Page 49 of The Infiniteness of Yesterday
It’s obvious he’s talking about me, but I don’t touch that comment. Now isn’t the time.
Sipping my water, I get up and walk around the living space. I take in the tiny details that make this house a home. Like the travel books on the built-in shelves beside the fireplace and TV. Little knickknacks clutter the area, probably things Spencer has picked up on his journeys. Beside a book about surfing there’s a picture frame with a photo of Roe and him. He’s holding her on his shoulders, his head tilted back with her bending over to give him a kiss.
Picking up the frame, I turn around and show it to Spencer. “I love this.”
He grins, crossing his legs that are stretched out on the chaise part of the sectional sofa. “I do, too. Figured I better frame it because one day she’ll be afraid to even hold my hand.”
“She’s growing up fast.” I return the photo to the shelf and smile at another of Spencer. He’s holding onto his surfboard, standing beside a dark-haired man who also has his surfboard stuck in the sand beside him. “Who’s this?”
He lifts his head, squinting at the photo I show him. A big grin lights up his face. “My surfing hero Liam Wade. He lives a couples houses away actually. Getting to meet him was cool and I guess you could say we’re kind of friends now.” He gives a shrug like it’s no big deal that he’s hanging out with his idol.
I smile but it’s a little wobbly. “You’re living an amazing life.”
It might not be one I would’ve chosen, but it doesn’t make the statement any less true.
“It’s certainly not what I expected.”
I move to the shelves on the other side of the fireplace. Picking up a ceramic pig, badly pained in colors of blue and green, I hold it up for him to see. “I remember this.”
He smiles wistfully in remembrance. “Monroe was three and we took her to the pottery place for her birthday.”
“And all she wanted was this silly pig. I think she got more paint on herself than it.”
He laughs. “You were so irritated when she got it on her dress.”
I groan, shaking my head. “I knew she’d get it all over her but she threw a fit when I tried to get her to wear something else. Arguing with a toddler is like trying to negotiate with a drunk sorority girl—pointless and not worth it.” I return the pig to the spot.
“Monroe has always had a mind of her own.”
“That she has. Wow, I can’t believe you have this.” My fingers shake slightly as I wrap them around the framed photo of Spencer and me. It was taken at the pier, the lights from the Ferris Wheel blurred in the background. We stand in the middle of the pier, kissing, with my arms twined around his neck. My round belly takes up space between us and his hands rest around the shape of it.
“It reminds me of … before,” he finishes simply.
“Before?” I probe, worried I don’t want to hear his answer.
He wets his lips with a quick slide of his tongue. “Before life got crazy and we had a baby to raise and…” He bites his lip like he’s trying to hold in the words. “Before my career derailed everything.”
“Spencer.” I close my eyes, trying to center myself. When I open them, I find him in the same spot on the couch, watching me closely. “It was more than just that.” My shoulders deflate. We’ve had this conversation numerous times, but Spencer likes to conveniently forget. “You … you were my first boyfriend and I was so in love with you, but I was scared after I got pregnant and we had a baby. I … I didn’t want to feel like I was stuck with you because of it. I wanted to date other people.”
He stands suddenly and I don’t know how but in less than a blink he’s right in front of me. He cradles my cheeks in his warm soft hands. “One—you’ve dated one person since we broke up. You haven’t really explored anything and I … I’ve been right here, waiting for you to wake up and see what’s in front of you. What’s always been in front of you.”
My lips tremble, not with tears, but with excitement at his touch. An electric current thrums through my limbs. Anger simmers inside me but it’s overwhelmed by the pleasure at being in his hold. The anger is purely at myself, for liking the way it feels when he touches me. I love Jameson. I’minlove with him. It shouldn’t feel this good when another man touches me, especially one who I let go of.
“Do you feel that, Harlow?” He leans in, his mouth centimeters from my cheek as his fingers stroke slowly along the satin curve of my skin. He doesn’t wait for me to answer. “He can never make you feel like that from one touch.”
My body shudders treacherously with pleasure as his lips skim over mine in a barely-there touch. It’s not even a kiss, it’s not anything at all, but I feel it everywhere when I should feel it nowhere.
Somehow, I find the willpower to brace my hands on his shoulders and shove him away before I do something stupid that I can’t take back. Like kiss him for real.
My feet feel leaden but I run from him, straight for the door. I yank it open and race outside, down his driveway.
“Harlow!” He calls after me, pain in his voice. “Stop, please! Where are you going?”
I whip around, pointing a finger at him. “You don’t get to do that. We’re not … we’re not us anymore.” My voice cracks on that treacherous word—us. No matter what I do, there’s always going to be an us.
Stalking back up the driveway, anger builds inside me. He stands in one spot; his hands shoved into his pockets. That elegant, sculpted jaw of his pulses with things he wants to say but smartly keeps his mouth shut. “I’m with Jameson now. I know you hate that but it’s true.”
His shoulders are squared like an impenetrable wall, one I’m sure my words bounce off of. The problem is, despite what I say, I’m angrier at myself because I did like the way it felt when he touched me.
