Fall With Me (Playing For Keeps Book 4)

“You’d be, like, super pretty if you were a girl.”

“I’m super pretty as is,” I remind Sarah, and everyone else within earshot.

She stops everything she’s doing, frowning. Or maybe it’s a grimace. Whatever it is, it’s definitely unimpressed, which cannot possibly be right. She pops a fist on her hip, tossing her jet-black hair over her shoulder, narrowing her dark brown eyes. Fuck, there’s no attitude like that of a twelve-year-old girl. “Ya know, Jaxon, I think it’s really important and great to be confident.”

“We love a confident king!” Carter calls from across the table, where he’s currently stringing together a friendship bracelet for Olivia. That’s what he’s calling it, at least, but the letters he’s lined up in front of him are L E T S F U C K, and I’m not sure that spells friendship.

“As I was saying before Carter rudely interrupted, being confident is great and all, but sometimes”—Sarah grants me a once-over—“a dose of reality is needed too.”

“What the fu—rrrck.” I throw my hands up, and before I can drag them down my face, Sarah gasps.

“Don’t touch your face! I just did your makeup!”

“Why do I even come here? Nobody appreciates me. I let you do my hair, I let you do my makeup, I even let you do my nails”—I tick each one off on my fingers—“and I’m supposed to just sit here while you tell me I’m not pretty enough?”

“Do you even listen? I simply said you’d be super pretty if you were a girl. Now sit still.” She dabs her brush in a pot of sparkly pink powder. “I wanna do your eye shadow. And, oh!” She grins, holding up a sheet of star stickers. “Look what I got. They’ll look perfect in the corners of your eyes.”

I roll my eyes before I close them, letting Sarah work her magic. We come here to Second Chance Home as often as we can to spend time with the kids. That means a lot of arts and crafts, hot mess makeup, weird hairdos, and sometimes baking, which is my personal favorite. I also enjoy getting manicures, but I pretend they’re the worst so Sarah won’t catch on and stop doing them. I enjoy it a lot more than I thought I would, and the first time I walked in here, over a year ago now, Sarah dubbed me her special project.

A small hand clasps my arm, and I crack a lid in time to see Lily tug on my elbow.

“Hey, Lil. How’s it goin’, angel?”

“Hi, Jaxon,” she whispers, tucking her brown hair behind her ear, looking around the room. She’s only five, a quiet little thing who, like most, prefers Adam to everyone. “Um, is Adam coming today? He’s not here.” She wrings her tiny hands, lower lip trembling. “Did I do somethin’ to make him mad? I didn’t mean to.”

Christ, my heart. I hold my hand out to her, and she slips hers in tentatively, letting me pull her closer. “Dinosaur ripped up all the toilet paper in the bathroom and made a big mess,” I tell her about Adam and Rosie’s kitten. “Adam will be here soon, he’s just running late.”

Lily’s shoulders uncurl, brown eyes lighting. She snickers, covering her mouth. “Dinosaur’s such a silly kitty.”

A menace, really, so when Adam and Rosie told us a month ago they were beginning foster and adoption training, with the goal being to adopt Lily, my first thought was holy fuck, their house is gonna be a zoo. On top of their brand-new kitten, they’ve got two dogs, and Connor. Except a single look at the four of them together tells you the only thing you need to know: Lily was made for Adam and Rosie and Connor. If families are puzzles, Lily is their missing piece. I just wish she didn’t have to wait to find that out.

She laces her fingers through mine, plastering herself against my side. “Can I stay with you until he gets here?”

“You can sit with me, Lil,” Carter calls. “I’m making Ollie a bracelet.” He holds up the monstrosity. “I used these shiny brown beads ’cause they remind me of her eyes. And these star beads, ’cause I love laying on the balcony and watching the stars with her. And these pinkish ones, ’cause they’re the same color as her nip—” He mashes his lips together, eyes huge.

Lily looks up at me with wide, begging eyes. “Please don’t make me sit with him. He talks so much it makes my ears hurt.”

