From Scratch (20 page)

“How could you?” I say, glancing between them, the tears finally tumbling over. I swipe them away. “You knew about his condition and purposely kept me in the dark.”

I want confusion or surprise to cross their faces, but neither comes. Only guilt, or is that shame? They avoid my question, a fist to my gut.

My gaze locks on Annabelle. “What happened to no more secrets?” My voice shakes. “We promised each other, Annabelle.”

She winces, pink coloring her cheeks. Wes looks paralyzed, as if he doesn’t know what to do.

I turn on my heel and run.

TWENTY-ONE

CLOUDS DRIFT OVER
the orange-tinged moon. Kids dressed in costumes rush down the sidewalk, bouncing from lighted front door to lighted front door, shouting, “Trick-or-treat” and accumulating candy in oversized pillowcases, oblivious that my world is crumbling around them.

I sit on the front steps of my father’s house veiled in moonlight, an empty plastic bowl shaped like a jack-o’-lantern resting on my lap. Salty tears stream down my face. There’s a throbbing in my chest, the pain so crippling I’m sure my heart is about to burst.

I glance at the rows of rooftops lining the street, one after another, contemplating how far my legs would have to carry me before I could drop to my knees, pound my fists into hard earth, and scream at the top of my lungs without anyone being able to hear me.

“I thought this is where you might be,” says a familiar voice, startling me.

Wiping the wetness off my cheeks, I peer around until I spot Nick standing in the driveway. “What are you doing here?” I say.

Closing the space that separates us, he kneels in front of me, regarding me as if I’m a delicate sugar sculpture that may shatter at any moment. His eyes take in my rumpled appearance—the dirt smudges tainting my once pristine blue dress and pinafore, the rips in my knee-high stockings, the scuffs on my Mary Jane shoes. Casualties from racing out of Baylor Medical and tripping in the parking lot.

Placing strong hands over mine, Nick loosens my grip on the candy bowl, my fingers aching from holding on so tightly, and sets it on the ground by my feet. “Got any new food jokes?” He hesitates, pain etched in his features. “The last one you told me was about a tomato turning red because it saw the salad dressing.”

“No, Nick,” I say after awhile. “Not today.” My voice sounds fractured, like I’m coming unhinged.

He brushes his thumbs under my eyes, collecting the tears as if to save me from drowning in them. “I brought you something.” Digging in his back pocket, he produces a bag of candy corn and offers it to me. “Are they still your favorite?” he asks with a small, rueful smile.

“Yes,” I say, then pop a few pieces into my mouth. For a moment the sweetness makes me feel like I’m full of something again.

Nick rubs a hand across his chest, over his heart. “Can I sit?”

I nod, moving over on the step to make room for him. He lowers himself beside me, his jean-clad leg grazing against mine.

Nick rakes a hand through his hair, still wild as ever despite years of attempting to tame it into something manageable. I hope he never succeeds. His hair deserves to be this way. No amount of control can set straight what’s meant to be crooked. When he catches me watching him, he stops and sighs, focusing his gaze on the mansion he used to call home. There’s a sad expression on his face, and I wonder if he’s thinking about his childhood. If he’s remembering a pigtailed little girl and a gap-toothed boy smitten with each other.

Hugging my knees, I look away from him, my eyes fixed on my father’s covered front porch. Cauldrons, spiderwebs, and cardboard tombstones clutter the nooks and crannies. Bats made from socks dangle from hooks. A straw-stuffed scarecrow, wearing an old pair of Levi’s jeans and a flannel shirt, slumps in a rocking chair next to the door. I squeeze my eyes shut, memorizing the scene, picturing my father setting it all up this morning before—

I shake the thought away.

“Talk to me, Lillie,” Nick says, his tone earnest as he wraps an arm around me.

I lean into him, tucking my head into the crook of his neck. His skin smells like soap and spice and safety. Like comfort. “My dad eats water chestnuts as a midnight snack.”

There’s a long pause, and I wonder if I’ve spoken too softly, but then Nick says, “Jack taught me how to play the guitar and how to parallel park.”

“He makes a wicked chili dog.”

“His laugh is infectious.”

“He chats to the food while he’s cooking it,” I say, fresh tears carving tracks down my cheeks, soaking into Nick’s shirt. “He’s particularly fond of hash browns.”

Tangling his fingers into my hair, Nick rests his chin on top of my head. “You’re his entire world, Lillie.”

