Page 50 of Feels Like Falling
I lift a shoulder and let it drop. “In a manner of speaking.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? All this time and I could’ve—wecould’ve…” His voice trails off and he rubs his palm over his jaw as he looks away from me and out the windshield.
“I couldn’t,” I say quietly, and his head whips to face me, the intensity in his eyes making me question if I should have done this tonight. “I wouldn’t have survived that, Montana. I was still locked into working at the school, not just a couple of months butyears.It was hard enough seeing you after Nan’s funeral and having to go back to Savannah. Being away from you was hard when we weren’t talking, but it was so much harder after that.” Wiping a lone tear from my cheek, I exhale a shuddery breath as I add, “I wouldn’t have survived if we constantly had to say goodbye knowing the crash would always outweigh those pockets of happiness.”
His eyelids squeeze shut, and I grip his hand harder, silently begging him to understand.
“I hate it,” Montana whispers, and those three little words are full of so much hurt, my heart squeezes in my chest.
“I didn’t know another way.” It’s my turn to stare out the windshield, taking in the adorable white painted brick building with peony bushes and aDogs Welcomesign leading to the outdoor seating around the side. “I’m sorry I ruined things tonight.”
“You didn’t ruin tonight.” His hand tugs on mine until I pull my gaze back to his. “It’s just hard to hear that all that was going on—that you were so miserable you were fake dating someone just to make it through each day. I’ve never wanted that for you.”
“And now it’s over.” Blinking away the tears, I reach over and cup his cheek with my palm. “I’m home and that part of my life is done. I just didn’t want it hanging over us—me—tonight.”
“Need to work on your timing,” he murmurs, but a smile tugs at his lips as he turns his face to place a kiss on my palm.
“But you’re not mad?”
“I’m…not mad.”
“You’re not happy either.”
“Eddie,” he says, swallowing hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, “you’re gonna need to give me a minute to reconcile the fact that another man had years that could have been mine.” I open my mouth to speak but he shakes his head. “Part of me gets it—I do—but the other part wants to break shit with my bare hands. Do you still talk to him?”
“We’re still friends.” His eyebrows climb up his forehead, so I add, “Only friends. He knows how I feel about you.”
“He better—I don’t care how much money he has; I’ll still kick his ass all the way back to Savannah.”
Launching myself at him over the center console, I crush my mouth against his, my body awkwardly contorted at this angle. No one has ever defended me so passionately, and his indignation on my behalf is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.
Montana’s hand tangles in my hair, his fingers fisting the strands as he holds me in place and devours my mouth. It’s both pleasure and punishment and I can’t get enough. I’m just about to climb the rest of the way over and into his lap when he pulls back and rests his forehead against mine.
“Do you still want to do dinner?” I ask hopefully, but Montana shakes his head, the movement awkward with him still resting against me. “Takeout?” I try again, my voice kicking up an octave with the desperation pumping though my veins.
“Nah, I got something else in mind.”
* * *
Montana tradedhis baseball hat tonight for a cowboy hat he had in the backseat of the truck after we parked in the grassy lot owned by Jake Booker and home to the Brew, Q ’n Boogie. I’d never been here, but Montana had told me about plenty of nights comin’ down to support his friend and blow off some steam.
The field is packed, food trucks lining the perimeter, and I recognize a handful of people, but Montana just pulls me along to the end of the row to where a bright-blue truck sits,The Backyardscrawled in white letters along the side.
“See? Not all is lost,” he says with a sheepish expression and the lift of one shoulder.
“I like this,” I say, looking around and watching the people laugh and dance around us. It’s refreshing, and while a crowd isn’t normally my favorite, there’s something comforting about the simplicity of it all. A field is just a field, but add in a stage and a place to dance and it’shome.
“Yeah?” he asks, and I nod before wrapping my arm around his waist and resting my cheek against his chest. “I wasn’t gonna be able to sit long enough to be polite back there.”
He hitches his thumb toward the parking lot, and I roll my lips inward and take a steadying breath before turning my face up to meet his. “What’s good here?”
Ten minutes and two containers of takeout later, we find ourselves at the picnic table on the far side of the field. Montana pulls a burger the size of his face out and takes a bite, sauce dotting the corner of his mouth. His smile is playful and he seems so young like this—like this is a place, with the music and chaos, that settles his nerves and calms his soul.
We should all be so lucky.
I open my own container and grab my fork and knife before dumping an unhealthy amount of syrup on top of my chicken and waffles. I’d had it in Savannah, but it wasn’t the same, and one small bite confirms what I already knew—there’s no place like Tennessee for comfort food.
For me at least.