Carter gasps, and Emmett and Garrett high-five Lily.

“Hey, Jax?” Garrett calls, and when I look up to tell him not to call me that, he snaps my picture.

“What the fff . . . rick?” I spread my arms wide as he grins down at his phone. “What are you doing, you donkey?”

“Sending it to Jennie. She’s with Lennon.”

“What? No! Don’t send it to her!”

“Fine.” He tucks his phone away, crossing his arms. “I won’t.”

“Thanks.” My phone pings in my pocket, and I pull it out.

Tidbit

How’s my prettiest girl doing???

“You fucking liar!” I scream at Garrett, and when everyone yells at me for swearing, I pull up his contact, type out a message, and glare at him while I wait for him to read it.

Me

Ur a dirty fuckin liar.

Garrett

Sorry. Jennie said I had to.

Me

Ever try saying no????

Garrett

LOL

He grins, giving me two thumbs up. When I don’t smile, his falls. He taps at his phone.

Garrett

Oh, you were being serious??

I never say no to Jennie. She’s scary and powerful and beautiful.

I roll my eyes, navigating back to my message thread with Lennon as Sarah dusts blush over my cheekbones.

Me

Good, thx. And how’s my wife?

Tidbit

OMG! Brielle’s gonna be so happy to hear you call her that *heart eyes emoji*

“You have a wife?” Sarah yells. “What the heck? When did that happen?”

“No, it’s not—Lennon’s not—” I shake my head. “I don’t have a wife.”

“Yet,” Carter says, threading a heart bead onto his bracelet.

“What did you just say?”

“I said yet. As in, you don’t have a wife yet.” He looks to Sarah. “Lennon’s his roommate, but I give it six months.”

“Six months? Six months till what? She’ll be gone in six months! She’ll be gone, like, tomorrow!”

“She’s moving out?” Emmett asks. “Surprised she found a place so quickly. That’s great.”

“Well, no . . .”

“No what?”

“She’s not moving out. Yet. But she will.”

He smiles. “Okay.”

“What? Why are you smiling at me like that?”

He shrugs. “No reason, buddy.”

“I don’t have a wife,” I reiterate. “I’m not even having s-e-x right now, in case anyone cares. In fact, it’s been so long I’m practically a born-again virgin.”

“What’s a virgin?” Sarah asks.

“Definitely not what Jaxon is,” Emmett assures her.

“I think it’s nice you have a girlfriend, Jaxon,” Lily tells me. “I bet all the hugs feel nice and warm. Adam says huggin’ Rosie makes him feel like sunshine. Is that how it feels when you hug your girlfriend?”

“Yeah, Jaxon,” Garrett muses. “Does it feel like sunshine when you hug Lennon?”

“Your literal nickname for your girlfriend is sunshine!” I shout at him.

“Because she makes everything bright and warm like sunshine!” he shouts back at me. “And she’s my fiancée, not my girlfriend! Get it right!”

“She was my sister first!” Carter chimes in, because why the fuck not.

“Jesus,” a voice murmurs from behind me. “Can’t leave you guys alone for a half hour without a fight breaking loose.”

“Adam!” Lily scrambles out of her seat, tripping over her feet on the way. She sprawls out on the floor, and Adam scoops her up, clutching her to his chest, where she throws her arms around his neck. “I missed you,” she whispers, and he closes his eyes, squeezing her tighter.

“I missed you so much, Lily-bug.”

She reclaims her seat beside me, grinning at Adam when he flanks her other side. Then she turns her beam on me. “It feels like sunshine when I hug Adam. All my dark spots feel bright and happy again. I hope it feels like that when you hug your girlfriend.”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” I grumble, hanging my head as Sarah starts yanking the hair there into a ponytail.

“Yet.”

It’s not Carter this time. It’s Adam.

“What in the fuck is this?”

I stop inside my entryway, arms out wide as I take in my condo.

