Page 113 of The Fake Out

“What are you doing? I’m covered in mud.”

“I don’t care,” he muttered. He pushed my head down on his shoulder. “Be quiet.”

So, I was. Not because he told me so. Just because I needed to get myself together. I pushed my face into his chest.

“Are you crying?” he asked.

“No,” I sobbed, my voice muffled. “I’m fine.”

“Stubborn,” he muttered.

I didn’t have it in me to argue with him. So, I sat there, his arms around me and one hand idly playing with my hair. It felt nice, soothing, his body warm and strong and capable. I didn’t want to leave this strange and lovely moment of peace. And that was the whole problem, wasn’t it?

“You yelled at me,” I said, a little like a petulant three-year-old.

“You needed someone to yell at you.” His fingers had moved on from my hair to outline the shape of my ear.

“Excuse me?”

“You can’t be the boss all the time.” His thumb was tracing my jaw now. Stupid opposable thumbs. Stupid, gentle, lovely opposable thumbs.

A shiver skittered down my back. “Being the boss is easier. I’m in charge of what happens.”

He grunted. “No one can be in charge of everything all the time. Life throws us curveballs.”

“Ugh. A sports analogy?”

With a chuckle, his hand moved back to my hair. “I apologize. Let me try again. Think about Millie. Her being born with a heart defect changed all our lives. There were times when we thought we might lose her, or she was in another surgery or she got sick with a regular old cold that turned into something worse. Those aren’t things we’re in charge of. We have to handle them and do the best we can. Not to throw out another sports analogy, but you gotta roll with the punches sometimes.”

“The punches hurt,” I muttered.

“No kidding.”

“Thank you,” I whispered.

“What was that? You need to speak up. Wait. Let me get my phone out and I can record it.”

I smacked him on the shoulder. “Thank you for helping me.”

His arms tightened and he pulled me closer still. A hint of calmness, of rightness curled in my chest, whispering this is where I should always be. It was terrifying how good it felt.

Softly, he kissed my temple.

We stayed like that until the rain stopped.

FIFTY

If you and I were socks, we’d make a great pair.

—AMANDA H.

Dreamboat: I bet you smiled when you saw my name pop up on your phone.

Me: That wasn’t a smile. It was a grimace of pain that I had to read that.

Dreamboat: Ah, there she is. You must be feeling better.

Dreamboat: Hey…