chapter twenty-four
MY THROAT CONSTRICTS. I’m entirely frozen. From his lock screen, which is a precious photo of a smiling Albus Doodledore, I can’t see what she’s texted him. I hover over the screen, itching to type in his password, which he’s readily admitted is his birth year.
I flex my fingers, willing myself to do it. But I pull back. I can’t bring myself to snoop through his phone. It feels like a massive invasion of his privacy. And to be frank, I’m terrified of potentially unlocking the brutal truth.
I stare at her name for a few more moments, blinking in disbelief until I lose my resolve and creep on Diana’s social media from my own phone.
And that’s when I see it, on Twitter.
Diana Tisdale—Boston, how I’ve missed you! Happy to be home.
Diana is back.
In Boston.
The tweet is from a week and a half ago. The very same night Scott received the mysterious phone call.
I scour her Instagram, searching for a tiny grain of evidence that can help me put the pieces together. However, Diana has only posted two photos since her return, neither of which give me any clue at all.
None of this makes sense. I trust Scott with everything I have. I’ve put myself out there. I’ve shown and told him how much I want him. I’ve slept with him two months earlier than intended. And now this?
As much as I don’t want to believe he’s hiding the fact that they’re back in touch, this text and all his weird behavior tells me otherwise. My mind races with the possibilities. Are they getting back together now that she’s back in town? Or are they just talking casually? It doesn’t make much sense, given that Scott claims they’re no longer friends. What could have possibly happened upon her return that would launch him into such an awful mood yesterday?
It feels like the Neil situation all over again. Weeks before we broke up, I began to suspect Neil had resumed talking to Cammie after they each posted photos from the same coffee shop. I only know this because I went full-blown CSI on the photos. Have I really been hoodwinked a second time?
After ten minutes of stewing, unsure how to play it with Scott now that this text cannot be unseen, I finally garner the energy to throw on a baggy sweater and leggings and stumble into the bathroom. Luckily, my face isn’t smudged full of mascara and blotchy foundation as it would have been in my college days. I’m barefaced. My lips are red and swollen, and I have an obvious, violet hickey on the right side of my neck.
By the time I round the corner into the kitchen, Scott is standing in front of the stove in his dried clothes from yesterday, as if he’s meant to be here. As if this is a usual morning. I’m not surprised he’s one of those people who wake up looking flawless, with only slightly tousled hair as evidence of his status as a mere mortal. I bite my lip, recalling how soft it felt in between my fingers last night.
Tara is being Tara, still in her scrubs from the night shift, casually spectating from the kitchen table as Scott cooks eggs in the large skillet.
I brace myself for the awkward morning-after interaction. Instead, Scott actually lights up when he sees me. “She’s alive.” He flashes me an easy smile, as if we didn’t just spend hours connected together in more ways than one.
I think about the R-rated sounds he made last night. Will I ever forget them? Will they replay in my mind like my favorite soundtrack (of all time) every single time I see him?
“Hi,” I croak. Against my better judgment, I unearth the ill-advised jazz-hands wave.
“Scott made you breakfast. Scrambled eggs with no milk.” Tara gives me a supremely satisfied smile. From the wild look in her eyes, she’s definitely fighting the urge to shout I told you so at the top of her lungs. I have no idea what time she returned from work last night, but I know that the walls in my apartment are anything but thick.
Mortified, my gaze flickers back to the pan. “Really? You hate scrambled eggs.”
He shrugs. “I know, but you like them.” My heart practically combusts and I’m tempted to forget all about that text.
A heavy silence fills the kitchen as he plates the eggs. This should be perfect. He hasn’t peaced out into the dark of night the moment he crawled off me. He’s stuck around to cook me breakfast. I should be smiling like a loon right now, but all I can think about is Diana’s text.
Tara clears her throat. “I’m, uh, going to my room,” she announces, shuffling off to give us some space. I can’t decide whether I’m grateful or horrified.
Scott holds out a plate and fork in his extended hand. I stare at his hands for a moment, and then his lips, recalling their exceptional talent. In fact, my body owes them public recognition plaques for their service, innovation, leadership, and stellar initiative.
Dazed, I take the plate and pierce a clump of eggs with my fork, standing beside him. Just like last night, his body radiates heat, and I’m drawn to it like a fly to shit.
He leans back against the counter. “You okay?”
I blink up at him in rapid succession, willing away the too-recent memory of our bodies tangled together, satisfying each other’s needs willingly, without judgment or restraint. I need to call him out. Right now. But I chicken out.
My expression hardens the longer he looks at me, because I know why he hung up on me the other night. I know why he was in an awful mood yesterday, glued to his phone. I need to ask him about it, but I decide to broach one elephant at a time.
I tilt my head knowingly, dry-swallowing the lump in my throat. “We had sex. Two months early.”
His face doesn’t change. In fact, it stays flat. “Wait—what?”
I go still for a moment before the corners of his lips turn up into a devious smile. I swat him on the arm. “You’re such a dick.”
He lets out a low chuckle. “Sorry, that was a bad joke.” He pauses for a moment. “Actually, I feel like an asshole. I shouldn’t have let it go that far.”
I can’t tell what he’s thinking, especially now that I know he’s back in touch with his ex. And it’s driving me insane. So insane, to the point of insecurity. “It was okay, right? Last night?”
He doesn’t respond right away. In fact, his smile disappears into gray neutrality. It’s still completely unreadable.
