Page 48 of Chasing Home

There’s a lot I still have to do to prove myself to her, and I have never been this interested in putting in the work to do exactly that.

Rory darts her stare to the front door and holds it there. I wait with my lips sealed shut as she contemplates what she wants. It’s warm enough outside despite the gloomy day that I wouldn’t mind sitting out here with her. Cherry Peak is a calm town, so we’d have peace and quiet to talk.

“The back porch is better than this one. It’s nicer,” she says.

“Alright. The back porch it is, then.”

Her hair slips over her cheek as she nods, and I’m suddenly grateful my hands are full. If they weren’t, I’d be struggling not to push it behind her ear.

She opens the door, and I glare at the hinges when they creak. Bright light streaming through the windows greets us as we step inside, and she rubs her shoes on the carpet in front of the door before moving through the house. I shut the door behind us before looking around the front room with greedy eyes, trying to take in as much of it as I can while also keeping up with her. My worry for her grows at the sight of the old wood-burning fireplace that’s full of ashes, cracked walls, peeling plaster, and an old yellow plaid couch that looks like it was hauled out of my great-grandmother’s basement.

Aurora’s pace is hurried, and I wonder if that’s so she doesn’t have to show me around the place properly.

I abandon my exploration and focus on her instead. When and if she actually decides to show me around, I don’t want to already know everything.

The back door is in better condition than the front, not creaking when she pushes it open. The place could use a nice screen door in addition to the heavy wooden one. Especially in the summer when a cool early evening breeze is needed to cool the muggy inside these older houses.

“I haven’t put a lot of effort into the house or the backyard, so I know it looks . . .” She crosses her arms and taps her fingers against her bicep. “It’s a work in progress.”

I step outside after her and take a look around the back porch. She wasn’t lying in saying this porch is nicer than the other, but it’s not by much. The wood slats are still chipped and cracked, with what’s left of the stain worn to shit. There aren’t railings along the edges to block the view of deep green grass. It isn’t spotty and dead like the front yard.

Only one single fabric camping chair sits on the porch beside a tiny folding table. The tall wooden fence is uneven along the top and leans onto the neighbour’s property behind the tiny garden shed.

“You can have the chair,” she mutters, drawing my attention right back to her. Cheeks pink, she avoids my eyes.

“No, darlin’, I’m good here.” I drop to my haunches and set the beer and milkshakes on the wood planks before sitting my ass on the edge of the porch. Letting my legs dangle over the grass, I feel my boots brushing the high points of it. “You always take the only chair when you’re around me, okay?”

“Alright,” she says, voice softer than I’ve ever heard it.

But instead of sitting on her chair, she takes a few steps toward me and sits on the porch, her legs swinging beside mine. My chest warms as I smile and reach for two beers, uncapping both before handing her one.

“I assume I have you to thank for the sudden air conditioning in my car?” she asks before taking a sip of her beer.

“So it works? Good. I was worried I’d have to kick some ass at the ranch tomorrow.”

“How did you even get it fixed without me seeing you take it?”

“It was easy. I had the guys tow it to the shop so Brody could fix it up while you were workin’. He got it done in a blink,” I explain.

She’s quiet for a moment before saying, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, darlin’. I like knowing you’re taken care of. Anything else happens to that car, you let me know, yeah?”

“Alright, I will.”

The crinkle of a paper bag fills the night as she sets down her beer and pulls out the giant box of fries and a handful of the packets of ketchup. Brows twitching, she offers them to me, and I take them with a wink.

“I’ve got a thing for condiments. There’s nothing worse than dry food. Give me a squirt of ketchup on damn near anything any day,” I say.

“Anything?”

“To an extent.”

“I knew someone in college who ate ice cream with ketchup.”

I shiver in disgust. “Fuckin’ nasty.”

She nods, handing me a thick burger wrapped in silver foil. “I’m assuming because this one weighs a million pounds that it’s yours?”

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