Page 24 of Make Me Yours
It’s a picture of us in our dorm hallway sophomore year of college. I’ve got an arm slung around her shoulder, and we’re both laughing. Our eyes are squinted and heads thrown back. There’s a smear of frosting on her cheek and a plastic tiara on my head from a prank someone pulled during my birthday.
We were so damn young.
“I haven’t seen this in years,” she whispers, running her thumb over the glass. “I used to keep it on my desk when I started law school.”
“You kept it all this time?” I ask, trying to play it cool even though my heart is doing somersaults behind my rib cage.
She nods. “You’ve always been a constant presence in my life. I guess this picture reminded me of that.”
Emotion swells inside me.
Without thinking, I take the frame from her and walk over to the console table by the window before carefully setting it down.
Her head tilts as she watches me. “What are you doing?”
“Giving it a new home,” I say simply. “Looks pretty good there, don’t you think?”
Her eyes warm as her voice dips. “It does.”
She moves beside me, and for a long moment, we both stare at the photo. Her shoulder brushes mine, and there’s a shift in the air as emotion crackles just beneath the surface.
“You really were always there,” she murmurs. “Weren’t you?”
I glance at her. “Always.”
She gives me a small smile. It’s a little sad but stronger than before. After a beat, she bumps her hip against mine.
“Come on,” she says. “Let’s see what other blasts from the past we can dig up.”
I huff out a laugh as we turn back to the mess of cardboard and crumpled tissue paper. She’s still sorting through what’s hers, what’s worth keeping, and what’s already in the past.
And me?
I’m just here to make sure she doesn’t have to do it alone.
7
LILAH
Steele and I are nestled against each other on the couch as the television casts a warm, flickering glow across the room. We’ve somehow gotten sucked into a cooking competition, both pretending we don’t care while low-key rooting for opposite teams.
His arm is draped over the back of the cushions, fingers idly playing with a strand of my hair.
Over the past week, we’ve fallen into an easy and comfortable rhythm. For the first time since my life imploded, I feel like I’m going to be okay.
I’m knocked from those thoughts when my phone buzzes on the coffee table.
Mom.
With a groan, I flop back against the cushion. “Ugh. I was really hoping to avoid this convo for a few more days.”
Or, ideally, the rest of my life.
Steele glances at the screen and then at me. “You don’t have to answer it.”
“Yeah, I know,” I say, nibbling my lower lip. “But if I don’t, she’ll just keep calling. And texting. And emailing. If she figures out where I’ve been hiding, she’ll show up downstairs.”
Steele snorts. “We can give Tommy her photo and instructions to throw her out if she tries anything.”
