Page 36 of Watch Me

But Nick is different, I tell myself.

There are two Nicks. Stern, intimidating Nick Rivera—slow to smile, somewhat menacing in size and stature, that arch way of speaking like he will brook no argument. And then there’s the private, silly, passionate Nick I discovered underneath. The one who teases me. The one who loses himself in me. Beneath his cool exterior is a molten core, and showing that core to me means he loves me.

I think.

We’re sitting in the dining room, where I’ve served dinner—a little homemaking ritual I’ve been performing all week—but Nick isn’t eating, just pushing the food around on his plate. He’s quiet, and it makes me nervous, reminding me too much of the tension around the dinner table I grew up with.

When he finally speaks, his voice is leaden, like he can barely bring himself to say the words.

“We need to get realistic about what this is, Bean,” he grits out, lifting troubled eyes to mine.

In the week since our relationship turned physical, we’ve gone down this road a few times. Nick reiterates that nothing can come of this, my heart shatters, and then Nick breaks down and realizes he needs me. Relief comes in his arms—when he moves over me, when he’s inside of me, when he holds me.

But tonight, his regret feels heavier than usual. He’s been quiet all afternoon and barely meeting my eyes.

“I wish you’d never met Tate.”

His words pierce like an icepick to the heart. “But then I’d never have met you,” I point out.

He sighs and pokes at a potato. “Did you hear from him?”

Did I hear from him, not have I heard from him. “No.”

“He texted me this afternoon. Finally. He apologized. I thought he might have texted you as well.”

I’m surprised to hear that Tate apologized to his father. And a little annoyed, if I’m being honest. Unlike Nick, I never texted Tate after he left, never pursued him, but don’t I deserve an apology for what he did?

Although, truthfully, I don’t care that much. All I really want is for Tate to evaporate into thin air, to disappear, to not be a factor. I don’t want to think about Tate. I want to be with Nick without the specter of Tate hanging over us for once.

No such luck tonight, though. Nick’s energy is dampened and low. I hate seeing him this way. And I hate feeling this way.

Like those times at home when my father would withdraw, and my mother would, too—pulling her love away from him punishingly because she knew he’d already taken his away from her.

I don’t want to be like that. That’s why, when I feel like pulling away, I try to reach out instead. I don’t want to not try with Nick. I put my fork down, get up and walk over to him, and touch his shoulder.

“Hey.”

He gives me a resigned smile.

I lift a leg over his chair to straddle him, and he turns his head to the side, stiffening as if the way I lower myself between him and the table is awkward. I want to end this wallowing and call him back from this ledge. I settle my weight onto his thighs and gently cup his face with my hands, pressing my lips to his in a soft kiss. But he only kisses me back perfunctorily. His dark brown eyes, when they lock on mine, aren’t flashing with mischief and fire.

“If he wants to come back… this is his home. He’s my son.”

I kiss his forehead then, without saying anything, then his eyelids, then his lips.

Please let’s not think about this now.

If Tate is coming back we can cross that road when we come to it. We can deal with it then.

This relationship has repercussions for me, too. Eyebrows will rise when people discover that I moved from the son to the father. But this thing between Nick and I… I guess it feels like we have to find a way. We have to, because it’s real.

I don’t know what else to do with the truth that lives in my heart except to say it.

“I’m in love with you.”

It comes out as a whisper.

But the effect is like throwing a match on a puddle of lighter fluid. His dark eyes flare and widen. I can’t tell if he’s alarmed or thrilled, and the anxious beating of my heart triples in time. It’s a crazy thing to say. A reckless thing to say. But I can’t help it. It’s damn true.

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