The question is a loaded one, because:

1. there are five girls in my living room, spread out on my furniture;

2. there appears to be a porno playing somewhere, judging by the sounds coming from my speaker; and finally

3. my entire apartment is covered in pink.

Lennon looks up from her spot on the floor, grinning. “Jax! You’re home!”

“He lets you call him Jax?” Cara stares at me from where she’s hanging upside down on the couch. “What the fuck, Jax? You yell at me when I do it.”

“I yell at her too.” I stalk toward them, ignoring the way Lennon, Cara, Olivia, Jennie, and Rosie all watch me with a smile. I circle my hand around them. “What the fuck is this? Some sort of girls’ night? In my apartment?”

Jennie winks. “Nailed it.”

“And this?” I point toward the ceiling, eyes roaming as I listen to the words drifting around us.

“Her tongue circles my nipple before trailing down the center of my torso, around my belly button. She settles herself between my thighs, a playful glint in her eyes that has my hips bucking, a silent beg for more. She laughs softly, her breath tickling my clit. ‘Want my fingers first, or my tongue?’”

“Sounds like a porno, but there’s nothing on TV!”

“It’s book club,” Olivia tells me. “Audio version. My first sapphic romance! I’m obsessed.”

“And this?” I sweep my arms out wide, perhaps a little aggressively, gesturing at all my brand-new pink décor. “What in the fuck is this?”

“Valentine’s Day decorations,” my roomie answers, the duh hanging heavy in the air. “We went shopping today.”

“It’s not Valentine’s Day!”

“It’s February first, Jaxon! Excuse me for trying to brighten up the place with a bit of festive fun!”

“It doesn’t need brightening up!”

“Not anymore it doesn’t!

“I explicitly said no pink! Do you remember that?”

“And I explicitly said pink was my favorite color! Do you remember that?”

I groan, dragging my hands down my face. That’s when I spot Mittens, sprawled out on his back in the middle of this pack of wild animals, a pair of glasses, a scrap of plaid fabric—for some fucking reason—and a book with three naked men on the cover sitting next to him. I point at him, at the whole . . . scene, but no words come out, so I just raise my brows in question.

Lennon gives me a teeth-gritting grin. “Yeahhh, sooo . . . We had a bit of a photoshoot.” She hands me her phone, and I flick through at least twenty photos of my cat in various positions, wearing reading glasses and a kilt, reading a why choose romance.

“Len, what the fuck? You can’t just take pictures of my cat in vulnerable pos⁠—”

“The one where he’s looking over his shoulder has over ten thousand likes on Instagram already.”

My brows skyrocket. “Ten thousand, you say?”

She glances at her phone. “Thirteen now.”

“Where are you posting these?”

“I made him an Instagram.”

“What? Lemme see.” I sprawl out next to her on the floor, scooching close as she pulls up the app. “Marvelous Mittens,” I murmur, reading his handle. “That’s good. I like that.” I point at a picture of him at the kitchen counter, wearing a tiny chef’s hat and positioned in front of a mixing bowl. “What’s that one? Lemme see. That’s so good.” I chuckle. “He’s so fucking cute. Twenty thousand likes? Holy fuck, my son’s a star!” I roll to my side, chin propped on my fist, elbow on the ground so I can look at Lennon. “Hey, you should get one in the morning when he’s on the chaise lounge. He looks so majestic when the sun rises on him through that window.”

I scoop Mittens up, collapsing onto my back as I hold him above me. “That’s my famous boy. Everyone loves you, don’t they? Yes, they do, squishy, handsome boy.” I clutch him to my chest, his face squished against mine. “Len, honey, get this shot.”

She rolls her eyes but complies, snickering.

“Should we get him a manager?”

“Oh my God.” Lennon claps her hands to the floor, shoving her excited face in mine. “What if we get him a spot on a commercial? That toilet paper⁠—”

“—that does commercials with fluffy kittens!” I shoot up to sitting, nearly hammering her face in the process. “Yes, Len, amazing idea! He’ll be the new face of the Royale brand!”

