Page 79 of Pucked Up Plans
“Hey. That was quick. How long before she comes out the first time?”
Over my shoulder, I find Tate sitting at the table, her fingers twiddling the strings of her hoodie. It’s oversized and paired with black leggings. When my mind wanders to what’s underneath, I turn back around, ignoring the tenting in my sweatpants.
“The first time?” Tate finally speaks, her uncertain voice more concerning than her question.
Again I abandon the mess, rinse and dry my hands, and drop into the seat across from her. She visibly retreats from the nearness.
Hmm.
“The first time she comes out of bed.”
As if understanding dawns on her, her confused expression fades. “Oh, she won’t.”
“Ever?”
She shakes her head and thinks for a minute. “No. Once she’s in bed, she stays there.”
Her words cause me to fall back against my chair. A brief conversation we had about bedtime routines filters through my mind, but to see it in action makes me awestruck.
“I am super jealous right now. Teeming with envy.” Which is kind of an understatement, evidenced by the way I beg, “How? Can you teach me all your tricks?”
A shy smile invades her lips. “It’s not something I did. Besides, I vaguely remember you mentioning something about Lennon not doing it to her mother.” Her brows meet her hairline. The small creases forming do nothing to lessen the attraction I feel toward her. It heightens it.
“I fully admit it’s me. That’s why I need your help.”
As much as I’m kidding—kinda—the way she reacts, it was the wrong thing.
“I can’t,” she voices in a hushed tone.
“Harsh, but I get it. I’m on my own for a bad habit I created. This is just one reason Millie likes you. You don’t enable me.”
For the second time, her face goes ashen. Conversely, not only do I not like it, but it must be something I’m doing to make her feel this way. Wish I knew what it was.
My hand reaches for hers, but she pulls it away before I can make contact. Abruptly, she stands up, a shudder passing through her. Swiping a container from the counter, a bag of cookies on top, she slides it across the table.
“I think you should go.”
That’s all she says.I think you should go.
Her arms cross over her chest, hugging tightly. Like if she lets go, she’d do something she’d regret.
“Go? I didn’t finish the dishes. Wasn’t that the deal?” That’s not the reason I want to stay. Not at all. But it’s the only one reasonable enough to change her mind.
“You can have the cookies. I’ll finish the mess.”
The chair I occupy nearly falls to the floor as I stand up quickly.
“Talk to me, Tate. What happened? What did I do? How can I make this better?”
I’ve learned there’s not always something to be done to make things “better,” especially when I’m the one causing the hurt or pain. I’m lost at what I’ve done or how to fix it.
“We can’t.”
“We can’t what?” I ask. Her shoulders slump, her head tilts, her gaze trains on something on the table. My thumb hooks under her chin, tipping it up. Tears pool in the corners of her eyes, stirring up a shitstorm inside me. The turmoil on her face kicks me into protective mode.
I don’t want to be the one to put this look on her face.
I don’t want to be the one to cause her stress.