“I know,” I cry. An image of my father lying in the hospital bed flashes through my mind. A strangled sound works its way out of my mouth. My hands clench as the fissures inside me finally break. Heaving sobs wrack my body, the harsh movements vibrating deep in my bones. Why didn’t I fight harder to stay with him this morning? Why did I let his stubbornness dictate my actions? What if I never got to say good-bye? Nick anchors me against his chest, tracing circles over my back, as fear and grief swallow me whole. I cry for what feels like hours until finally I’m able to calm myself down.

“What if he doesn’t recover from this?” I ask, hiccupping through the tears, my hair sticking to the side of my face.

“Jack’s strong.”

I swipe at my nose and pull away from him. My eyes burn and my throat feels raw. “I’ve been so selfish,” I say, bowing my head. “So, so selfish.” This whole time, I’ve been blaming everyone else—Wes, Annabelle, Sullivan Grace, Nick, even my father—but the person I should have been pointing at is me. “I didn’t even tell him I love him before I left this morning. Why didn’t I tell him?”

“Jack knows how you feel about him, Lillie. He raised you to let you go.” Placing a finger underneath my chin, Nick tilts up my face. His expression is concerned, but also determined. “He’s only ever wanted you to be happy.”

I shake my head. “Look at me now. I’m still being selfish, making this all about me, when it should be about my father. I guess . . .” I draw in a shaky breath and start over. “I guess what everyone says about me is true.”

“What is?”

“That I’m my mother’s daughter,” I say, picking at a weed growing along the steps. “I even look like her.”

“Lillie . . .” Nick reaches out to touch me.

I dodge him, scooting away. “I’m all my father has, and I abandoned him, just like she did. Now he’s sick, and I can’t get that time back.”

“Don’t do this to yourself.”

“He
needed
me, Nick, and I wasn’t there.” I clear my throat. “I haven’t been there for a long time.”

“You’re here now.”

“Because he tricked me. He knew I’d never come back to Dallas on my own, and he had too much pride to tell me he was hurting, that he’s
been
hurting,” I say. “I hate that the biggest thing I have in common with my mother is also the worst thing . . . and that those I love have suffered because of it.”

I swore up and down I would
never
be like her. The kind of person who could desert her husband and three-year-old daughter without a word of good-bye or forwarding address. The kind of person who could find a replacement family effortlessly and without regret. Only no matter how far I try to distance myself from her, I seem to end up right back where I started.

“Lillie, if Elizabeth were still here, I think you’d discover that many of the wonderful things people love about you come from her. Or at least that’s where the building blocks originated from.”

His words, so simple, so sincere, hit me straight in the heart. I lock my gaze with his and look, really look, into his eyes. Gone is the naive boy from my childhood and the bitter, angry man he put in his place. Now all I see is a stripped soul, laid open and bare. Yet behind each blue fleck are glimpses of the Nick I never left behind. How could I? The wind won’t let me forget him, even if I wanted to. It follows me around, whispering his name like a secret. Like at this year’s Chicago Pitchfork Musical Festival—something Nick and I promised to attend together someday. Only our someday never came. Instead, Drew surprised me with tickets. For hours we lost ourselves in the music of indie-rock bands, swaying to the rhythm. The stage lights flashed against the stainless steel ribbons that framed the Jay Pritzker Pavilion, reflecting vibrant colors into the night sky. When the music began to fade away and the crowd with it, Drew dropped to one knee, ring in hand, and asked me to make him the happiest man in the world. It was in that moment, right as I said yes, that a breeze tickled my ear and I heard it. So faint I nearly missed it. Nick.

“I ran out on a lot of things, didn’t I?” I say, thinking about how Nick may have left me first, but I still left.

For a moment Nick only stares at me, his mouth turned downward. “Only because I pushed you.”

“You can’t push what goes willingly.”

“No, Lillie.” He shakes his head. I open my mouth to protest but he holds up a hand. “Let me say this while I can. Please.” He takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” he says, his shoulders sagging. “I’m sorry for all of it—for blaming you, for the cruel things I said, for pushing you away. You meant
everything
to me, and I let you become a stranger.”

“We both did.”

“I never believed I could hurt you,
us,
the way I did,” he says. “I was so angry all the time. Angry at my parents because nothing I did ever met their expectations. Angry at myself for feeling like a failure every time I looked in the mirror. Angry at you for not understanding how hard I was trying to . . . keep it all together.”

I bite my lip. “It wasn’t just you, Nick. I didn’t know how to be there for you . . . to be what you needed. So instead of fighting harder, I did nothing at all,” I say, overcome with shame. “I was supposed to be your biggest supporter, and I turned my back on you . . . and on myself. I’m so sorry for that.”

