Page 83 of Creed

He’s known her for her whole life, but he’s wanted her for two years. So again I say I’m not shocked that they’re finally together. Or that Creed finally got his shit together and finally got on the same page as Collins.

When they finally emerge from Creed’s room in the back, he stalks to the living area where I’m currently sitting, still red-faced and embarrassed at what I walked in on. He’s got Snow’s fingers laced tightly through his own as he tugs her along behind him. Her face is cherry red as well when she steps up next to him.

Beyond the flush of her chest and cheeks, I really look at her. It didn’t take long for me to become so finely attuned to her demeanor and her expressions. She’s not a super expressive person, but her eyes tell me everything. And though she looks a little apprehensive when her eyes look from Creed to me, I see a luminance there, shining like a newborn star within the swirls of jade and gold in her eyes.

She’s happy.

And that makes me happy. It’s all I want, her happiness.

Funny how I didn’t have much of a direction in life, other than playing music and writing songs, until this tiny but mighty snow white blonde fell into my lap. Literally.

I fight the urge to adjust my dick in my pants when I think about the way she danced for me. How soft her skin felt beneath my calloused hands.

Shit. Nope. Don’t—don’t think about that, Riley.

I force myself to refocus on the fact that my new favorite hobby is finding new ways that can bring a spark of joy to her eyes all the damn time.

I blink back into myself and realize that we’re all just staring at one another saying nothing and we’re slipping into an awkward zone. No one wants to talk because what the fuck do we say?

I swallow thickly, and just before I can blurt something fucking stupid that would unintentionally make this awkward situation worse, Collins darts toward me with a huge grin on her face and hops onto the couch cushion at the opposite end of the couch, the two presents, plus a new additional gift, sitting between us.

“Can I finally open these or are you going to hold them ransom again?” she asks, playfully glaring at me and raises a sassy brow before swinging it to Creed and giving him the same look, who raises his hands in mock surrender.

“They’re all yours,” he says, sitting on the couch across from us at the same time that I shout, “Dig in!”

She reaches for the pink bag first, and she rips at the tissue paper like a kid on Christmas morning, a huge smile on her face. I didn’t see which bag Genevieve packed my things in so I’ve got no idea what she’s going to open first. Her nose scrunches when she grips whatever is in the bag and my eyes are drawn to the way her septum ring catches the light with a little sparkle. The piercing works for her.

The framed shirt emerges from the bag and she takes it in silently for a moment. She’s holding it up in front of her face so I can’t read her expression but then her shoulders start to shake and when I think she’s going to sob, she shrieks. The loudest, happiest sound pushes past her lips and I look over at Creed to see him smiling at her reaction.

“Oh my god, who—” she cuts herself off and looks right at Creed. “You?” he nods. “How? Where the hell did you find this?”

“A vintage shop that was a few blocks away from the diner. Riley dragged us there and I saw it hanging on the wall. I had to hassle the owner for it.”

“Oh, bullshit, Creed,” I laugh, and Collins swings her head back to me. “She took one look at your sappy ass and practically ripped it off the wall for you, dude.”

Collins’ jaw drops and she looks from me to Creed, like she wants to question it, but she just throws her head back and laughs a deep, rasping belly laugh. It warms my chest and the sound is like a symphony that I want to listen to on repeat every single day.

The moment her laughter dies down, she looks back to Creed and her eyes well with tears. “Thank you, so much.” Her voice drops to a whisper as she tucks a wild white curl behind her ear that’s littered with colorful piercings. “It’s…these are the first gifts I’ve received since…” she trails off.

“Since Asher and I left?” Creed finishes, and Collins nods reluctantly, clutching the framed shirt to her chest before moving it away to look down at it.

She lets out this half-sob, half-laugh sound and I’m about to leap off the couch and exercise my new power as her self-declared best friend to make the tears disappear, but it’s the soft, sweet smile that still graces her heart-shaped lips as she grazes a finger over the pattern of the shirt behind the glass. The look in her eyes is reverent, and for a moment it looks like she’s lost in a memory.

She doesn’t look up as she whispers Creed’s name and he’s off the couch and kneeling before her in an instant.

I sit and watch how she melts into his touch when he reaches up and brushes a tear from her cheek before cupping her face in his palms.

My chest squeezes at the sight, but not in pain. Nah, this is a happy squeezing and I welcome it, because I know some of Collins’ past, like the importance of David Bowie in her life. How his music was her escape on the hard days until Creed and her brother could be there for her. How the distraction of his songs helped her to drift away to another world in her mind until she no longer felt the dangers of this one in her own home.

I know the particular album that correlates with the tour date on her shirt because she told me how she wore out Asher’s cassette tape by listening to it on repeat when she was a kid, before he gave her his old mp3 player that was loaded with music. She’d said how much more she loved the cassette player but took any escape she could find.

I lucked out when I dragged Creed to that vintage shop and happened to find the exact cassette hanging out in the midst of a huge collection of vintage tapes along the back wall of the shop.

But I look at Creed’s amazing gift and think about how much more insignificant and small my gift is for her. Suddenly I’m pulled from the tender moment between Collins and Creed as he whispers soft words of comfort to her when my mother’s words slam into my mind, her voice just as sharp and shrill, and fucking loud as if she were standing right in front of me.

“It doesn’t matter how hard you try to win a heart, Riley Benjamin.” She spits at me, my middle name sounding like a curse because it’s a name I shared with my father. “You can gift me, gift them—fucking anyone—with pretty words and shiny things, but we see right through you.” She says through gritted teeth in a low tone that only promises pain later. “We will always see that you are nothing but a mistake. The boy who takes good things and sullies them. Tarnishing and ruining and fucking destroying them. Nothing you do will ever be good enough to earn their love. Best you learn that real quick, Riley.”

I was eleven when she said those words to me.

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