Page 63 of Tell Me You Love Me

“Alana—”

“I’m sorry.” I spin and stride away, leaving him behind again—again and again and again.Stalking up my mom’s porch steps, I wipe my face clean and yank the door open. Then I grab Franky’s hand, startling him when I continue walking. Through the kitchen, then the living room. I keep going to the laundry at the other end of the house until we emerge on the porch again, but far and away from where Tommy lingers.

“Mom?” Franky stumbles on the steps, grabbing onto the porch railing so he doesn’t fall. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, honey.”Cool. Lie to him, too.“Grandma wants us to collect the eggs and feed the animals. Once we’re done, we can go inside and relax.”

“The eggs?” His eyes flare in panic, his shoulders coming up as he searches the yard for his arch-nemesis. “Whacky always hangs out around the coop, Mom. If he knows we’re coming, he’s gonna?—”

“I’ll protect you.” I wipe my face and ignore the rumble of Tommy’s truck engine. The crunch and scrape of his wheels on our gravel driveway, and then the roar that echoes back when he hits the tar and gains speed. “Whacky won’t bother you, okay? I’ll come outside with you every single day to make sure of it.”

Unconvinced, but trusting—barely—he tiptoes toward the coop and casts a wary eye back to the front fence, right where the damn rooster sits, choking out his morning song. When he’s sure the coast is clear, he flips the catch on the coop and opens the door, releasing the dozen hens that escape into the yard to spend their day pecking at the worms that live in the grass.

“Are there any eggs, honey?”Stop crying. Stop crying. Stop crying.“Do you see any?”

“Yeah.” He pulls the front of his shirt forward, creating a pouch, and lays each collected egg inside to take into the house. “We should cook some up for breakfast, don’t you think?”

“Sure.” I wipe my face and yearn for a shower. Time alone. Privacy to cry and clean the mess I made last night. Tommy’s dried cum on my thighs. His handprints on my legs. “We can make eggs.”

ROUND NINETEEN

TOMMY

“Hands up, buddy.” I stand on my knees and hold the kick pads for a ridiculously clumsy Franklin Page.

It’s cruel, in a way, that Alana would devastate me with her words and still allow her son to come to the gym. It’s a vicious taunting, allowing me to spend time with him one-on-one, learning his quirks even when he hardly speaks, and looking into his eyes, even when he struggles to make eye contact.

The fact he’s still here, taking part in the classes I insist on coaching, and partnering with me when we run drills is, in a sick, warped way, probably a compliment.

Instead of tearing him out of my life and hiding away at her mother’s home—out of sight, out of mind—she trusts me not to hurt him, despite the pain she and I share and in spite of the shitty father figure I had growing up.

It’s not like I’m working with much here.

Still, it’s been two weeks since she destroyed my heart—again—but she plays nice at the end of each class, neither rushing her son out the door nor does she linger once he’s done. She doesn’t scowl or sneer or say a damn word other thanhelloandgoodbye. She doesn’t growl when I walk a little closer than I probably need to. And when I stare, she doesn’t even seem to get pissy about it.

She’s perfectly neutral.

And I fuckin’ hate it.

“You need your left foot forward,” I coach, tapping Franky’s left knee and dragging it my way when he attempts to move the right.

I meet his eyes and smile. Because his cheeks warm and the thought that such a smart little boy would mistake left for right probably makes him feel silly.

He’s not silly. He’s just not athletically gifted.

“Then you put your left fist here.” I grab his wrist and place it where I want it. “That’s for hitting. Use your shoulder for blocking. Bring your right fist up, too, but it’ll go second.”

“Why do you always pick me when we need a partner?” He ruins my placements, dropping his guard and pushing his glasses up his nose. “Every single time.”

“Because we have an odd number of students. Here.” I draw his fists up again. “You need a left jab, then a right hook. Can you show me that?”

“Chris is partnering with Molly.” He neither jabs nor hooks. “If you don’t partner with me, and he doesn’t partner with Molly, then we have an even number again.”

“Well… do youwantto partner with Molly?”

Together, we peer across and watch the little shit dive over my brother and trap his neck in a choke. She’s too small to do any damage. But fuck, she’s got the right enthusiasm. She’ll get him someday.

Franky’s lips flatten into straight lines. “No, but?—”

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