“I’d love to. And I was going to be seriously pissed if you didn’t invite me.”
A grin takes over my whole face, and I feel certain of this much—of her, of how much I like spending time with her. “Oh, have you been tracking his birthday?”
“He’s only told me twenty times that it’s this weekend. I’ve already bought him a gift.”
“You know the way to his heart.”
“Well, I am raising a child. They do like gifts.”
“I like gifts,” I say, and I tug at the waistband of her shorts.
She rolls her eyes. “You like the gift of getting in my pants.”
“It’s the gift that keeps on giving. Can you blame me? It’s a wonderful present.”
She runs her fingertip down my nose. “And so is being asked to your son’s party.”
I’m aware of what I’m asking her. I’m asking her to meet my parents. And it feels terrifying.
But also . . . not terrifying at all.
Maybe when I’m there, surrounded by family, I’ll know exactly what I want.
That Saturday, we head over to Lucky Falls in her pink truck. Of course, Wednesday was invited, but she had a pressing fifteen-year-old engagement to attend to—something about melting marshmallows with Audrey for their YouTube channel.
Inside my parents’ place, I introduce January to my father, who shakes her hand and says, “I hear you’re gorgeous and brilliant.”
They chat for a bit about the town, then her business, then a job she just finished, and it’s lovely how easily they’re getting along.
A few minutes later, my mum pulls us aside and says to January, “So you’re the neighbor.”
“I am.”
“Great. I want to show you these cupboards that need a little bit of work, but I insist on paying you.” She beckons January into the kitchen.
January shakes her head. “I insist on you not paying me.”
“No, I must. It’s just how it is.”
That’s my mum, already diving into things, enlisting January in her life and doing it on her terms.
“You will not give me any money, Mrs. Harris.”
From across the room, I call out, “Mum, you’re not going to win this one.”
She tuts, shakes a finger at me, then says, “Oh, yes, I am.”
January flashes me a smile. “She’s not going to win this one.”
My father chuckles and says, “Love, I don’t think you’re going to win this one.”
I sit down next to my dad as January heads inside with my mum to check out the cupboards, and he nods in their direction. “What are you going to do? Do you know?”
I let out a long breath. What am I going to do? That’s exactly what I have to figure out.
As in, what the fuck am I going to do because I’m in love with a woman who doesn’t want what I want at all?
I don’t know. I don’t know. And I don’t know.
Do I just let go of everything I thought I wanted?
Say goodbye to my dreams?
Let them fall to the ground and melt like snow when it touches concrete?
“I have no idea,” I say.
“Maybe you need some time to think about what you want.”
Time.
That sounds wise.
But can I sort it out when I’m tugging her into my bedroom every night, making love to her, whispering sweet nothings, and falling mercilessly in love?
Ethan stays behind at my parents’ house for the night.
On the ride home, January must sense that my mind is far away. Once we pull into my driveway, she runs a hand through my hair, her eyes concerned. “What’s going on?”
That’s the issue.
I’m used to knowing what I want.
Used to understanding my heart.
Accustomed to making decisions.
And I don’t know a damn thing anymore.
The more I’m near her, the harder it is to understand what I want and what I’ll regret.
There’s no point mincing words. I turn, meet her gaze, and speak the truth. “I think I need a few days to figure out what’s going on with us.”
She blinks. Parts her lips. Gulps. When she speaks, it’s in a strangled voice. “A break? You need a break?”
I cup her cheek, sadness flooding my entire being.
But I need time.
I need to know what to do, how to change, what to change. “I do. I do need it because I want all of these things and you don’t, and I can’t keep falling in love with you if you don’t want the same things I do.”
There it is.
I’ve told her that I’m in love with her.
She swallows roughly, licks her lips, then says, “A time-out is a good idea, then, because I’m in love with you too.”
25
January
The next morning, Betty waves me over as I’m outside checking on my flowers.
“January,” she says, beckoning as she waters her garden. It isn’t drowning this time. I head over to her house, stopping at the white fence.
She waggles her eyebrows, her slate-blue eyes twinkling with mischief. “Inquiring minds want to know. Is his tush just as biteable as it looks from a distance?”
