Page 18 of Like Home
“Why would I? Love is a huge part of the human experience. It’s arguably the best part. What’s so dumb about wanting to read about that?” His brows draw together in genuine puzzlement.
“I don’t know, it can be unrealistic. No guy, no relationship looks like they do in romances,” I repeat what I’ve heard from Jared too many times to count with a shrug. Even though I left him because I couldn’t accept that, a small part of me still fears he’s right. I can’t help poking that old bruise to see if it still hurts.
“A dead guy and a medium might be pushing it for the sake of realism.” Ryan smiles at me and I laugh. “But I don’t think it’s sounrealistic to be in a relationship that makes both people feel loved. My parents are like that. They met in their early twenties, fell in love hard and fast, and have lived happily ever after, I guess you could say. After my dad retired last year, they took off on an RV road trip around the U.S. I get picture updates every few days and they seem as happy as can be.” He shows me his phone and scrolls through some pictures of his parents. One of them is outside their RV in the desert somewhere, another is of them posing in front of a “Welcome to Georgia” sign. They look happy, beaming at the camera from their awkward selfie angles.
“I love how happy they look, even after, what… thirty years?” I ask.
“Thirty-two if you include the year they dated before marriage,” he replies, a soft smile tugging at his lips.
“That’s actually one of the sweetest things I’ve ever seen,” I state, gesturing to his phone.
“I know, isn’t it sick?” he asks with a laugh. He shrugs, “I want that someday. They gave me one hell of a blueprint for happiness.” He looks down at his phone, making the screen go dark before he shoves it in his pocket.
“Happily ever afters are kind of foreign to me in the real world,” I say, looking down into my half-drunk mug of coffee. “My dad was a deadbeat and my parents split before I was even born. They fought like cats and dogs until the day my mom died. She passed from an aneurysm when Emma was one. She was at work and just… dropped dead. This was her house, actually.” I take a second to look around the kitchen, my eyes catching on the permanent marker lines along the pantry that marked my growth and the ticks in dark blue pen that mark Emma’s. “And well, you’ve heard about Jared and I. So, yeah, happily ever afters seem… I don’t know. Unreachable for me, I guess.” I clear my throat and turn my back on him, rinsing my mug in the sink.
A large, warm hand rests on my shoulder and his low voice rumbles in my ear, “I’m sorry about your mom, Summer. I can’timagine how hard that must have been trying to be there for your daughter while you were grieving.” I feel my tense shoulders drop at the way he gets to the crux of the issue so easily.
I blow out a breath and turn, his hand falling away, “It was. I was only twenty when she passed, so I felt robbed. Even though the timing of Emma was rough because I’d just graduated high school, I’m kind of glad I had her so young. My mom got to meet her and be a grandma before she passed.” I move away from him and shake my head at myself, “God, I’m sorry. I’m just trauma dumping all over you and we don’t even know each other.” I hide my face in my hands, wishing there was a way to suck all the words back into my lungs.
“Hey, don’t do that,” he says, gently removing my hands from my face. He keeps his hold on my wrists, and waits until I look him in the eye, “I know we just met, but I like you, Summer. I want to know you.”
“Like, as friends?” I regret the words as soon as they leave my mouth. I can’t believe I justfriend-zonedthe hottest, possibly sweetest guy who has ever looked my way.
He steps back, dropping my wrists. “Yeah, friends.” He scratches the back of his neck.
“So, friend. Are you gonna take a look at the leak, or what? I’m not paying you to stand around my kitchen drinking my coffee,” I say jokingly, trying to divert attention away from the awkwardness that permeates the air like cheap perfume.
“You’re not paying me at all,” he replies drily, bending down to pick up his bag. I start to protest, but he talks over me, “Friends don’t charge friends for small jobs, Summer. I’m going to go take a look in the attic again and then the roof. Be back in a bit.” He heads out and I try valiantly not to stare at the way his jeans perfectly frame his ass as he walks away. I sigh.
Friends don’t stare at each other’s asses either, Summer.
A short while later, Ryan joins me in the living room where I’m continuing to read,Ghosted.“Anything good happen yet?” He asks, sitting down on the couch at the other end. His eyes snag on the solo picture of Emma that hangs in the place of the family photo that used to be on the wall. To my relief, he doesn’t remark on it and slides his eyes to me instead.
“Not really. Rae is trying to figure out how Dean died. Turns out it wasn’t a freak accident, but a murder,” I set the book on the coffee table and turn to him.
“An unsolved murder is pretty juicy.”
“Oh.I thought you were asking if they’ve figured out how to have sex yet. The answer is no by the way.” I tuck my feet to the side and lean against the back of the couch.
“I think an unsolved murder is more important than ghost sex, Summer.” He raises his eyebrows at me.
“Mmm, I beg to differ. Maybe in a thriller, but this is a romance. The murder is just an extra plot line on top of their undying love.”
“Ba-dum-tss.”He mimes hitting drums at my pun and we both laugh. “So you think they’ll be able to figure it out?”
“The murder? Yeah, romance books tend to tie everything up neatly, even murder plots.” I shrug a shoulder and try not to ogle the way the planes of his stomach flex under his t-shirt as he sits up straighter.
“No, the sex. How would that even work?” He seems to think over his own question, brows narrowing in a deliciously broody way.
I get hot all over at the thought. “I’ll let you know when I find out,” I say against my better judgment. I change the subject for my own sanity, “So. My leak. Is it bad?”
“Luckily, no. It looks like your roof wasn’t draining the water properly before I fixed it. It was clogged up in one spot, which led to your leak. I cleaned out under the tiles and added some flashingto the spot. It’ll improve the flow a lot, so you shouldn’t have any more problems.”
“I don’t know what any of that means, but I’ll take it as a good sign that it didn’t take you too long to fix.” He snorts and nudges my knee with the toe of his boot. “Is there any water damage?”
“Surprisingly no, other than your stain,” he points to the ceiling. “I did leave a fan running up in your attic to help dry it out. Do you want me to paint your ceiling?”
I wave away his offer. While I wouldn’t mind another excuse to see him, I have a sneaking suspicion he wouldn’t let me pay him. Again. “Oh, no. I can do that. I have leftover paint from a couple of years ago when I repainted all of the ceilings.”
