Goodbye to You (21 page)

She’s still panting when I stand and strip off my underwear. I cover her warm body with mine, her tight nipples rubbing against my chest. I’m lucky I don’t come before I can even slide into her. She pulls my head to her and kisses me hard, licking my lips.

So hot.

I want to dive right into her, but I stop. “Do you have . . . ?”

She reaches for her nightstand but can’t get to the drawer. I open it and find the box, pulling out a foil packet and tearing it open.

She parts her thighs, welcoming me, and I ease into her wetness. My arms shake with restraint as my traitorous body threatens to lose control.

She’s so tight, so hot, squeezing me in a decadent rhythm. Even better than I remember. I plunge in, pull out, and then drive into her again, touching her deeply. I smother her cries with my mouth. Her hips match mine stroke for stroke, arching upward to meet my thrusts. Her hands clutch and knead my butt, keeping me trapped inside her.

I drag my lips from hers, nuzzling her neck, inhaling the sweet, fruity scent of her skin mingled with the sweaty musk of sex.

I grab her wrists and pin her hands above her head, thrusting harder and deeper into her. Faster and faster until we both cry out. I collapse on her, rolling over and pulling her sweat-slicked body into my side. I’m spent and ridiculously satisfied. She falls asleep in my arms, and I soon follow.

The room is pitch black when I wake up, my legs tangled in the sheets and my hair sticking to my face, a dribble of drool on the pillow . . .

Drool!

I dart up straight in bed but find I’m alone.

Good he didn’t see the drool.

Bad he’s not here. Where is he?

I climb out of bed and throw on a tee shirt and pajama shorts from the basket of clothes I’ve needed to put away since last week.

From the hall, I hear a hushed voice. His voice, the soft tones of his whisper.

Not husky like earlier. A concerned urgency laces his words.

He paces in front of the couch, wearing a path in the dark brown carpet. Between him and Bennie, I’ll need to replace the carpet or get charged when I move out.

He glances over when I flip the kitchen light on, raising his hand in acknowledgment. I pour a glass of water and offer him one. He shakes his head.

The clock on the microwave reads 1:27 a.m. What’s going on at this hour?

My thoughts normally kick into overdrive, with self-doubt plaguing me like it does every day.

But not tonight, not with Shay. No doubt, no shame, no hesitation. Everything is perfect.

Except the black cloud of “omission” hanging over my head.

I need to tell everyone I love.

I’ll tell him as soon as he gets off the phone and tell Daddy when I drive out to Fayetteville Sunday evening for family supper.

Shay hangs up and walks into the small kitchen, sliding in behind me, wrapping one strong arm around my waist and resting his chin on the top of my head. I finish my drink and put the glass on the counter before leaning into the hard wall of his chest.

“Is everything okay?” It’s none of my business, but he’s rubbing his temples, making me think something serious is going on.

“It’s Mac. He’s been having issues the past few weeks. I won’t bore you with the details, but his old therapist passed away a month ago, and they’d built a strong relationship the past five years. Changes in routine and new people make him uncomfortable. He took off a few hours ago, and no one could find him.”

“Is he okay?”

“Yeah. He wouldn’t answer the phone when Mom called. I heard my phone buzzing when I got up to use the bathroom, and I had a dozen calls from her and Da. She wanted me to call, see if he would answer for me. Luckily he did, and I talked him home. Mom said he fell asleep, but she’s still worried.”

“I’m sorry. That’s got to be tough being so far away.”

“Yeah. When I was in Miami, the drive was a few hours. Not being able to rush back when they need me sucks. But I can’t fix everything for Mac. We’re a tight-knit bunch since my . . . the suic . . . you know. He’s depended on me. He’s a good kid, and I love him, but he needs to depend on himself.”

“I understand.” It’s only me and Jen, but I would do anything for her. Though our mother didn’t commit suicide and try to kill us, life without her hasn’t been easy.

I wish I could talk to her. She’d tell me what to do about everything.

At least that’s what I wish. She’d most likely tell me to follow my gut, listen to my heart, and tell my head to take a hike.

Gut says get the surgery, heart says keep Shay around for as long as I can.

These two things are in conflict with each other, and I’m clueless how to resolve the struggle.

I can’t tell him about the mastectomy tonight, with everything going on with Mac.

Turning in his arms, I paste on a wide smile.

“Everything will be all right with Mac. He’s lucky to have your mom and dad and uncle to support him. You can’t take care of everyone.”

But he sure took care of me earlier. My face heats at the memory.

I lay my head on his chest, the slow, steady thrum of his heart soothing.

“I’m sleepy. Let’s go back to bed.”

We settle on the mattress, but sleep doesn’t happen.

He needs me to take his mind off family problems, and I need him to take my mind off the impending surgery. His touch is the distraction I need.

“I guess you’re studying today.” I take a bite of the buttery ham and cheese croissant at Campus Edge Café, then sip my water and wait for his answer.

He stirs sugar into his black coffee and drinks. “I was thinking about catching up on sleep today.”

He grins, dimples framing his mouth. My fingers are drawn to the deeper dimple on the left side of his mouth, and as I touch him, I act as though I’m brushing crumbs away.

After the things we did to each other last night, I don’t need an excuse to touch him. Old habits and all. They linger even when they should be kicked to the curb.

“What’s on your agenda?” He takes another drink from his steaming mug and points at me. “Are you rendering anyone else useless today?”

His smile tells me he’s joking, but I still defend myself. “I told you in Florida, this,” I wave my hands back and forth between us, “is not something I make a habit of.”

My tone is much harsher than I intended, and he draws his head back, eyes wide. “I didn’t mean . . .”

I hold my hand up. “Sorry. Family day. Makes me testy.”

“Did you tell your parents about me?”

Parents.

I never told him about my mother and the cancer. “My mama passed about six years ago. She had breast cancer. My sister too. She’s recovering from chemo. Remember I told you she was sick?”

Now the family history is out there.

“Wow, I’m sorry.”

At least he didn’t say, “I understand,” because our mothers’ deaths were different. Horrific, but different.

One death was quick. The other, drawn-out, ugly, agonizing. That’s the pain I want my family to avoid with me, and that’s why I’m opting for the PBM.

Tears threaten to spill if I say a single word. Time heals, but sometimes a single word, or look or touch, can rip the delicate scabs right off.

I take another drink of water and clear my throat. “Ready to go? I need to get to the store to grab dessert.”

“Yeah, sure.” He flips over the check and pulls out his wallet to pay, refusing my money.

He’s still handsome in his clothes from last night even though they’re rumpled. I think the phrase “would look good in a potato sack” was created for guys like him.

We walk back to my place and hop into the truck. I drive the ten minutes back to his apartment. I don’t pull into a space—that would invite a drawn-out farewell—and instead stop behind a few other parked cars.

“Can I call you tonight?”

“Yes,” I say, even as my stupid brain is screaming “No way, never again.”

Go the fuck away, conscience, at least for the moment.

Let me enjoy him for another couple weeks.

Then I’ll tell him.