“Well,” someone says, and oh shit, I totally forgot there was other people in this room. Rosie stands, stretching her arms above her head. “Ladies, I think this is our cue.”

Olivia scoops up her bag. “Yeah, I feel like we’re interrupting an intimate moment.”

“What intimate moment?” My pulse races, which is the only reason I ask again, “What intimate moment?”

“They’re joking,” Lennon says, but the way she jumps to her feet and puts distance between us, fixing her hair even though it’s already perfect, tells me she’s as uncomfortable as I am.

“I’m not joking,” Jennie says, following Olivia and Rosie to the door. “It’s giving we’re about to fuck vibes in here, and I don’t want to be here when that happens.”

Cara stands, tucking her things into her purse. “I, personally, could get behind some voyeurism, but I draw the line at my friends.” She stops before us, smiling her famous Cara I-could-fuck-you-up Brodie smile. With two fingers, she points at her eyes, then us, and whispers, “The Coochie Gang sees all.”

Lennon looks at me, but I’m already looking at her, so she quickly schools her scared expression into a glare. “You wish, fuckboy.” She follows the girls to the door, pausing only to toss the middle finger at me over her shoulder, but I barely see it because she’s wearing those tiny sleep shorts she loves, the ones that crawl up her ass, let the bottom of her plush cheeks peek out. When Destiny’s Child wrote “Bootylicious,” they were talking about Lennon’s ass, I’m certain of it.

I turn away as the girls take turns hugging Lennon. She seems so at home with them, like she’s always been part of the group. Part of me is envious of her confidence. How does she do that, so easily accept that she’s one of them, that her place is permanent? I don’t know what permanent feels like. I’m well-versed in temporary, though.

A hand closes around my elbow, and I turn around, finding the girls lined up behind me.

Rosie smiles, kissing my cheek, then Mittens. “Bye, Jaxon. Love you.”

Olivia is next, pulling my face down so she can reach my cheek. “Bye, Jaxon. Love you.”

Jennie pecks my cheek and rubs Mittens’s belly. “Love you, Jaxon.”

Cara tugs on my earlobe. I swat her hand away. She presses a kiss to my cheek, which is, by the way, now warm as fuck, and I hate it. “Love you, Jax.”

“Don’t call me Jax,” I whisper, swallowing down the panic that doesn’t know how to respond, the same panic that’s afraid that love will be taken away if I don’t do something and do it fast. “Love you, too, I guess,” I say quietly, and when they smile back at me from the door, it’s like the fist squeezing my heart eases its grip just a touch.

The door closes, and I’m left alone with Lennon, my superstar son, and the sex scene that’s currently playing through the speakers in my living room.

Lennon shuts off the audiobook, avoiding my gaze. She’s got her hair tied back today, two braids that start at her hairline and meet at the nape of her neck, where her curls are wrapped in a bun. She’s always pretty, but there’s something about her like this, showing off her high cheekbones, her wide, dark eyes, the golden glow of her brown skin, and her full, heart-shaped lips, the perfect bow that sits at the top of them.

Cautious eyes lift to mine, and she runs her fingers along one of her braids. “Um, I’m just gonna use the bathroom, then I’ll clean up in here.”

She takes off before I can respond, and I wander through the apartment, checking out the décor that’s been barfed up all over it. There’s so much pink, a zillion different shades of it, and at least 75 percent of it is shimmering. Tinsel draped along the edge of my kitchen island, wrapped around the window frames. Red hearts with pink scalloped hems hang from the ceiling, and there’s a wooden bowl on my kitchen counter with knitted x’s and o’s. Why they’re in my kitchen I’ve got no fucking clue. Last time I checked, yarn isn’t edible.

