Page 54 of Resilient Love

Warmth spreads through my chest at the thought. My dad really is the best.

“Perfect, that’s what I’ll write about!” I tell him, excited to get this over with. It’s by no means my last essay I’ll write before graduation, but it’s the last one for this class.

“We,” he corrects.

“We?”

“Yeah,” he says, reaching across me, snagging my laptop from where it rests on my thighs. He places it over top of where my lower legs rest over his meaty thighs. “Wewill write about it.”

A blush creeps up my neck before I can control it. “You don’t have to help me write it. I can type,” I say, chuckling. “I just get stuck on the idea because honestly, I don’t want nor need a degree, despite what my dad says. He just doesn’t want me to wind up injured and unable to play with no fallback plan. That’s why I’m not already playing in the premieres.”

He tilts his head to the side. “Why didn’t you choose something easier then if you weren’t planning on using it?”

I let out a frustrated huff. “Because I thought thiswasan easy A. I figured it wouldn’t be hard, and it at least had something to do with sports, but as it turns out, a sports management degree is bloodybrutal.”

A loud laugh erupts from him, and I love the sound. That should worry me, but it doesn’t. Something about how easily our conversations flow and the happy feelings he elicits in me sets my mind at ease. He makes me feel calm even when nothing else does, and instead of running away from that like I so often would, I’m giving into it.

You deserve to feel things.It’s been a while since I last heard the whispering of my sister in my mind, but today, I welcome it more than usual.

He places my laptop on the armrest, planting his hands on my sides, clutching my waist as he hauls me into his lap. I melt into the warmth radiating off his strong body and wrap my arms around his neck, resisting the urge to press a kiss to his temple. He smells like cedar and oranges, the heady accord enveloping me.

“Did you like school?” I ask, desperate to steer my thoughts to more comfortable territory and out of murky waters.

“I did actually, but I think it was mostly because it was something to keep my mind busy. It gave me a distraction from the mess I’d left at home and from all the guilt I was living with. It gave me direction I knew I needed to get through it.”

“And where’s home for you?” I ask.

He squeezes me more tightly, his brow smoothing out as he relaxes. “Home is here now, but I grew up in Argentina. We lived in a small town where everyone knew everyone, which was good and bad. As an adult, I think I’d love it, but as a reckless teen, it made not getting caught really difficult,” he tells me with a wry grin. “You were born in France, right?”

I nod. “Yeah, but after what happened with mymamanand Rachelle, Dad and I were desperate for a change. Some people handle grief by wanting to constantly be around the memories and in the space they were most with their loved ones, but instead of making us feel closer to them, it only made everything worse. It was like we were suffocating and unable to truly grieve until we got out. And Dad couldn’t sleep in my parents’ room anymore, so for months, we were roommates,” I tell him, laughing as I recall the memory.

“Wasn’t that…weird?” he asks, no judgement in his tone, purely curious.

I shake my head. “We weren’t home often, and when we were, it was just to sleep. We used separate bathrooms and stuff, but every night, he’d climb up that ladder, bump his head on the ceiling, grumble to himself, and climb in, shaking the metal frame like an earthquake.”

“Why the hell was he on the top bunk?”

I avert my gaze for a moment, gathering my emotions before explaining. “Rachelle slept up there because I was, and still am”—I pin him with a pointed glare—“afraid of heights. And it didn’t feel right for me to sleep in her bed. So when he wasoffered the job to coach rugby here,yourrugby team, he jumped at the opportunity, and I was thrilled to leave.”

“How old were you when you moved then?”

“Seventeen. They passed away when I was sixteen, so we were in that house for eight long months before we were able to move. Neither of us has been back to France since, but I’d like to. I want to visit all the places mymamanused to go, everywhere she’d take my sister and me. Maybe it’d be healing for me too.”

He nods and presses a kiss to the top of my head.

“I appreciate you opening up to me,” he says, his face still buried in my hair.

“You make it easy,” I tell him, and he meets my eyes, confusion swirling in his, dark brows pinched, his nose scrunched in the cutest way that makes his gold hoop nose ring glimmer under the overhead lights.

“How so?”

“You just…listen. Without pretence. Without judgement. You don’t ask tons of questions or pressure me into telling you more than I’m comfortable with. You give me time to say what I mean so I don’t wind up saying the wrong thing and dwelling on it later.”

He cups my cheek in his large, warm hand and brings his lips to mine for a chaste kiss. They’re soft and pillowy as they mould to mine, and my body sags into the feeling on instinct. When he pulls away, it’s like he’s replied to what I’ve said but without any words being spoken at all.

“Well, so much for not bombarding you with questions, because I have one now,” he teases.

“Mmm, and what’s that?” I ask, tilting my head, sighing into his warmth. Rafael is outstandingly dreamy when he isn’t trying so hard to keep people out.

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