Page 55 of Just This Once

She releases a noisy breath then focuses her gaze on me. Though it doesn’t last long. She can’t look me in the eye while she lies. “I don’t want you making a big deal about this. Because it’s not, and now, Clara is going to get it in her head that it is. You know this is just…a one-time thing.”

I can’t say it doesn’t sting, but I ignore that pain for now, determined to show her I’m not afraid of her past. I can’t be run off by her present. I want her future. All of her. “Technically, three times now.”

She glares at me in return. “You… This… Fuck.” She grits her teeth and spins toward the door, taking a few breaths that lifther shoulders. “I don’t want either of us to get hurt, okay?”

“Okay,” I agree because I do not plan on ever hurting her.

“So, let’s agree to leave feelings out of this…whatever it is. I’m a mom and have this place to manage. I don’t—can’t be in a relationship. Especially with a guy twelve years younger than me. That’s…”

“Got nothing to do with anything, but sure, whatever you say, Tar. You wanna be friends? We’ll be friends. Doesn’t mean I can’t give you a few orgasms now and then.”

She stays silent, only tosses a glance over her shoulder before opening the door like nothing happened.

I don’t move, staring at her back as she walks away from me.

A feeling that I assume I’m gonna have to get used to.

She’s not an easy one to crack. But she’s also not easy to let go of either.

I’ll simply have to be patient and keep showing up. Keep showing her she can trust me. That I’m here for her, in whatever way she needs.

Because what we have, it’s real. Special. And I’ll wait as long as it takes for her to see that too.

Even if that means pretending we’re only “friends.”

Chapter 18

Taryn

Iremember the day I realized Dad wasn’t coming back. It had been a few weeks. Ian had been acting weird, grumpier. Mom had been acting the exact same as always. In control. Smiling. Cool as can be.

That day, I’d been riding bikes with Marianne for a while, but I was tired and felt like going home. As usual, Ian was playing with Roman outside, Griffin reading, so I went upstairs to my room.

And that was when I heard it.

Mom crying.

My mothernevercried. Not when she was happy, and certainly not when she was sad. Although I didn’t know for sure because she never let us see her be sad.

She was strong, always knew the answers, and never let on that the world wasn’t exactly as she made it out to be.

Until I opened the door and saw her on her bed, head bent over, tissues scattered all over, hands covering her face. She didn’t even hear me enter the room.

I remember her shoulders shaking. The pale blue sweatershe wore and the dark droplets on her jeans from her falling tears.

“Mom?” I said, and she shot up with a gasp. The sight of her red cheeks and the lines from her mascara are seared into my memory. But I didn’t even get to say anything else before she hugged me to her, apologizing.

Sheapologized tome.

As if she had anything to be sorry for.

Her husband, my father, was the one who didn’t appreciate what a good thing he had with her. He didn’t value the life he had. He was the one who thought he could do better, blamed everyone else around him for his failures. He was the one who chose to drink away the money my mother made then got mad because one of us kids dared ask him to act like our father.

The folklore is Clifford Stone had his eyes set on the NBA in college but needed tutoring for a class. That tutor ended up being a pretty, dark-haired girl named Violet, daughter of an Iranian immigrant father and artist mother. Clifford, the middle son of strict Irish Catholics, had never met anyone like her.

The NBA never worked out for old Cliff, but Violet was there at his side and they married right after college. Got pregnant almost immediately.

But poor Clifford couldn’t hack the simple life. He was meant for bigger and better things, and off he went, leaving Violet alone with her toddler. But she made it work on her teacher’s salary and the occasional check he’d send from whatever the hell he did in Atlantic City or New York.

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