Fuck my life. I loved it. He hated it. I nearly pulled my hamstring for nothing. All I want to do is crawl into a ball and remain motionless.
Finally, his smile returns. “Okay? You’d rate that as just okay?”
“No. It was good. Really good. Was it for you too?” I cover my face with my hands, peeking through the cracks between my fingers.
He cocks his neck back. “Are you kidding me? Last night is ingrained in my memory. Etched into a sacred stone tablet.”
I can’t help but snort, hand to stomach. It isn’t sexy in the slightest, but I’m relieved beyond measure. I wasn’t flying solo last night on my journey to heaven after all.
He takes my plate and sets it gently on the counter before wrapping his arms around me, pulling me into his warm chest. I nestle my head against him, trying to capture this moment. I want to remember how it feels to be in his arms. I take in his musky scent, which, even after a full night of serious cardio, is still alluring as sin. I revel in the security of his muscly arms enveloping me with just the right amount of squeeze. Not tight enough to crunch my bones and loose enough to wriggle free.
We stay like this, rocking back and forth in the kitchen, before I finally come to my senses. I can’t pretend I didn’t see the text, as much as I wish I could. This can’t last. This isn’t reality. I can’t tiptoe around this any longer.
I shrink out of his arms. It’s cold without his body heat. Instinctively, I wrap my arms around myself. Frankly, it’s a poor substitute. “Scott . . .”
“Yeah?”
“I know about Diana.”
His jaw tightens as he frowns at me. “What are you talking about?”
“I know she’s back in town. I know you’re talking to her again.”
He runs his hand through his thick hair. “I’m not talking to her, Crys.”
“Then why is she texting you? I didn’t mean to see it . . . I thought it was my phone.”
He sighs. “She texted me the other day, saying she was coming back to town and wanted to come get a necklace she left at my place. That’s literally it. She was supposed to get it last night . . . but I obviously wasn’t home. I never mentioned it because I honestly didn’t give it a second thought.”
I slow-blink, registering his words. “So, nothing is going on between you guys now that she’s back?”
“You really think I would cheat on you with her? After everything?”
“What am I supposed to think? We aren’t technically together. You could do anything and it wouldn’t really be cheating.”
He sidesteps away from me. “I told you I wouldn’t see anyone else.”
“How can I believe you? You’re being so sketchy with me. It doesn’t make sense. If she just texted you for a necklace, why were you acting so moody?”
He reaches forward, cupping my cheeks with his massive hands. “I’m telling you, it has nothing to do with Diana.” His shoulders slump, which tells me he’s at the end of his rope.
“Then what is it?”
He stiffens, letting his hands fall to his sides. “I can’t tell you.”
I laugh manically out of pure frustration. “That’s highly convenient.” How on earth does he expect me to trust him when he refuses to enlighten me on whatever this deep, dark secret is?
He bows his head. “I know it sounds ridiculous.”
“Then tell me. Please. Is it bad?”
He takes in a deep breath and lets it out slowly, as if choosing his words carefully. “You’re going to hate me.”
My stomach twists as I take in his watery eyes. This is bad. And try as I might, I fail to scrounge up any possibilities in my head. “Scott, tell me.”
“My grandpa might be sick.”
I blink. “Sick? What do you mean, sick?”
“He hasn’t been feeling well for the last few weeks. That’s the phone call I got. He needed someone to bring him to the ER.”
I exhale loudly, hand pressed to my chest. I’m light-headed. Thank god Scott has fed me, or I’d have passed out.
“They ran some tests and they found a tumor. He has to go back to find out if it’s cancerous. My mom and I are bringing him this afternoon.”
Cancer. The word echoes in my mind, bouncing around, taunting me like an out-of-control Ping-Pong ball. The same disease that killed my grandpa. And now, it could be happening all over again to Martin. My heart is broken for Scott and his family, who are now kind of my family too. When I think about them having to endure the pain of losing Martin, the same way we lost my grandpa, I want to scream.
And then the realization hits me. “This is why you were suddenly adamant that we take things slow. Isn’t it?”
He nods. “I couldn’t move forward knowing I was hiding that from you. That’s why Martin told me to cool it with you. Until we knew for sure.”
“But why did you keep this from me? Does Flo know?” I demand.
He shakes his head. “No. He doesn’t want her to worry for nothing. That’s why I couldn’t tell you. He made me swear I wouldn’t.”
The anger bubbles into my throat like bile. My family would never keep secrets like this. We’d get through it together, just as we did with Grandpa the moment we found out his diagnosis. “Because you didn’t trust me to keep a secret?” Realistically, I know for a fact I never could have kept that from my family. But I’m furious nonetheless.
He dips his chin in regret. “I couldn’t ask you to keep such a huge secret from Flo. I knew that would destroy you.”
My mind spins at the thought of Grandma Flo’s face when she finds out. I hold my hand out in front of me, preventing him from coming closer. I can’t even look at him right now. “Scott, please leave.”
His face twists, pained. “I wanted to tell you so badly. I told my grandpa this wasn’t right and that he needed to tell Flo today. Before I bring him to the specialist—”
I hold my hand out to signal him to stop. “Please. I need space right now.” As much as I want to hold him and take away all his hurt, all I can think about is Grandma Flo and how devastated she’s going to be. I need to be there for her, right now.
Scott nods, taking one last dejected look at me before he opens the front door. “I’m so sorry, Crys.”