She’s already stretched out in bed staring at the ceiling fan when I enter the room. I turn off the overhead light, leaving only the dim lighting from the lamp on my side of the bed.
Removing my shorts and shirt, I crawl in beside her and wait for her to say something.Anything.
She moves closer until her arms are wrapped around me and she’s curled into my side. Looking up at me, she says, “I need you to help me forget.”
Letting out a deep sigh, I kiss her forehead and then reach for my glasses on the nightstand. “Give me a second,” I say, and she moves back, giving me enough space to move around.
I put on my glasses and then bend down and grab a book I have under the bed. “Come here,” I tell her. She pulls the covers over us and snuggles deep against my side. “Turn the pages for me?” I ask.
I don’t know how long I read. I don’t stop until her arm falls limp and the pages stop turning. Tomorrow might be a different story, but tonight Sydney is home. She’s safe. And she’s mine.
23
SYDNEY
Koa swats my hand away when I reach into the trunk for a bag of groceries. “I can carry something too,” I say.
“I know, but I want to do it.” He continues to load his arms up with bags until his forearms are straining.
“That means I’m getting the door.” I slam the trunk of his Camaro and race up the steps to the front door of his townhouse. I dig my keys out of my bag and unlock the door for us.
Koa side steps through the door, making me laugh. “I don’t like that you havethatkey,” he says, dropping the groceries on the kitchen island.
I rub my thumb down the jagged edge of the key Nash gave me a week after moving into the house his freshman year. “I didn’t know. I wouldn’t have used it as freely as I did had I known it bothered you so much.”
I drop my bag and my keys on the table by the door and move into the kitchen. I start unbagging groceries, trying to not think about all the times I’ve come over and let myself into their home without knocking when Nash invited me over. Being around Hart, Koa, and Nash reminded me ofhome. It was my Sunday thing I did while Lauren went to see her “family”.
Koa tips my chin with his finger, forcing me to look at him. “I said I don’t like you havingthatkey. I want you to have my key. A key that I’ve given you. Not your brother.” He drops his hand from my chin and goes back to unloading and organizing our grocery haul.
“That’s ridiculous. They’re the same key,” I state.
“They might be the same key but they don’t have the same meaning.”
“It’s going to be irrelevant in a few weeks anyway. Once we graduate, we will be handing our keys over to Gage and Eli.”
“Nothing is irrelevant with you,” he grumbles.
I chuckle and place all the cold items we purchased in the fridge. I have a feeling we won’t need those for a while.
This morning we went to the police station and I gave my statement. I was nervous walking into the building. I didn’t know what to expect or how I would feel reliving all the events. Being able to hold onto Koa’s hand like a lifeline made it easier.
Apparently this guy was a repeat offender. Ray’s wasn’t the first bar he’s been arrested at and I wasn’t his first target. He won’t be seeing the outside of a cell for a while. That made moving through the rest of the day a lot easier.
Koa has been by my side for most of it—walking me to classes and eating lunch with me. It wasn’t any different than our usual routine, but it felt different.
Instead of cold stares and grunts, he engaged in conversation and held my hand. We still haven’t talked about everything.About us. I’m giving myself at least twenty-four hours to let him suffocate me with all his attention. Then we can have a real conversation about what we need to do in order to move forward or part ways. There is a deep pang in my chest thinking about that option.
“I think we've bitten off more than we can chew. All of this looks above our pay grade,” I say surveying all the ingredients we need to make a chicken pot pie and forgetting about the pain in my chest.
“That’s what the recipe is for. How hard can it be?”
“Famous last words,” I sigh.
Koa searches for the recipe on his phone. He zooms in on the text and squints. “We need to start with prepping all the vegetables.” He opens a few drawers until he finds the one with the cutting boards.
“How long have you lived here?” I ask, teasing him.
“I have a meal plan,” he says, swatting my ass playfully. “I haven’t made anything in this kitchen except bowls of cereal and protein shakes.”
