Page 22 of Never After Us
“I drink coffee,” I tell her.“Coffee.”
“Not today,” she chirps, the picture of early-morning optimism.Her eyes sparkle—actually sparkle—and I swear she takes pleasure in watching me endure this.
Before I can object, she places the mug into my hand.Reflex.Instinct.Some pathetic part of me obeys her.
Stupid hands.
“It’s chamomile and lavender,” she explains.“Good for soothing energy.”
I lift it to my nose.
“It smells like sadness and potpourri had a child.”
Mara bites back a grin, like she can read every thought marching through my head.Mila watches me with unfiltered interest, her small face tilted up, eyebrows raised with expectation.
“Do you feel calmer yet?”Mila asks.
“No.”
“Give it a minute,” she insists.
“He has to drink it first, sweetpea,” Mara says, like they’re observing wildlife at a zoo exhibit.
I blink at both of them—my early-morning intruders—trying to comprehend how this became my life.“So, why are you on my doorstep at 7:43 a.m.?”
Mara brightens even more—how is that physically possible?—and the smile that curls her mouth is trouble.Warm, wicked trouble.A smile that hits somewhere I don’t want to investigate, tugging at a part of me I’d rather keep dormant.Absolutely not.I’m like a monk.Monks don’t think about pretty, tempting mouths or wonder what they taste like.They take vows of celibacy—or whatever the hell mine counts as—because I’ve been abstinent since this latest time I sobered up.
No more drugs, no alcohol, and definitely no sex—not when I used all three to shove my emotions into a corner.
“We’re exploring, obviously,” Mara responds.
That smile.God help me.
It irritates me.
It distracts me.
It makes me want to kiss her senseless.
Which is bad.Very, very bad.
“Exploring what?”I ask, pretending my pulse hasn’t decided to sprint.
“Everything,” Mila says, flipping her notebook open with the enthusiasm of a pint-sized investigative reporter.“But mostly: one, why the lobby smells like lemons.Two, how many floors does this building actually have?And three, why the man downstairs wears gloves all the time> Does he wear them even when it’s warm?Is he a cartoon character?”
“That’s a lot of questions,” I sigh instead of telling her that she might have already used up all the questions for today.
“Also, whether you have pets and—” She stops dramatically, like she’s about to reveal national secrets.
I take a sip of the tea and nearly grimace.Mara watches my mouth when I swallow, and something inside me stirs.Her expression softens in a way that shouldn’t hit me as hard as it does.There’s something impossibly kind in her gaze.Something alive and hopeful.
Even when her aunt died and ...is her life good enough to be this happy?Maybe she’s one of those people who grew up happy and has had a very cushy life.That’s the only way I can understand why she’s this happy and cheery.
There’s no other way someone would be showing up at my door with tea and a kid and enough sunshine to blind a man who never learned how to let any in.
I clear my throat, trying to reposition the invisible barrier I keep between me and the rest of humanity fully back into place.It slips anyway.
“Mara,” I say, low, “I’m not awake enough for exploration.”