“I forgave you a long time ago, Lillie.”

“I’m sorry it took me a little longer to do the same.”

Silence stretches between us.

When Nick finally speaks, his voice is unsteady, hoarse. “That day on the Junior League porch you said you weren’t enough. That was never the case.
Never.
I wasn’t in a place to show you any different,” he says, shifting his body toward mine. He grabs my hand, callused and capable holding soft and small. “I hate myself for not listening to you that night, for every horrible thing I said. You needed me to be there, to talk about your mother, and I dismissed you like you were nothing. I’ll never forgive myself for that.”

My stomach twists, remembering the way Nick screamed at me, how my heart shattered into fragments like the porcelain plate he threw at the wall, the desperate feeling swirling inside me, pushing me to
go
.

Nick clears his throat and continues. “It took me a long time to realize that you needed to leave—had to leave. It was like you received this gift, like you’d been released from the hell we were living in. I only wish it didn’t mean losing you for me to finally get my shit together. Because I always wanted to keep you, Lillie. Always.”

I suck in a breath, his words jolting through me, rattling something loose. Our conversation in Montgomery Park comes into sharp focus.
Maybe this is exactly how it’s supposed to be.
I understand now what he was trying to tell me that morning after our run: that me leaving allowed us to be here now, at a place of forgiveness.

My eyes roam over his face, taking in his strong jawline, high cheekbones, the tiny wrinkle between his brows. I can see his pulse beating in his neck.

His name falls from my lips. A murmur so quiet I’m sure the sound didn’t travel far enough to reach him, but then Nick narrows his eyes, and I know he heard me. My skin tingles, buzzing with overwhelming urgency. A feeling that life is fragile, something to be savored, and if I don’t act with intention, it could all slip away from me again.

I
can’t
let it slip away again. I have to grab it and never let go.

I have to—

I rise up on my knees.

Fist my fingers into Nick’s hair.

And crash my mouth against his.

TWENTY-TWO

THE KISS IS
devastating and
oh, so incredible.
It tastes of regret, longing, and a soul-deep realization that it has never been—and will never be—better than with him. From somewhere far off I recall that my father is lying in a hospital bed, but my mind is in a haze.

All of a sudden strong hands push me away. I sit back on my heels, my chest heaving. “What . . . ?”

Nick combs his fingers through his hair and exhales a ragged breath. “This isn’t right.”

Isn’t right?
Crushing humiliation washes over me. Will I
ever
be enough? After everything we talked about, I thought maybe, but no. I’m still not worth the sacrifice. Tears prick my eyes as I stand on wobbly legs.

He reaches for me. “Lillie, wait. I need to tell you—”

I lurch for the door. I stumble into my father’s darkened house,
my
house. When I get to the kitchen, I bend over the table and rest my forehead on the cool surface, trying to breathe, to rid myself of this feeling that I got punched in the gut.

“Lillie.”

I whirl around. Nick blocks my escape route. He studies me, his nostrils flaring. There’s something dangerous in his gaze, as though I’m the deer and he’s the hunter.

“I came after you,” he says, low, hoarse.

I shake my head. “Margaret’s the only person you should be going after.”

He lets out a frustrated growl. “There is no me and Margaret. Not anymore.”

I look at him, confused.

“I ended things last night, Lillie, though I should have done it after our kiss,” he continues, taking a step forward, his body illuminated in moonlight. “You said that desperation is a powerful motivator. So is loneliness.” Another step. “I never should have started a relationship with Margaret for that reason, but after everything she did for me, I thought I owed her my loyalty.” Another step. “But she deserves more than just that, which is something I can’t give.”

My heart hammers in my chest, his confession a tether connecting us. We stand there for a second, staring at each other, as if we’re playing a game of chicken daring the other person to move. Then Nick crosses the kitchen. Or maybe my feet propel me forward. Doesn’t matter. We slam together; our mouths collide in a frenzied kiss. When his tongue grazes against mine, everything inside me ignites, awakened by his taste, his touch, his smell. Brilliant white stars burst behind my eyelids. I tremble, wanting his fingers, his mouth, his body everywhere, all over me.

His hand cradles the back of my head, tangling in my hair, while the other presses into my hipbone. I curl my fingers into his shirtfront, drawing him closer so that the solid planes of his chest align with the soft curves of my own. It’s as though our bodies never forgot each other.

We stumble backward without breaking the kiss. I hit a solid edge. A beat later my legs are off the ground, locked around his waist. When he places me on the counter and I feel his weight against me, my mind goes blank, all thoughts spiraling away except for Nick and how fundamentally right this is. I’ve only ever belonged to him.

