It makes me think of Beth, and the threat of losing her. I sob harder, hating that I’m keeping secrets, but also not willing to risk such another profound loss in my life. I wouldn’t survive it.
Kit continues to hold me, continues to run that warm hand up and down my back, much like he did the day Mom died. He doesn’t offer words of comfort. He doesn’t tell me things will get easier. It’s like he somehow knows exactly who I need him to be, and I selfishly take all he has to offer.
It seems like hours and my head is killing me when the tears begin to taper off.
“A little better?” he asks when I pull my face from his chest.
We both ignore the wetness on his clothes as he offers me a soft smile, his thumb wiping away the dampness on my cheek before his eyes drop to my mouth.
Please, I want to beg him.
His lips on mine are exactly what I need.
I want to cry some more when he looks away from me without offering that to me. I know why he did it. This situation has to be familiar to him as well. Kissing me that day ended my friendship with a young man I had been emotionally dependent on for years.
I can understand why he doesn’t lean forward and press his lips to mine. I acted horribly that day, blaming him for what took place even though I was as much an active participant. The next day, everything changed, and within weeks, Kit was shipping out for basic training. My guilt over using him the way I did kept me away when I knew he was going to be home for leave.
I went from seeing him all the time to not seeing him once in the eight years he served in the military.
Jesus. That’s when it happened.
The day I saw him after he discharged was the moment that I realized the boy that kissed me the day my mother died was gone. A man, covered in tattoos, with a sly, knowing smirk on his face, took his place, and I began to look at him much differently, in ways that would make Beth’s head explode.
“What is it?” he asks, his face close enough that the warmth of his breath slides across my tear-stained lips.
I shake my head, my eyes closing. My emotions are too all over the place to even understand them myself.
He’s still watching me, his expression a little sad, when I finally open my eyes.
“Are you ready?”
I nod, moving to climb off his lap.
He sticks close, his hand moving down my arm to wrap his fingers around mine. I swallow a lump of emotion in my throat, because the man touching me right now isn’t the man who blew my mind in a hotel room. He’s once again the friend I lost years ago when I realized I liked his lips on mine just a little too much.
He pauses with me in the doorway of the spare bedroom. Although we both know why I need to clean this room, and the coming reason for its use, neither of us mention it. We don’t talk about where the crib could go or if I’m going to go with a theme.
He squeezes my hand before releasing it. He walks inside as I continue to stand in the doorway. Although I feel a swarm of guilt about it, today seems like a burden. I don’t consider my mom a burden, but the emotional drain just thinking of taking care of her things is weighing me down.
“I remember this,” Kit says, his voice nostalgic. “She wore this all the time.”
“She was always cold,” I remind him, a weak, but genuine smile tugging up the corners of my mouth at seeing the thick sweater in his hands.
“And this. Do you remember when—yep, there it is.” He turns the shirt toward me, pointing to the stain near the bottom hem.
“She was so mad. If I recall, she blamed Gannon for the chili that dripped on it that day.”
Kit nods as he refolds the shirt. “All the guy did was holler as he cannonballed into the pool.”
“Scared the crap out of her.”
We both chuckle, the memory of that day coming back to us.
I take it from his hand, holding the fabric to my chest, realizing I’ve fully stepped into the room without actually registering my movements.
I look up at him, so grateful for the compassionate man he is. He must read my thoughts because he gives me a slight nod before reaching back into the box to grab another article of clothing. I know I should be watching what he’s pulling out, but I just can’t seem to pull my eyes from his handsome face, hating that I made a promise to my friend so many years ago. Kit Riggs is one hell of a catch. He’s going to make someone very happy one of these days, and somehow, even though we’re standing mere feet from each other, I’m already sad over the loss.