You’d know that if you ever came around.”

Well, shit. That stings. Tess flinches, meeting my gaze with hers wide and apologetic. I duck my chin, averting my eyes to the family portrait on the wall between the two front windows. “I’m sorry, Dad.”

“It’s okay. We know you work hard, and it’s such a long distance from Colorado,” Mom says, always the one to smooth things over when she can. “Heck, Gage lives in town, and we hardly see him. That boy has no excuse.”

I study the version of him from the portrait, still gap-toothed and gangly. The summer before it all went to shit. “I’m sure he’s just busy.”

“He’s doing good lately,” Dad says sternly, almost like he’s trying to convince himself. “Staying clean.”

I nod but don’t comment. Tess rubs her thumb over my knuckles. I drop my gaze to our joined hands, a lifeline I’d intended for her to use, not the other way around. “Well, I guess Tess and I should unload our bags and get cleaned up. Then I can help with dinner prep?”

“Christopher Llewellyn, are you offering to cook?” Mom flattens a hand over her heart. “As I live and breathe.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I chide. “Keep being sassy and I won’t help at all.”

“So no different than the usual?” she quips back, and Dad lets out a raucous laugh.

“Come on, dear. Let me show you my room,” I say pointedly. I gather Tess’s and my bags from the pile where I left them by the door and guide her down the hall. The house is evenly divided, with a large master on one side of the living space and two bedrooms and a guest bath lining the opposite hallway. We duck into the farthest room, where I shut the door behind us before flipping on the lights.

It’s exactly as I left it all those years ago, save for the queen bed that’s replaced my old bunks. Dallas Cowboy Cheerleader poster and all.

“Great taste,” Tess says, laughing at the artwork. The smile dies a second later, when her gaze falls on the bed. “What are the odds you’ll share a bed with your mom?”

I shudder. “Not great.”

She props her hands on her hips and sighs. “If I suspect you’re trying to get fresh with me, I’m telling Pete.”

My laughter bounces off the walls but is quickly punctuated by a pillow to the face.

“I’m serious,” she says, pointing a finger at me. “Your dad would help me kick your ass.”

“Oh, I have no doubt.” I flop onto the mattress, letting my bones disintegrate for a second of sweet relief. The comforter blocks half my vision as I roll my head to gaze at Tess, but I wink with the one good eye and pat the empty space beside me. “I promise no funny business,” I say, quoting my father. And then, because things have been far too serious between us today, I add, “Unless you ask for it.”

It earns me another pillow to the face. But it’s worth it.

ChapterEighteen

Tess

The afternoon is sofull of chitchat and easy banter that I almost forget the way the day started. Save for the few moments where I catch Kit looking forlorn, gaze trained on some distant, unseeable point, it’s easy to pretend this is a normal occurrence for us. That I always pick fresh cucumbers for a side salad with Betty Llewellyn while Kit helps his father temp the meat, a plethora of crushed beer cans giving shape to the limp trash bag at their feet. That we always gather around the table Pete crafted by hand and chat over pulled pork that’s so succulent I’m pretty sure I smack my lips audibly. The same feeling that crept over me while I sat with Gary in Loveless settles deep within me. A feeling like belonging. Like home.

It’s only when we finally retreat to the bedroom at the end of the hall that reality hits me square in the face. Namely that there is one bed, two of us, and a whole lot of questions that I’ve been too polite to ask but now feel unable to suppress.

I quickly grab a few items from my bag and say without looking at Kit, “I’m going to the restroom.”

From where he stands, peering through finger-parted blinds that block our view of the driveway, he says, “Sounds good.”

The door hinge squeals when I open it, but he doesn’t glance my way.

I take my time brushing my teeth and doing my skin care. Mostly because I’m avoiding the too-small room and the too-small bed and the way I should feel uncomfortable about all this but I don’t at all. By the time I’m ready to change into my pj’s, there’s a knock at the door.

“Almost done!” I say.

“Sorry, Tess,” Kit’s dad mutters. “It’s, uh, a bit of an emergency. And Betty’s in the other bathroom.”

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