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“I’m going back to Chuckles,” I say. “To work. Join me when you’ve sobered up.”
“Told you not to bother. Might sell it.”
I freeze in the doorway, balling my hands into fists. “No,” I say, “you won’t because it’s the last thing this family has left. Leo’s gone. Hannah’s leaving. Jesse’s got his own life, and we hardly ever see Lily. It’s just us, Dad.”
He doesn’t answer.
I leave before I say something I’ll regret. The only thing that’s keeping me in line is the thought of Alex and June waiting for me at home.
Thirty-Seven
JUNE
“You okay in here?”I ask Alex, popping my head into the living room.
“I’m good. Thanks, June.” Alex lies on the sofa, a heating pad on her stomach, flipping through the channels. She hasn’t had much screentime today, and her pain seems to have subsided at least. She was pretty cheerful over dinner—steak and greens—whereas Cash was silent and brooding.
I head upstairs, my thoughts on the outcome of my meeting with the college counselor today.
The fact is it went great. Sasha, my counselor, told me there’s plenty of space for students wanting a bachelor’s degree in teaching. That’s the first step. After studying that, I’ll need to complete an Educator’s Preparation program, take certification exams, and submit a state application. It sounds like a lot but taking that first step is exciting. And there are several colleges with rolling admissions.
The only hurdle left is tuition, but even that might be doable. There’s financial aid and scholarships, and a straight up loan. I’m part excited, part terrified.
I don’t want to leave.
I hear strumming. Cash is playing guitar in the library again.
I follow the sound into the room—it’s my favorite in the house—and watch him.
He’s on the floor, wearing jeans and a cotton T-shirt that bites at his muscular arms, the guitar in his arms. He picks and strums, then pauses and writes something down on a sheet of music in front of him.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
Cash looks up at me, smiling. It sends more of those butterflies fluttering in my stomach. “Sit.”
I sit across from him, my legs tucked to one side, my ankles crossed.
He strums a few chords, his blue eyes full of unspoken emotion as he stares at me, and I shiver. The melody is beautiful, almost haunting, and I’m lost in the moment. Him playing. Me listening. Afterward, he makes changes to his sheet music again, then absently reaches over and strokes my ankles and feet.
I suck in a breath.
Cash tucks the pencil behind his ear and gives me a look that could melt the clothing off my body. He moves his calloused fingers up my legs, my thighs, toward the hem of my shorts.
“Cash, we—”
“Hmm.” He sets the guitar aside, then grabs the sides of my shorts and scoots my butt along the floor, dragging me toward him. Cash leans in, pressing his mouth to my ear. “Do you know why I started writing music?”
“Because you loved country music?” The warmth of his breath against my neck and ear gives me shivers.
“Because of you.”
I stiffen, turning toward him, so that our noses almost touch. “What?”
“I started learning guitar because of you,” he murmurs. “Started the band because of you.”
I’m stunned.
He presses a gentle kiss to my lips. “Remember that summer we went to the music festival in Austin? We were thirteen.”