Mittens crawls up my chest and drapes himself over my shoulders, and I reach back, keeping my hand on him as I amble over to the bookcase. Red and pink heart garland lines each shelf. There’s a small vase with fake pink flowers, a heart-shaped dish with red, purple, and pink Smarties in it, which I immediately shove my hand into, grabbing a fistful and stuffing it in my mouth, and a small picture that says be mine on it in fancy, curly letters. On the bottom shelf, there’s even a heart-shaped cat bed, one Mittens eagerly curls up in when I place him in it.

My gaze rises to the top shelf, and my heartbeat slows to a crawl. Right in the center is the photo of Bryce and me, my childhood best friend, but instead of the same broken frame it’s been in for more than fifteen years, it’s now tucked safely inside a stunning wooden frame.

I pick up the rustic walnut, running my finger over the divots, the imperfections that make it what it is, and my heart stops altogether when I see the words etched into the bottom of the frame, right below the picture. My name and his, side by side, mine in my messy writing, his in the scrawl that was always neater than mine.

Blood drums in my ears as I pull the backing off the frame, finding the same writing there. I trace the blue ink, the letters of his name, and angry, heartbroken tears gather in my eyes. Because it should be him living out his dream, a star goalie in the NHL. Because he would be if it weren’t for me.

Because if it weren’t for me, he’d still be here.

I don’t hear Lennon enter the room. I don’t see her as she approaches me. But I feel her the second she’s beside me. The air around me changes, thick and heavy somehow. Maybe it’s all that heartache I’ve been keeping locked up all these years. My gran always said one day it would come pouring out of me, that I wouldn’t be able to hold it on my own anymore, that I’d need someone else to help me carry it.

The thing about needing someone else is that there will inevitably come a day when they’re not there. In my experience, that day is most often the one you need them most.

Like when you’re looking down at your best friend, lifeless and wearing his best suit, the one he used to wear on game days. And your tie is on all wrong, because you never could quite figure out how to loop the two ends properly, and today is really fucking important and you just want to get it right and look nice for him.

But the person who always fixed it for you is the same person who can’t now.

“You two look like you were trouble.”

The corner of my mouth hooks up as I glide the pad of my thumb over Bryce’s heart, like I might be able to feel it beat through the picture. “I was the bad influence, and he was the faithful friend who went along with every one of my bad ideas. Never let me take all the blame, either.”

“I just knew you were the bad influence,” Lennon murmurs, eyes on a ten-year-old me. “That smile just screams trouble.” She smiles up at me, a sight so unexpectedly soft it knocks me back a half step. “Same as it does now.”

She gives my bicep a gentle squeeze before she leaves me with the photo, cleaning up the living room from the aftershock of girls’ night. I stare down at Bryce a moment longer before I tuck the frame back on the shelf, whispering a barely there, “Miss you, buddy,” before I help Lennon put the room back together.

When we’re done, I follow her into the kitchen, where she pulls out cheddar cheese, mayo, and pimentos. I feel the way my eyes light, and I know Lennon can see it, because she chuckles.

“Pimento cheese?” I ask excitedly, hands clasped at my chest. When she nods, I race to the pantry. “I have a fresh loaf of bread!”

Another one of Mimi’s famous recipes, and if they’re all as good as this one, I can see why they’re famous. Lennon first made it for me two weeks ago, and I loved it so much she now keeps the fridge stocked with the ingredients so she can make it whenever I’m in one of my moods, as she calls them.

Okay, I keep the ingredients stocked in the fridge, and sometimes I fake my moods just so she’ll make it.

She hands me a grater and the cheddar, and I get to work shredding it as she measures out the ingredients.

The silence we work in is comfortable, so maybe that’s why I swallow down the reminder that I don’t do this, that I don’t talk about personal things with anyone, let alone a woman I slept with once, and quietly ask her, “Did you ever have a friend like that?”

“I was that friend,” she says with a laugh. “My cousin Serena was the bad influence. She is the bad influence.”

“Where is she now?”

“Serena? At home in Augusta.” Her eyes come to mine, and I see the question there, the hesitation that keeps her from voicing it. She wants to know where Bryce is, and maybe deep down she knows. Maybe that’s why she chooses not to ask. Whatever the reason, I’m glad. “I wasn’t ever that person with a ton of friends.”

