Page 14 of Married to Number 22
Then it was because I worried if I slept I would wake up and she’d be gone and?—
I’d have missed it.
My last chance at telling her I love her, at holding her hand, at being by her side.
And after…was the funeral, the burial, clearing out her room and…reading the will.
Realizing that she could still affect my life, even from the other side.
Now, as I open my eyes, I realize why I’m comfortable, why I slept more than those aforementioned three or four hours.
I’m not at home—not at Gram’s place, not even at the family home where my brother and dad live, boundaries trodden on, privacy not respected, and sleeping hours certainly not abided by.
When I lived with them there was always a coffee grinder going or cabinets being slammed or knocks on my door because they need something from me.
So, Gram’s place was the natural conclusion. Plus, it was the only house that ever felt like home anyway. It’s just…it hasn’t been easy to hold on to for a girl making twenty dollars an hour.
Neither is paying the crippling lawyer fees, especially when I’m cut off from the family coffers.
Thus, my father and brother’s war on wearing me down, on getting me to give in has continued.
And I’m stuck.
But…for once I’m not in my own bed, dealing with their bullshit.
I’m rested and?—
A soft snore.
I’m withAiden.
In his arms. In his?—
I finally process what I’m seeing.
Aiden’s bedroom.
Navy walls, gray curtains on the windows, mahogany furniture. A mirror on the far wall, a—I shift slightly, trying to see, my lips curving when I do. The man has an area rug, thick and plush and patterned.
With swirls of blue and gray.
There’s art on the walls—a cityscape that gives tribute to Baltimore, where he played for the Breakers, and also one of this coast, depicting the craggy cliffs that surround the Pacific, worn into complex patterns over thousands and thousands of years of wind and rain and waves.
A rug. Art. Curtains. Matching furniture.
He reallyisall grown up.
“What are you smiling about?”
I jerk then shift again, this time in the circle of Aiden’s arms, finding his eyes open, the emerald depths sparkling with curiosity. He lifts a hand, traces lightly along the curve of my mouth, and I’m a little surprised to find that Iamsmiling.
“You have a rug.”
His brow lifts.
“And matching curtains and a furniture set and”—I tug lightly at the covers—“an actual bedspread and corresponding sheets.”
Nowhismouth curves. “And that’s worth smiling about?”
