Page 68 of Love You To Pieces

Knocking on the door surprises me enough that I jump, making the blanket flutter down to settle around my stomach on the living room sofa.

Sofa?

My brain tries to remember what the hell happened, and I finally settle on⁠—

Oh, right…

Well, now I definitely know why my thighs are sore, and why I feel like I didn’t get enough sleep. I hadn’t. Not in the least, considering all the ways Deacon and I let off steam. By the end, I was so exhausted and…that’s right. Deacon covered me up with the soft, fleecy throw and left me here, murmuring that he’d wake me up if anything happened.

Apparently, nothing happened until now.

The front door opens, though from the living room I can’t see who’s there. I blink a few times in the morning light, watching the lacy curtains wave inward on the summer Texas breeze.

It really is so nice here.

Nicer than Nashville, and nice in a way that I’ve only ever experienced when visiting my grandparents, who lived out in the country back in Kentucky. But even then, it wasn’t like this. It hadn’t felt so peaceful, so perfect, so…

Right?

No, I tell myself quickly. No, I am not turning into a romantic. There is no way, not after all this time, and all the shit I’ve been through. If anything, I’m developing some fucked-up Stockholm syndrome type of thing. Having to choose between one fucked-up situation and another means that someone is going to come out on top.

And in my mind, Fox and Deacon are the better option.

Better than anything I’ve had in my life for a long, long time.

I squash that thought down and down, folding it until it fits in a box that I attempt to shove into the back of my skull. Only this time, it doesn’t work so well. The sentiment leaks out, whispering that I’m being stupid about this whole thing.

Especially given the fact that no one, not one fucking person, misses me right now. My friends are dead. My ex-best friends abandoned me a year ago.

Not even my parents care enough to call.

Before I can work myself up into an unfortunate but impressive self-pity party, I hear a soft conversation, with voices that both sound familiar. Fox’s I identify instantly, and I’m up, on my feet, before I can think better of it.

He shouldn’t be up. Deacon would have a heart attack if he knew Fox was downstairs, doing whatever it is he’s doing. The other voice is one I know as well, though I can’t quite place the rough, elderly murmur until I come around the hallway and see Ms. Hewitt standing in the doorway with her hands full of reusable grocery bags.

“Oh, there you are.” She smiles at me, the expression once again not quite reaching her eyes. It feels warmer than it had last night, however, and I pause, nervous.

Does she blame me for Fox getting hurt?

Fox turns, wincing as he does, and I note the way he’s holding onto the door with a tight grip, his stance a little unsteady.

“I see you made it home all right, Miss…”

“Sadie-Rae,” I introduce quickly, not wanting to be rude. “Yeah, I, umm.” I glance at Fox, catching sight of his warm, sweet grin that’s now turned on me. “I made it home.” That sounds lame and stupid, like I’m just parroting her instead of adding something to the conversation.

“I’ll just put these in the kitchen, Fox,” Ms. Hewitt says, turning her smile back on him.

“Oh, no ma’am, I won’t let you carry those. You’ve already done more than enough.” Fox steps forward, winces, which gives me the opportunity to be the faster one.

I move automatically, bypassing Fox and holding out my hands to take the bags. “Let me,” I murmur, as I was raised to not be disrespectful. She almost beams at me; I swear she even looks affectionate for half a millisecond before depositing her armload of care packages into my awaiting hands.

The bags are heavier than I expect them to be, and I let out a little huff of surprise as my arms sag with the weight. Clearly, Ms. Hewitt is stronger than she looks.

“Thanks, pretty girl,” Fox murmurs approvingly, his tone grateful. “You can just set them in the kitchen and I’ll deal with them in a bit.”

“No, it’s okay,” I say without hesitation. “I can put them up.” I have a feeling it’s all food, judging by the steam and the smell of freshly baked bread.

Baking bread is a skill that was never passed down to me, and I can’t help but be a little jealous, in my half awake state. It’s always seemed like something I’d like to try, at least once, even if I know I don’t have the patience to do it more than that.