Page 83 of It's Always Been You
He grabs my face almost roughly. “I’ve wanted—” He squishes his forehead against mine as his grip on my cheeks tightens. There’s a sudden blaze of determination in his eyes that takes my breath away. “I more than like you, Spitfire. I love you. Iloveyou. And I want you. All of you. Every part of you.”
My knees buckle. I forget to breathe.
Am I dreaming this?
“Notlike that,” he clarifies, then pauses. “Well, yes, like that.” He smirks once, his eyes sheepish before they go serious again. “But it goes beyond that. I wantyou—your forgiveness, your trust, your heart, your time. But most importantly, I want things to be the way they were before. Before I messed up. Before everything changed between us.”
My heart falls with disappointment. So hedoesn’twant what I want.
He wants to go back to the waythings were . . .before.
“But I don’t think you’re ready for any of that, and I don’t blame you. And at any rate, I don’t think I really deserve those things.” I grimace. He hesitates, then sighs. “I know there’s still so much to talk about . . . so much that was left unsaid after everything that happened, and I know that’s my fault, but—”
My hands cover his. “Brandon, stop.” I sniffle and cough, and it’s not for dramatic effect. I genuinely don’t feel well, and the idea of talking about how he broke my heart isn’t exactly on the top of my list of priorities right now.
That’s a wound I don’t think I can reopen tonight.
Or ever again.
“I’m sorry.” I stifle a yawn. “I’m just very,verytired, and my back—”
At the mention of my back pain, Brandon immediately steps back. “Let me take you to bed.”
Surprised, I nod. Sleep sounds like a five-star meal right about now. “Okay.”
Then he turns and crouches down.
Perplexed, I stare at his broad, muscular back.
He glances over his shoulder and gestures for me to hop on. “All aboard the Brandon Express.”
I laugh. “Um . . .”
“Come on,” he insists, still crouching in front of me like he’s poised to play leap frog. “Hop on.”
Embarrassed, I recall all the times I forced him and Jamie to give me piggyback rides while growing up. And maybe it’s the pain or the fatigue or the fact that we’vefinallyaddressed the elephant in the room, but for once, I don’t feel like rejecting him.
So I allow him to assist me up onto his back and carry me up the stairs piggyback style like I weigh nothing more than a backpack filled with feathers.
“Toot-toot,” he jokes when we’re halfway up the steps.
I laugh again.
He sighs like he’s relieved by the sound and squeezes my thigh.
When we make it upstairs, the TV is off, and the house is silent. Brandon tiptoes toward my bedroom, and our sneaking around feels eerily similar to all the times I snuck out to see him, or when he’d slip silently into Grandma’s house to see me.
I’m starting to wonder if Grandma knew about us the whole time.
Brandon gently deposits me onto the edge of my bed, but as he goes to step back, I grab his hand. I regret it almost immediately, but it’s too late to backtrack. He turns, then sinks to his knee before me. He’s looking at me so expectantly, so attentively—as if he thinks I’m about to ask him to do me some complicated favor before he leaves.
He strokes my knuckles with his thumb. “Yes?”
“Stay,” I blurt thoughtlessly, my cheeks warming when I realize what I’m asking.
One night wouldn’t hurt, right?
“No,” he says instantly, firmly. I’m so floored by his blunt rejection that my mouth falls open and tears pool in my eyes. But then he drops a tender kiss to my knuckles. “Not because I don’t want to,” he adds, softening the blow. “It’s just . . . not a good idea. You know that.”