“I thought you were in a sorority?”

“I was, but—and I don’t know, maybe other people have different experiences—those people weren’t my friends. When it was convenient, sure. But none of them were there for real problems, for any of the hard shit. Hell, not a single one showed at Gramps’s funeral when he passed in junior year.” She shakes her head, a tiny furrow between her brows as she sniffs. “Show friends, not real friends. That’s what my brother called them when he found me crying behind the church, wondering why no one came to support me.” She pastes on a smile, every bit as bright as it is fake. “You’re lucky to have your friends. They’re the kind you hold on to, that always show up for you.”

They do always show up for me. But how long will that last? If I were traded tomorrow, would they show up for me next year if I needed them? Past experience dictates that answer.

No.

But instead, I tell Lennon, “They’re your friends too.”

She shrugs. “I’m just passing by, and they’re being nice.”

I cock my head. “You can’t seriously think that. They love you. And sure, they’re all nice, but they don’t just pull in any random person and give them a spot in their chosen family.”

She lifts a brow, all parts amused. “And you can’t seriously think you’re not a part of that family.”

“What? I didn’t say that.”

“You don’t have to say it, Jaxon. Your actions do it for you. You think you’re not really one of them. That’s why you were so embarrassed and thrown when the girls told you they loved you tonight.”

I don’t know how to respond, and I don’t really want to, so I turn away, hiding the heat staining my neck, creeping into my ears. I find the spatula, handing it to Lennon, standing by as she mixes it, and when my phone rings, my gran’s name lighting my screen, I panic.

I bury my head in the pantry, answering the video request with a hushed whisper. “I can’t talk right now, Gran. Can I call you later?”

“Oh, I see how it is. I give you the world, all my love, and the secret to the best grilled cheese sandwiches, and you repay me by not having any time for me?”

“What? No. I always have time—I don’t—ugh. Gran, I⁠—”

“Are you talking to yourself in your pantry, Jaxon?” Lennon asks. “Just when I think you can’t get any weirder.”

“I’m not—no, I⁠—”

“Jaxon Eugene Riley,” Gran gasps. “Is that a woman?”

“Eugene?” Lennon squeals, and my life ends as I hear the tap of her fingers against her phone. “Taking this straight to the Coochie Gang. The girls are never going to believe this, Eugene.”

I roll my eyes and groan, smacking my forehead off the cereal shelf in my pantry. This is exactly what I was trying to avoid, introducing the two women in my life who live to annoy me. When I glance at my phone, my gran is waiting there, sitting at her old Formica kitchen table, her crossword in front of her, and that damn eyebrow raised so motherfucking high.

Suddenly, Lennon appears over my shoulder.

“Oh my God, you must be Gran! I’ve heard so much about you!” She tears my phone from my hand, taking Gran to the counter, propping her up against a cup. “I’m Lennon. You’ve probably not heard a word about me.” She drops her elbow to the counter, her chin to her fist. “Hey, has it always been like pulling teeth to get Jaxon to open up?”

Gran’s blue eyes light, and she grins. “Oh, Lennon, honey. How much time do you have? We have so much to talk about.”

I groan again, this one extra dramatic, super long and loud while I fold my entire upper body over the counter, pressing my cheek to the cool marble. “Fuck my life.”

“Watch your language, young man.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I mumble into the counter, but no one’s listening. Gran’s busy telling Lennon about the time I found her period pads and attached them to the inside of my T-shirt, over my nipples, insisted on wearing them to the grocery store, and then proceeded to tell everyone there that my nipples were menstruating. I was only six, but apparently that detail doesn’t matter to Lennon, because she’s laughing so hard she’s crying.

I cross my arms over my chest. “Don’t get your tears in my pimento cheese.”

“Oh, watch out, honey,” Gran says. “If you start feeding him, you’ll never be rid of him.”

