I don’t want to look at him anymore. I’ve had enough for one night.
My keys tumble from my hands and clatter loudly when they hit the wood floor.
He leans down before I can, and instead of handing them back to me, he unlocks the door for me and opens it, waving me inside my home.
I huff. “I hate you.”
He rolls his eyes and walks inside. “No, you don’t.”
“Hey! Who invited you in?”
All I can see is his broad back, the fabric of his shirt rippling with every heavy stride. He stops in the doorway of the kitchen and turns around. “It’s weird in here without her, huh?”
I close the front door behind me, peeking at him through my eyelashes. “Tell me about it.”
He’s too big for my house now. He fills the frame of the door, and the room feels like it needs to expand to be able to contain his presence. He’s always been larger than life; that’s why him moving to LA with me never seemed impossible. He’s the type of person who makes the most, if not better, of what’s thrown at him. I learned at the tender age of nineteen that even he has a breaking point.
His eyes tense as he watches me, his lips twitching under his scruff. “There’s so much I want to say, so much I want to talk about, and so much I think you need to talk about, too, but I want to be selfish. Maybe because I’ve been waiting for this moment since you released your book.”
My heart constricts, and I forget how to breathe again. My diaphragm stops moving. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I shrug.
“We need to talk about the elephant in the room.”
“Caiden, there are so many elephants in this room that we could open up a frickin’ zoo.”
He laughs, and the sound triggers that natural pull of oxygen. I remember writing my book and how describing him the way I did was never a lie or an exaggeration.
“We need to talk about your book first.”
“There’s nothing to say.” I turn away. I realize we’re in my house, and I have nowhere to run.
“Stop it. Just because this whole town is illiterate doesn’t mean I am.”
It’s supposed to be a joke, but my heart leaps into my throat, preventing speech.
He shakes his head. “Wait here.”
What a silly thing to say. Especially since nauseating fear and embarrassment have me nailed to the spot.
He walks past me, flings open the front door, leaving it wide open as he rushes outside.
“What are you doing?” I ask, swiveling around.
He’s fiddling in his truck for less than a minute before trotting back inside, closing the door behind him, and strategically placing himself a few feet in front of me. He lifts his right hand holding a book. My book. I recognize it as the first edition with the old cover, before my publisher revamped it after it hit the New York Times bestseller list.
His copy has my jaw dropping as I stare and examine it. It’s not worn like a book you read once and place on your shelf to collect dust. No, this one is tattered in a cherished way. The corners and edges are bent and faded, and the spine is lined with many folds of repeated use. However, what shocks me the most are all the tabbed Post-it notes sticking out from all sides in different flagged colors. If the book was larger, you could mistake it for a textbook just by the sheer number of notes that it seems to hold, but no, it’s my book.
Speechless. I’m speechless.
He’s watching me again, and I still can’t stop staring at that thing in his hands.
“Are we going to be honest, Hailey, or are we going to pretend that this book isn’t about us?”
My mouth that was still hanging open slams shut. I guess I knew this was always a possibility. My big fear was that anyone in this town would pick up my book and find out that they were the foundation to its setting, but damn it, I had hoped that Caiden would never touch it and see it for what it really is. I thought in the edits I did a good job of covering my tracks. I changed names, locations, and appearances.
Though, staring at him now, it’s those eyes of his. They’ve always been: piercing, expectant, honest, determined, and they can see right through me. They always have.
Nope. I can’t. I’m not ready. Not for this.
Tonight has been too much. From seeing first loves, tattoos that tell stories, to missing Mom… I can’t talk about this right now. I think I’m ready for another good cry, and maybe more beer. It’s hard to tell.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The hell you don’t. Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”
I wish I could admit I have a lot I want to say, but it’s just not the right time, and for now, denying everything sounds like my best option.
“It’s not. You’re just reading too much into it.” I lie through my fucking teeth, and I know he knows I’m full of shit.
He grumbles, running his free hand through his hair, utterly frustrated with me, and I don’t blame him. “I’m going to let this go for tonight, because obviously you’re dealing with a lot, and we’ve really talked about so many damn things that I can’t decide if we made any progress, BUT,” he enunciates loudly, “don’t think I won’t make you accountable chapter by chapter. It might not be that obvious to anyone else, but I know this book is about us.”
I stomp my right foot like a child, which only ignites his glorious smile. He riles me up. It’s like he pushed me down in the schoolyard to show affection. And trust me, he did that a lot.
“I don’t know what progress we have to make, but there’s nothing to talk about, Caid. Just drop it.”
He lets out an exasperated sigh, but reveals a comical crook to his lip. “Still stubborn as all hell.”
I cross my arms over my chest, and nod my stubborn agreement.
He starts for the door, walking past me, but stops abruptly before reaching it. He turns around, but his eyes aren’t on me.
“Why haven’t you unpacked?” His eyes drag over the couch, taking in the blanket and pillows before coming back to me.
“Uh… um…” I stammer. I shrug so hard it almost knocks me off-balance.
He sighs inwardly before taking two steps to reach me, and I don’t know what to do, or what he’s doing. But then he grabs for my shoulders and pulls me into a rough hug. It’s abrupt, but it’s also tight, secure, safe, and brief.
I hate it when he releases me, just like I hate his handsomely grown-up face, and his dashingly beautiful forearms, and his stupid, stupid eyes.
“It’s going to be okay, Hailey. This isn’t over. We’ll talk more, all right? And for the record, I’m glad you’re back.”
He asked me a question, but the pain etched on his face, and the fact he’s already turning around, heading out the door to his car means he doesn’t want an answer to it.
What if I’m done talking to him? What if I have nothing more to say? What if I told him he can’t come here and dust off my heart from the pile of ashes it’s been sitting in and inspire everything that I thought I lost?
Instead, I pout, standing on my porch. He shoots me a sharply crafted smirk before climbing into his truck, as if he knows I hate him for all those reasons that I don’t hate him for at all.