“I need to go.”
“Don’t.”
Katelyn shakes her head. She bends and picks up her shoes that I didn’t even realize she had dropped. I stand here, rooted in place while she walks to my door. What are the chances that she opens it and turns back to me? Probably slim. She doesn’t want me. I’m nothing but a distraction. I’m not the man she thinks she needs to help raise her kids. I don’t fit the mold, the stereotype of the All-American husband.
My heart stops when the door opens. I’m powerless to keep her here, to stop her from walking away from something I know can be good. I know how to treat a woman like her. She’s the one I’ve been waiting for.
“Why her?”
I walk to her, stopping when my chest is pressed against her back. I hold onto the edge of the door, giving me more leverage to keep her tightly against me.
“What do you mean?”
Katelyn turns, her hand brushing against me. I bite my lip to avoid hissing. That will scare her, but she has to realize what it does to a man when you brush against them when they’re hard, and when I’m near her… hell even when I’m not near her, I’m hard. Just the simple thought of seeing her smile once a day is enough for me.
“She got to touch you, take your hood off and when I tried, you moved away.”
She was watching. This should give me hope, but it doesn’t. It hurts that she saw me with that woman. If this was last year, I would’ve bedded her and never thought about her again. That all changed the night I met Katelyn. One look at her and I knew.
“Because I want you to know me.”
My answer isn’t enough for her. She turns and walks out into the hall, toward her room. I step out, leaning against the door jam and watch her walk to her room. She stands at her door. Her hand comes up to her face and across her cheek. Fucking great, I made her cry. She doesn’t offer me a look before entering her door. The click echoes down the hall, effectively ending the best and worst minutes of my life.
I sit down on the couch and stretch out. I don’t know what else I can do to get her attention. Maybe I should stop. I should take her walking away from me as a sign. But I’m in too deep. Too far gone to give up, and I don’t know if I can be her friend anymore. Something has to give.
I rub my hands up and down my face before screaming out in frustration. Life isn’t supposed to be like this. I’ve waited for the right one to come along, and when she finally does, she’s so torn up after losing her husband that I don’t stand a chance in hell.
I should’ve known better.
I should’ve…
I search frantically for a piece of paper and a pen, finding one in Quinn’s backpack. Sitting back down, I clear the coffee table of his games and start writing.
I set my pen down and read over the words. I like how they are coming together, how she’s bringing this out of me.
I get up and pace. My fingers play with my missing lip ring. Sometimes I wish I still had it, but Quinn would’ve yanked it out when he was younger had I kept it. I read the lyrics that I wrote down. My chicken scratch is barely legible. School definitely doesn’t prepare you for stardom. Maybe if I paid more attention in handwriting
class, I wouldn’t groan internally each time I’m asked for an autograph. I stop and play the air drums with the lyrics running through my head.
I have to scramble back to the couch when the next verse works its way into my subconscious.
I hold the paper in my hand. I can’t help but smile. The first song I wrote about my feelings turned out to be shit; Liam won’t even sing it, but this… this has number one written all over it.
The high of my accomplishment quickly wears off. I have no one to share this with. Quinn is having a sleepover with Noah and Liam has Josie. JD is god-knows-where and with whom. Me? I’m alone, clutching an inked up piece of paper with a bunch of cross-outs, thinking I’ve just written a masterpiece. God, I’m such a fool. This isn’t any better than the first song I gave him. I know Liam says we need to express ourselves more, but come on. I can’t. I’ve never been good at this. I’m the silent one in the corner. The one you miss when you walk into a room. This isn’t me.
I crumple the lyrics up in to a ball and throw them toward the trashcan. The paper drops about a foot in front of it. Great, I can’t even make a basket. My phone vibrates in my pocket. I look at the clock, two a.m.
“It’s early.”
“Or late depending on where you are.”
“This is true. What’s up, Yvie?”
“Not much,” she sighs into the phone. There is definitely something bothering her or she wouldn’t be calling.
“You’re lying. I hate it when you lie to me.”
“I know,” she says quietly. “I just miss you and it’s not really a lie.”