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A coffee cup slips into my vision, and I blink, looking up into a pair of green eyes.
Chase is wearing a tight expression, his smile forced and eyes a little…sad. “Don’t torture yourself with that view,” he whispers, peeking quickly into the kitchen. “It’s just warm tea.”
A small smile pulls at my lips, and I take a moment to smell the herbal aromas steaming from the mug. “Thank you.”
He nods, and I can’t help but glance toward the kitchen once more.
Ari’s sitting on the edge of the counter now, Noah between her legs, eyes intent on her as she tells him god knows what, but the look on his face, it’s complete and total awe.
The man is enraptured. Midsentence, he reaches up like he just can’t help himself and takes her face in his hands. He doesn’t say anything, and she just smiles in return.
Sighing, I look back to Chase.
He lifts a brow, speaking in a hushed tone. “It’s like watching a chick flick in real life, isn’t it?”
“What do you know about chick flicks?”
“Do you have any idea what Cam and Ari put us through growing up? Forcing us to sit through romance movies was their favorite form of blackmail when they’d find out we lied about going out so they wouldn’t ask to come.”
“Why not just let them tag along?”
“You mean aside from Mason being a protective asshole when it came to his sister?”
A smile breaks across my lips, and the two of us laugh. I can’t help but notice he doesn’t seem all that bothered by the happy couple, even if there is something troubling him. He could have easily gone to bed to avoid this altogether, yet here he is, sitting beside me in perfect view of the girl who, once upon a time, wanted to be his.
And when Noah looks this way with a smile, calling out, “Hey man, want to come grab a couple of these?” Chase grins and hops up, strolling right in there. He brings back two skewers stacked with cubes of pineapple and fried Spam.
I take a bite, rolling my eyes to the sky dramatically, and Chase chuckles. “Why is this so good?”
“Why is he good at everything he does?” he mumbles.
My head snaps his way, and when I find him grinning around a mouthful, I’m the one who laughs.
After the quick treat and low conversation about the drive home tomorrow and where they want to stop this time for food, everyone decides to head to bed.
Instantly, my mind jumps back to the heavy part of the evening, and I push to my feet.
I don’t know what my face shows as I say good night, but Brady is suddenly at my side. He kisses me along my temple and whispers, “It ain’t your fault, baby girl. The man’s in his head. It’s been a hell of a year for us all, you more than most, and under all that mess he’s making, he knows that.”
He smiles reassuringly, but all I can do is nod and accept the hug he offers.
I know once I close the door behind me, locking myself inside my room, I won’t be able to sleep, but I’m simultaneously afraid I will sleep just fine and what that will bring.
My eyes fall to the playpen beside the bed, zoning in on the full head of dark curls and puffy little lips parted with soft snores.
I run my hand up and down Deaton’s back, patting his butt a couple of times before tugging the blanket a little higher on his shoulders.
If I close my eyes, I can picture his dad here with me and what he’d say, but his voice is a little harder to reach for new conversations, only words he’s spoken to me able to play out in my mind.
Brimming with guilt and desperate for connection, I lower onto the bed, fold my legs beneath me, and open my laptop, hovering over the folder icon for a long moment before squeezing my eyes closed. I click on the little blue folder, counting to five before opening my eyes.
Hot tears pool instantly as hundreds of small frames pop up, nearly every single one a shot of Deaton’s face—not little Deaton but his daddy.
There’s us at thirteen playing in the pool and us at fourteen sneaking onto the carousel ride at the county fair after being told we were too old. Us at my house and at his. School dances and his family’s fundraisers. At wrestling meets and the stupid pageants my mom forced me into.
A choked laugh leaves me as I scroll past the photo I took of him from the last pageant I was ever in. Deaton found me crying in the changing room after an epic fight with my mom over a half-eaten apple she found in the trash can—because how dare I eat so many carbs before the swimsuit segment? When I refused to come out, he put my swimsuit top on over his tank top and danced around the room. It was ridiculous and so out of character for him, but I smiled and laughed, and he said that was the point. He was good at that. Taking my ugly life and painting it pretty.
He was my best friend.
