Page 62 of I Love a Good Challenge

“What do you mean?” I need her to explain. I don’t want to leave anything in the dark between us.

She waves her hands to indicate the space between us. “Best man. Maid of honor. Who has time to add another human to that dynamic? At best, we’d dance with them. At worst, we’d leave them in the dust while we are celebrating our best friends.”

I nod, a hint of a smile trembling at the edges of my lips. “So, I don’t lose?”

“No.” She shakes her head, all business. “You can’t lose because the challenge is technically fulfilled. Isn’t that how it goes? Best man, maid of honor. I mean, if you’re single. You are still single, aren’t you? Oh, I really should’ve asked you that yesterday . . .”

Lily’s eyes finally lift, and the intensity in them causes what feels like a blush to creep up my neck.

“Jury is still out on that,” I reply, and she gasps. I laugh and squeeze her foot. “Honey, you think I would kiss you like that if I wasn’t free?”

Before she starts thinking that my rush to care for her today is just a way for me to cement myself more into her life, I hasten to add, “You don’t need to decide our status right now.”

Lifting herself briefly, she slumps back into the side of the couch, which is cradling her bones if the way she curls into it with a sigh is any indication.

“Graham, I need to tell you something.” Her voice is soft again.

I shut my eyes and focus on my breathing, willing my body to relax no matter what she may say next.

“Wait—why are you sorry?”

So, she does remember the statement I was hoping she’d forget, even if I did say it within the last five minutes.

“I won’t apologize for yesterday, if that’s what you’re asking.” I rub the arches of her feet again, needing something to do with my hands. When I slow, she wiggles her feet as if she wants more of my touch but is unsure if she should ask for it. Our hesitant push and pull feels like a metaphor for what we’ve been to each other for the last two years.

“I didn’t mean it,” she whispers. “In LA. I didn’t mean it. I was . . . scared.”

I consider my words carefully before replying. “Love is scary, Lily. It’s not a sure thing—clearly. But you have to commit to it. You have to lean into it despite the fear of the unknown. I respected what you wanted and stayed away when you told me this was a one-sided love in LA. I did what you told me to do when I moved to town. I loved you enough to be committed to your wishes even if there was no hope for us. I’m sorry if that made you feel that I didn’t fight for you.”

She clears her throat, the slow blink of her eyelids a sign that she won’t be awake much longer. I feel an urge to get out everything I’ve wanted to say while I can. I open my mouth to speak again but am cut off from the intent by the crumbling of her smaller frame. Her strong demeanor has been brought down by a virus and honesty. Her eyes glisten with a sudden sheen. I see the tears pooling at the edges. One trails along the side of her cheek, gravity pulling it more quickly toward the crack in the couch cushions from the angle of her face against it.

No response feels worthy of the vulnerability she is allowing me to see without saying a word. Instead, I grip the tops of her shins and massage them gently, hopefully showing her that I hear her. I’m here for her. The rise and fall of her chest while she breathes is as when someone cries, the silent kind until her breath hitches involuntarily. Unable to stop myself, I lean forward, sliding my hands underneath her shoulder blades to scoop her up.

Without hesitation, she nuzzles into my neck and shifts to wrap her arms around me. I lean back against the couch. She curls up with her face close to my heart, her ribcage supported by my arm on one side while the other wraps around the side of her face, my fingertips caressing the edge of her hair. Her cheekbone presses into my palm. I want to memorize the ridge of it and the softness of her skin.

Knowing her head hurts, I start to massage the back of her neck. An energy pulses through me. If I don’t move, I fear I’ll crack fully. The damp flood of tears through my new t-shirt and her sniffles tell me that she’s doing it enough for the both of us right now. There are two parts to Lily’s mind that I’ve observed—the one she shares with others and the one she only shares with me when she feels safe. The part she shares when her defenses have been disarmed. It seems as if she has to fight with herself before she lets herself be free. Lately, I’ve gotten a glimpse of how she could love me again. I remember how she liked to be held when she worried about leaving LA and felt lost. At the time, she told me she felt secure in my arms. I can only hope she still feels the same.

Only when she’s sound asleep, her breathing soft, her body flush against mine, do I let myself inhale deeply. The warmth of her wraps around me. It reaches the places of my heart I forgot had grown cold. Without her, it seems as if I don’t just forget how to make a fire. I forget that the flame exists at all.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Lily

Iawaken to the sound of soft piano music and the smell of a fresh meadow. My eyes flutter against my closed lids. It’s so serene that I would think it was a dream. It hits me that, for only the second time in two years, I didn’t dream of Graham while I slept.

When I shift over, despite the dull ache in my head, I realize that I didn’t dream of him because I didn’t need to. He’s beside me again, and I marvel that the only other time he has escaped my dreams was the night he protected me from the storm by staying with me until it passed. Here he is, caring for me again. I’m still too weak to get up, so I allow myself a moment to take all of him in as he rests at the end of my couch, my feet stretched across his lap. If I had to guess, as the subtle glow of light frames the edges of my room-darkening curtains, it’s dawn.

Graham’s hair is slightly mussed, like he couldn’t help but run his fingers through it. His head leans back, angled toward me. His brow is relaxed with not a hint of the angst I’ve seen on him lately. His forearms are exposed, lengthening from under his now-wrinkled navy t-shirt.

In the dim light, I take the opportunity to study him. My eyes catch on each handsome feature of his face. I trace the full lips that kissed me less than thirty-six hours ago and memorize each line of the hands that have held and cared for me so well. There is a hint of a vegetable soup stain across the top of his chest. I flung my spoon toward him (truly on accident—this time), and the remnants are still evident, as if even my soup just wanted to be closer to him. I honestly don’t blame it.

Graham is exceptional. I’ve never met a man who’s just so . . . sure and steadfast. He never wavers and doesn’t make anyone feel less about themselves. He’s the type of man who—if you have him—makes you want to explain to the world that you know he’s too good to be true while also assuring them that he is everything he seems to be and more.

The only time I’ve seen his steady demeanor nearly crack was at the Regency Ball. The sight almost broke my heart all over again. I’ve been so unclear with my intentions. Sparrow tried to tell me. Even as he has existed around me and beside me these past several months, I feel so gutted that I’ve lost even more time with him. He has been right next to me, but because of my own pain, I’ve kept him at a distance.

While I’m praying that he doesn’t catch whichever virus I have, I reach over and tenderly wrap a hand around his strong forearm. There is just enough light peeking through to allow me to keep studying him and remember the things that make him so uniquely . . . him. His inquisitive mind plays out in the lines on his forehead and between his brows. His determination for justice presents itself in the clenching of his jaw. His kindness lives in his smile. His passion and love for me echo on his lips, his adoration and devotion lingering in his eyes. I’ve seen it all before, and yet, it feels so new.

The haze of sickness is still lingering at the edges of my fuzzy brain. My strength feels like it has been taken and exchanged for crystal-clear clarity. Perhaps for the first time, I think I could settle into this kind of love. Loving Graham wouldn’t lead me to become less of myself. He may soften my edges, but he also strengthens my spirit. With him, I believe I could finally allow myself to relax and rest, holding onto the man I’ve wanted all along. I don’t know why we sometimes forbid ourselves from the very things we most desire. Against all reasoning, we talk ourselves out of love. Or worse, we tell ourselves the lie that we don’t deserve it, convincing ourselves falsely that there’s something about us that will be better off by pushing love away before it pushes us to the end of ourselves.

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