“Oh, God,” I gasp, my heels digging into the back of his thighs. My urgent, greedy fingers dip under his T-shirt and glide across his smooth back, his chest, his shoulders. They weave in his hair, pull at the roots. Nick lets out a deep, sexy grunt that coils around me like the red stripe of a candy cane.

“Lillie,” he pleads. His mouth grazes the sensitive spot behind my ear, runs across my cheek, and down my neck. The stubble on his jaw whispers promises against my skin. Everywhere he touches leaves a trail of fire. I don’t even care about the ridiculous, desperate sounds I’m making.

His tongue darts out, skimming the hollow of my throat. His impatient hands tug at my costume, dance up and down my thighs, tease purple lace, then rip it away. I gasp. My stomach tightens, warmth pooling there, as Nick brushes his thumbs over my nipples through the fabric of my dress. His teeth nip at my collarbone. And oh, the pressure is delicious, causing me to ache in all the right places.

“Don’t stop,” I beg, as a current of energy thrums through me.

Nick captures my mouth again, hungry and desperate. I whimper, drowning in kiss after kiss. He breaks away, eyes hooded and dark. His stomach muscles contract in rhythm with his short breaths. I yank the shirt over his head and discard it on the floor, then work on unbuttoning his jeans. I pull down his boxer briefs just enough to free him, gripping and stroking his hard length the way that used to drive him insane. Based on the curses and guttural noises echoing around the kitchen, and the way he pushes and pulses against my hand, it still does.

“Fuck, Lillie.” His voice is rough in my ear and
so completely
destructive. “
Fuck.
”

Lust and yearning and control jolt through me because I brought him to that.

Nick picks me up and braces me against the wall, cupping my bare skin, my dress gathered around my waist. His gaze burns with intensity, watching my expression as he lifts me slightly and slides my body down onto his. We both groan, and Nick mutters phrases that resemble
gorgeous
and
so good
and
perfect
against my collarbone.

The world dissolves. Nothing exists but the two of us, moving together. Touching, kissing, making up for so much lost time. The only sounds between us are grunts and moans and quiet urging. I grip Nick’s shoulders as his thrusts grow harder, faster, more jagged, his hips hitting my thighs.

My eyelids flutter shut and my head drops back against the wall. Heat builds inside me, spreading between my legs, a tingling sensation that causes my toes to curl. Then I’m unraveling, clutching him as I cry out. Moments later, Nick comes undone, his back muscles flexed and slick with sweat. For a second, everything is quiet. Our bodies stay entwined, chests heaving, hearts pounding.

Matching the banging on the front door.

“Fuck,” Nick says, his face buried in my neck, breath hot on my skin. He disentangles. Cool air rushes between us. My body hums with the memory of his touch.

There’s more knocking.

“Who the hell is that?” he says, throwing on his shirt, then zipping and buttoning his jeans.

“I don’t know. Probably a drunk trick-or-treater.” With shaking arms, I straighten my own clothes and smooth down my hair, attempting to regain my composure. My underwear is in scraps on the floor. My lips are swollen and tender, and my legs feel as if they may give out at any moment.

“Lillie?” a voice calls out.

Sobering dread floods through me.
Shit.
It’s Drew.
Shit, shit, shit.

What happened to him giving me space, us taking a break?

“Whoever is out there obviously wants to see you,” Nick says, though the coldness in his voice indicates he already has a good idea of who it is. “Maybe you should answer it.” He cuts his gaze away, his features concealed in shadow.

I open my mouth to respond when more pounding and yelling interrupt me.

Shaking my head, I shout, “Coming,” as I race to the door and fling it open.

“Thank God,” Drew says, almost breathless. He stands on the porch crowned in moonlight, wearing a navy suit and red tie. A brown leather bag rests against his leg. “Your phone’s been off all day. I was just about to leave and try the diner next.”

My engagement ring is in my dress pocket rather than on my finger, my costume is a rumpled mess, and I’m sure my expression shows everything that transpired between Nick and me. Only Drew doesn’t seem to notice anything is off.
How can he not notice?
Instead he wraps me in a hug and presses his lips to my forehead.

Wiggling out of his embrace, I blurt, “What are you doing here?”

Drew furrows his brow and says, calm and steady as always, “Baylor Medical Hospital called the apartment this morning. The person I spoke with wouldn’t tell me much, only that you’re listed as your father’s emergency contact. I tried your cell, and when I couldn’t get ahold of you, I took a flight here. I’m not sure what’s going on, but it sounded serious. I thought you would want the support.”

