She nestles against me again, effectively giving up the fight.
We sit quietly for a long time. I wonder what she’s thinking—mostly because it’s easier than dissecting my own thoughts. Which is what I accused her of before. The entire situation will be more easily handled if I stay out of my own damn head.
But the longer we sit, the more I feel the tension in her body. And the longer I have to ponder what’s rolling around her head, the sorrowful tone of her words settle deeper into my heart.
“I’m not sure about this house … I’m not sure I should accept it.”
I have no right to ask her to open up to me because I won’t do the same. I realize that. But Dara is here, in my arms, and I’m logical enough to know that it won’t kill me to listen to her. She also needs to be heard. And, deep inside the pits of my internal hell, I want her to talk to me.
Why? I don’t know.
“Hey,” I say, jostling her gently on my lap. “Talk to me.”
Her shoulders fall forward. “You don’t want me to do that.”
“Yes. I do.”
She looks at me with a hopeful hesitation that I can’t deny.
“Just, you know, don’t turn this into a Q and A,” I say with a wink.
She laughs. “Really?”
“I’m not asking you again.”
Finally, she shifts in my lap and blows out a breath. It’s the sound of resignation.
I brace myself.
“I’ve tried to be really optimistic about this whole house thing,” she says, each word guarded. “I was a bit overwhelmed by it at first. Heck, I still am. Building someone their dream house—especially after knowing them for only a few months? That’s kind of … Well, it’s a lot of things.”
“He has the money.”
“Exactly.”
I furrow my brow. “I’m not following along.”
“It’s just what you said, Wade. He has the money.” She pauses. “I want to believe that he’s doing this for me in some ‘Hey, my son kind of fucked you and your mom over, so let me do something for you since you’ve lived your whole life on the razor’s edge.’ Or, even better, maybe he realizes he’s the only blood relative I have left, and he wants to make me feel like a part of the family in some kooky, rich-person way.”
That tracks.
“But …”
The word floats through the air and hits me right in the heart. I drag her even closer to me. I let her know I’m here. Because I don’t know how to say that.
“But I know that’s not true,” she says, her voice breaking. “If he wanted to make anything up to me, if he wanted me to be in his family, he would invite me to dinner. Not build me a house.”
The splinters of her voice dig at my soul.
“Maybe they aren’t the family dinner type?” I offer, hoping it can give her something to grasp on to.
“Sure, except they do everything with their other granddaughter.” She sits up and looks at me with a pained, sorrowful look that sours my stomach. “I’m Curt Bowery’s only granddaughter by blood. I guess his wife, Tyra, has a daughter Curt has raised, and she has a daughter, Kimberly, who’s the apple of Curt’s eye.”
That motherfucker.
“I know I’m grasping at straws,” she says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I know I just … I want a connection with him so badly that I overlook so many things. I ignore so much so I don’t … so I don’t see it, I guess. And that’s not me. I don’t do that. But … I am.”
I brush my thumb across her cheek and wish I could tell her what I’m thinking. That I, too, am doing things I don’t do.
But like Dara, I don’t know how to handle it. It’ll just have to be a fight for another day.
“Come on,” I say, urging her up. “Let’s go back to bed.”
As she gets to her feet, her spirits rise.
Mine don’t. I didn’t love Curt Bowery before. I hate him now.
“Are you going to cuddle with me?” she teases.
“No.”
“Oh, come on,” she says, taking my hand. “Just a little cuddle.”
I look at her and try not to let her pouty lips soften my resolve.
“I already answered you,” I say, heading up the steps with her at my heels.
“That doesn’t mean I won’t ask you again.”
“Don’t I know that,” I mumble.
She laughs.
I follow her into my bedroom and ignore the ache in my chest. Nothing can be done about it tonight.
We slip between the sheets, and just as I knew—and hoped—she would, she curls up against me.
“Good night, Wade. Sweet dreams.”
“Night, Dara.”
We lie still, and it’s not long until her breathing evens out. Then I kiss the top of her head and go to sleep too.
TWENTY-EIGHT
WADE
“What the …?”