“I’m the one housing her!” I reach for the dip when Lennon finishes mixing it, but she smacks my hand away, snapping the lid on.

“Jaxon, it needs to chill.”

“I just wanna taste it! Make sure you got the ratios right and shit.”

“Please. You know I never miss.” She tucks the bowl in the fridge, then carries Gran into the living room. I follow, my jaw hanging, watching as she snuggles in on the couch with my cat, chatting with my gran over FaceTime like they’ve known each other their whole lives. I sprawl out next to her, poking her thigh with my toes, because I want attention and I have none. Lennon lays her hand over my ankle, squeezing gently, and I don’t know why, but my chest tightens.

By the time Gran is saying good night, her daily crossword is done, they’ve made weekly plans to video chat, and she’s got Lennon’s measurements for a special crochet project, which is exactly as terrifying as it sounds.

Lennon and I set up shop on the couch with the cooled dip, Mittens snoring quietly between us as we argue over what to watch. We settle on some dramatic show about hot firefighters, mostly because Lennon nearly knocked me out cold with a knee to my face when she dove for the remote. She ends up crying through two episodes straight, then yells at me for picking an emotional show.

It’s nearly midnight when I follow her down the hall, Mittens clinging to her chest, and I swear to God the cat is wearing a shit-eating grin as he stares at me from over her shoulder.

“You can’t sleep with her,” I remind him when she sets him down outside her door. He glances at me, seems to size me up, then turns his back on me and struts right through her door and into her room. “Fucking asshole,” I mutter. My gaze falls to Lennon, who happens to be failing at hiding her smug amusement. “Listen, if Mitts is gonna be Mr. Worldwide, we’ll have to make sure the fame doesn’t go to his head. You know what can happen to a cat with unsupervised access to fame. I won’t let him be a statistic.”

She works so damn hard to hold back her laugh, tongue in her cheek, lips pressed together. But it’s the sparkle in her brown eyes, the way they seem to come more and more alive the more I give her, that’s what gives me this strange sense of pride. Someone wants to know me, and the more she learns, the more she seems to want to stay. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt that before.

“You weren’t lying about your gran. She’s fantastic.”

“The best.”

Lennon smiles up at me, and because I know what she wants to ask, what’s stuck in her throat, because giving her pieces of me feels nicer than I thought it would, I tell her, “I never met my parents. They died in a wreck. My mom was thirty-seven weeks pregnant, and they were able to save me. Gran stepped in and raised me.”

Lennon’s eyes are saucers, gigantic and soft, and I watch them fill with compassion right before my own eyes. She opens her mouth, and I hold my hand up, stopping her.

“It’s okay. I couldn’t have asked for a better gran. Not a day went by that I didn’t feel how much she loved me, and she made sure I knew how much my parents loved me, too, even though we never got to meet. I’m okay.”

Her eyes move between mine, and she nods, a silent understanding. I’ve said as much as I want to say about it.

And then Lennon steps forward, wrapping her arms around me, and because I’m not used to all these displays of affection, my mouth drops and my arms hang awkwardly in the air. “Thanks for letting me have girls’ night here.”

“You didn’t ask me. I just came home and they were here and there was porn playing through my speakers.”

“It was really fun.”

I chuckle, finally letting my arms come around her while my heart patters in my chest. She feels warm, and it makes me feel warm too. I breathe her in, soak in the way she wraps herself around me, makes me feel worth a little more than I felt yesterday, the way the dark spots feel a little brighter now that I’m not sitting in them all alone.

“Thank you, Lennon,” I whisper. For the picture frame. For Gran.

For the hug.

“You’re welcome, Jax.”

“Don’t call me Jax.”

She pops up on her toes, pressing a soft kiss to my cheek. When she backs into her room and Mittens meows his demand for her to hurry, the sparkle in her eyes turns evil, same as her smirk. “Pretty soon, your cat’s gonna be calling me Mommy.”

My outraged gasp is lost to her cackle and the sound of the bedroom door slamming in my face.