Page 72 of How Dare You

“Yeah, I believe she could.” I try to play it cool. “Do you know of anyone who’s looking for a designer?”

“Maybe,” Brian answers. “I’ll ask around.”

§

My gate squeaks in the distance right as I’ve pulled my sweatpants on to get into bed. I’m not expecting anyone, and Bradley and Sadie are the only two people with keys. Unless Sadie gave her key to Devon.

Coming back to my trailer alone after having her here for two weeks has left a pit in my stomach. I got too comfortable sharing it with her, and now it’s not just her chair or her daybed. Every single square foot of this property is branded with a memory of her.

Making coffee in the morning in the kitchen. Writing snarky notes on the whiteboard when she doesn’t think I’m watching. Wrapping her legs around me at night and pretending not to be asleep. This trailer gave me the freedom I needed to start over. It became my home the first night I hit the road. But now, without her here, it feels incomplete.

Devon needs space. I’ve always known that if I held on too tightly, I’d lose any chance with her. So, I haven’t pushed since all this happened. I’m there as soon as she needs me, but I’m not asking anything of her.

The gate creaks again when she locks it back up. It has to be her. I go outside and plug in the bistro lights, tucking my hands in my pockets and leaning against the high back of an Adirondack chair.

She flips her headlights off when she sees me, and I walk over to greet her. Maybe this time we can fool around in her car. There’s no one else around. But when I open her door, the idea evaporates. Her face is drawn, eyes tired and shoulders slumped.

“Hey, mama,” I say, cautiously. “I’m happy you’re here.”

“Me too,” she whispers, staring through glassy eyes at her steering wheel.

“Let’s get you inside.” I reach across to unclick her seatbelt and take her hand, drawing her out of her car and shutting the door behind her. “I’ll come back for your stuff.”

“I didn’t even think to pack—” her voice cracks, and she sniffles. “I just, everything is—” She looks up at me, watery eyes starting to spill over.

Wrapping my arms around her, I pull her close into my bare chest, and her shoulders immediately shake with sobs.

“I’m sorry I’m crying,” she whispers between gasped breaths.

I press my lips to the top of her head. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

With her arms folded between our chests, she pushes all of her weight into my hold, and I squeeze her tighter. My Devon. It’s not right. This shouldn’t be happening to her.

“I’m not supposed to, this isn’t—” she sucks in a heavy breath. “I don’t cry,” she insists as a fresh wave of tears hits her.

“Of course you don’t,” I agree, and a tiny laugh slips out of her between sobs.

She doesn’t let up, so neither do I, holding her tight and rubbing soothing hands up and down her back. Warmth breath and hot tears cover my chest, and the smell of her floral shampoo and peppermint soap fill my nose. We stay like that for long, long minutes, her letting go of the tears she’s been holding back, and me doing my best to be her anchor in this storm.

Finally, she sniffles, looking up at me, hands still folded together between us. “Aren’t you cold?” she asks.

“Not a bit.”

“I just snotted all over you.” She tries to wipe the tears from my body with her trapped hands.

“I don’t care about that,” I tell her, pulling back just enough to tuck one arm behind her knees and another behind her shoulders.

“You don’t have to carry me,” she sniffles, burrowing her head into my neck and leaning into me again. She closes her eyes. “Seriously.”

When we’re inside I set her down on the bed and bring her a box of tissues before turning on the kettle. She sits, legs crossed in front of her, silently watching me until I return with a pile of clothes for her to sleep in.

“Arms up,” I tell her, and she lifts them for me, allowing me to pull off her silky white shirt and skin-toned bra, replacing them with my second softest t-shirt, since the softest is back at her house already. Guiding her one arm at a time, I put her into the flannel shirt she wore last week, and there’s a little glimmer of light in her eyes when she recognizes it. A slow smile creeps over her lips as I finish changing her completely into pajamas, with a pair of my boxers that hang loosely around her thighs.

The kettle whistles and I bring a cup of tea over to the bed where I sit down next to her.

She leans her face into the steam that rolls off her mug. “I love peppermint.”

“Thought so,” I answer, resting my hand on her folded leg.