I tried to smile, but it didn’t stick. “Hey.”
She didn’t smile back, but she didn’t close the door in my face, either. “Hey.”
I stepped inside, waiting for her to say something, but she just stood there, arms folded. So I did the only thing I could.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “About earlier. I didn’t mean to mess things up for you.”
She looked at me, eyes guarded. “You didn’t mess anything up. I just—I don’t need rescuing, Ford.”
“I know.” And for the first time, I actually meant it.
“I don’t want to owe anybody,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “Not after—everything.”
I nodded. “You don’t. Not to me. Not ever.”
She relaxed, just a little. “Thank you.”
We stood in the narrow hallway, close enough that I could hear her breathing. I wanted to touch her, to reassure her, but I kept my hands in my pockets.
“Can I ask you something?” she said.
“Anything.”
“Why me?” Her voice cracked on the last word. “You could have anyone, and you picked the girl with all the baggage.”
I shook my head, searching for the right words. “Because you’re real. Because you’re tough. Because you don’t let anyone tell you what you’re worth.” I paused, then added, “And because you make me want to be a better man.”
She looked down, biting her lip. When she looked back up, there were tears in her eyes, but she was smiling.
“You already are,” she said.
We stood there, the silence comfortable for the first time.
Finally, she reached for my hand, tentative at first, then sure.
She led me inside, shutting the door behind us.
I didn’t know what came next.
But I was ready to find out.
Twenty-One
Lily
The only real light in the apartment was the palm tree lights and glare from the street, sliced into stripes by the cheap plastic blinds. I sat on the couch, knees up, feet tucked under me, a ratty throw pillow wedged in a death grip between my arms. Ford sat next to me, but not too close—just enough that his knee brushed the edge of my thigh if I moved wrong. Or right, depending on how you looked at it.
For a while, neither of us said anything. The distant thump of a car stereo drifted up from the alley. Somewhere, probably in 3C, the world’s worst trumpet player was drilling scales. In here, it was quiet except for the little sounds of breathing and the muffled squeak of the sofa springs every time Ford shifted his weight.
He didn’t touch me. Didn’t try to make small talk, either. Just sat, elbows on his knees, hands folded between them, head bowed like he was waiting to be called up to the principal’s office. He’d left his boots at the door; his socks didn’t match, they were both black, but one had a little logo on the toe. I kept staring at his feet so I wouldn’t have to look at his face.
I had a speech prepared. Or at least, I’d rehearsed some lines in my head after Caroline left. And then again on the walkto pick up Noah. But now that Ford was here, the words kept rearranging themselves, turning into a mess of tangled feelings I didn’t want to expose.
“Noah asleep?”
“Yep. They had Fall Field Day at pre-school and then two birthday celebrations at daycare. He was blissed out by the time he got home. Practically fell asleep on his plate of chicken nuggets.
He laughed, and the warmth of his smile reached his eyes. It always reached his eyes when he smiled at me or Noah. My chest tightened.