My heart clenches. I did want the support, just not from him.

“Is your father okay?” Drew asks. “Is it his knee?”

“No, it’s not his knee. He collapsed from a heart attack and underwent bypass surgery. He’s recovering now,” I say, lacking the energy to elaborate further.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Drew starts to loop an arm around my waist when the porch light flips on. I jump a little, nearly stumbling on a cardboard tombstone. Sucking in a breath, I peer over my shoulder. Nick leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, jaw set, eyes piercing in a way that twists my stomach into knots.

Drew glances between us. I can only imagine the questions running through his mind.
Who is this guy? What’s he doing at my father’s house with all the lights off? Why is his shirt on inside out?

Wait. Nick’s shirt is on inside out.

He put his shirt back on inside out?

This whole situation is a disaster. I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping to become invisible. These two men were never supposed to meet. Yet here they are, my past and my present.

Drew continues to glance between Nick and me. For a moment I think he’s connected the dots, that he read the flashing sign above my head proclaiming my feelings for Nick and is finally about to get upset. Then Drew steps forward, his face composed, and extends a hand, as if he honestly expects Nick to take it. “Hi. Drew Harrington. Lillie’s fiancé.”

Nick remains motionless. Several seconds pass before he turns to me and says, “Doesn’t it get exhausting?”

“What?” I ask, forcing myself to speak, to maintain eye contact.

“Pretending to be someone you’re not.” I feel the sharpness in his voice like a harsh, biting wind.

Before I can respond, Nick stalks off the porch, hops into his Mercedes, and drives away.

Drew looks at me, his forehead crinkling. “What was that about?”

“That was Nick . . . The ex I told you about . . .”

Sinking down onto the top step, I press my palms into my eyes, breathing hard through my nose. Drew takes a seat beside me and rests a hand on my knee. I place mine on top of his. Simple, easy.

Suddenly it’s all so clear. What I’ve known in my soul but only now am willing to fully admit. For the past two years I have allowed myself to exist in this safe little bubble with Drew where there’s no real intensity or challenges, an anesthetized version of what life
should
be about. That’s no way for either of us to live.

Our first date flashes through my mind. I remember how we met in front of Wrigley Field, where Drew purchased a pair of nosebleed tickets from a scalper and escorted me through the main entrance gates into the park. We made our way to the highest spot in the stadium, laughing as we stumbled to our seats, arms filled to the brim with hot dogs and baseball cap sundaes dripping hot fudge down the sides.

While we watched players move around the field like ants attacking a picnic basket, we devoured our ballpark fare and joked about needing gloves to catch all the fly balls whizzing around and made bets about each at bat. Sometime in the ninth inning, amid a group of drunken fans celebrating a Cubs home run, Drew cupped my face in his hands and leaned in so close I could see the smattering of freckles across his nose and the gold flecks in his amber eyes, and kissed me, sweet and soft and sure.

I remember thinking at that baseball game I had found someone who could offer me stability, comfort, happiness—things I lost with Nick but so desperately craved. Things I still crave but now realize aren’t enough to sustain a relationship in the long term. Where is the passion, the messiness, the euphoria of taking chances? The tingling sensation that separates loving someone from being
in love
with someone? The emotions I feel with Nick?

I take a deep breath and exhale as though I’m blowing out a hundred birthday candles. “Drew, we need to talk.”

For a moment, he stares at the straw-stuffed scarecrow in the rocking chair, his leg bouncing. Then he sighs and says, “Yeah, I suppose we do.”

I know I need to be the one to begin the conversation, but how do I break a heart that has no business being broken?

“I’m not going back to Chicago with you,” I say finally.

He nods, as though anticipating this response. “I called the management company from the airport. They’ve agreed to let us out of our lease early. I can be down here permanently in a month.”

“No. I mean, I can’t marry you, Drew,” I whisper. “I’m sorry. So,
so
sorry. But I can’t.”

My vision blurs as tears sting my eyes. A few tumble down my cheeks. I wipe them away. My face feels hot and blotchy, and there’s an ache throbbing inside me that touches me at the core. Even though I know this is right—letting Drew go so he can be with someone worthy of his love, someone who can bear witness to his life and give him everything I can’t—it’s also one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. Harder than leaving Dallas, scared and alone. Maybe even harder than discovering the truth about my mother and abandoning my dreams of someday running the diner. This time the decision is coming from an honest, pure place, not one fueled by desperation or anger.