Page 22 of Dove
Something in his voice caused me to still. Closing my eyes and taking a deep breath, I steeled myself for whatever conversation was about to rear its ugly head between us. I’d been waiting for it, after all.
“What is there to talk about, Josh?” I kept my back to him, refusing to turn and look at the man behind me, begging me to talk to him.Talk?I’d been wishing for that since the day he left, but every message I sent went unopened. Every call I made went unanswered. Until finally, I gave up entirely and promised myselfnever again.
Nowhe wanted to talk?
Too damn late.
“I don’t want it to be like this between us,” Josh confessed. The gravel crunched under his feet as he moved.
“Then you shouldn’t have left,” I whispered, some of the hurt I’d kept locked up slipping past my defenses and bleeding into my voice.
He took another step closer, enough that I could almost feel the warmth of him along my back.
“Please, Dove,” he begged, voice low, as if he was sharing a secret. Like there weren’t miles of farmland separating us and the next neighbor over.
A touch to my shoulder, light and barely there. “We’re all each other have now.”
Everything in me ached to take one step back. Just one. To step into his space and wrap myself up in him.
But I didn’t.
Icouldn’t.
Instead, I turned around. Meeting him halfway.
It wasn’t forgiveness—not yet. But I was willing to listen to him, at least. Because he had a point. Wewerethe only people we had left. Neither one of us came from large families, and our parents were both only children. The grandparents I had that were still alive were my dad’s parents, but they called Florida home, a far cry away from middle-of-nowhere Pennsylvania. I knew Josh had a similar family situation.
If we didn’t have each other, we’d have nobody.
Even with that realization, my anger wasn’t quick to leave me, smoldering stubbornly like the embers of a once-blazing fire. A part of me didn’t want to extinguish it. There were no words to describe how hurt I’d been by Josh leaving. Not when I’d confessed and confided in him how much I worried every day I’d be left alone, losing my loved ones like I had that day I’d lost my dad. Even if a small part of Josh had somehow missed me—though it had been his choice to leave—it couldn’t compare to how much I’d missed him. Every day without him was lived hollow-chested, as if my beating heart had been ripped from me and I’d been forced to go on living, a shell of a person.
Stubbornly, I wanted to hold on to my anger, refuse to give in so easily like I always had in the past, but not if it meant losing him again. But that was the thing, I wasn’t sure I wouldn’t losehim again. He’d given no indication that his stay was anything but temporary. I didn’t trust him not to leave me. Not yet.
Our eyes locked. His dim with sadness, mine bright with hostile anger.
Damn him and those puppy dog eyes.
“It’s Friday,” I begrudgingly pointed out, offering up a metaphorical olive branch.
He’d know exactly what I meant.
“Feast Fridays” were born in our teenage years from growing appetites, a shared love for takeout, and the knowledge that our parents escaped for date night at the start of the weekend, unable to monitor our intake. Miggy’s had always been my favorite to order from, but it wasn’t like our local town was briming with choices. Those nights started out as all teenage endeavors do, with a healthy amount of greasy food, a good movie, and the freedom of an empty house.
As we’d grown, pizza night shifted into something different; less and less just the two of us and more Josh inviting his friends over, so we could all party by the lake as one big group. Beer replaced takeout, sitting on the couch watching a movie evolved into sitting around a roaring bonfire, and the time that had been shared between the two of us became filled instead with the raucous laughter of a group full of friends.
I never did have enough courage to tell Josh I missed the times when it was just us. Enjoyed it more when we could share a large pepperoni pie, some cheese fries, and revel in an empty house. Preferring it, even, to the loud, noisy parties we hosted.
A small smile curved his lips. “It is.”
I eyed him, crossing my arms defensively. “Do you still enjoy pepperoni as a topping, or did you turn into one ofthose kindsthat prefer fruit on their pizza?” I pretended to shudder.
“What would you do if I said yes?” His voice was teasing, and it sounded so normal, so similar to how it used to be between us,back when he still called this place home, when he’d calledmehome, that I nearly stopped breathing.
“Then I’d say you’re on your own, because I won’t let you desecrate the sanctity of pizza for that abomination.”
He laughed, a sharp bright sound, with his head thrown back and the muscles constricting under the material of his tight shirt. My breath really did leave me this time.
When his head tilted back down to me, mirth still sparkled in his eyes. “No, Dove, I don’t like fruit on my pizza. Nothing could make that happen.”
