Page 73 of Love Me Tomorrow

I cut her off with a shake of my head, raising my beer to my lips for a cool drag. “We don’t need to rehash it. We’ve done that. Multiple times.”

“Owen, just let me—”

“Ican’t,” I grunt, wrenching my gaze away from her slender legs to the wooden balcony railing. “Maybe that makes me a pussy but talkin’ about it, relivin’ it”—I drag a hand through my hair, pulling on the strands—“it leaves a bad taste in my mouth, Rose. Let’s just leave that shit in the past. Move on. Move forward, me and you.”

She’s silent for a moment. Long enough that I find myself looking over at her, wanting to make sure I haven’t completely pissed her off. But instead of looking ticked, she has this sort of resigned expression that flatlines her mouth and turns her gaze steely. My heart, riding on the high from having Savannah naked beneath me, slows to a crawl. Nothing about the look on her face screams good news.

Shit.

Propping herself up, she scoots forward and turns to face me completely. Setting down the beer by her knee, she clasps her hands together in front of her, and instead of the gorgeous, tempting woman who just fucked me like her life depended on it, I feel like I’m being given a glimpse of a much younger Savannah. More innocent. More vulnerable. She worries her bottom lip, and then blurts out, “I’m going to ask you a question, and I need you to give it to me straight. No bullshit.”

I drape an arm over my left knee, leaning in. “I don’t make a habit of dabbling in BS, sweetheart. You got a question, just ask it.”

She meets my stare without trepidation. “Why does my father hate you?”

Fuck.

Instinctively, I take another draw of the beer. Cast my gaze over to the railing. Briefly wonder if throwing myself to the gators—not that they’re usually out at this time of day—would make for a more appealing option than diving into this conversation.

“Owen?” Her fingers brush my jean-clad knee.

Guess we’re doing this, then.

Wanting to be anywhere else but here, I close my eyes. Do my best to sift through the memories with an objective eye that won’t leave me feeling like the scum on the bottom of my shoe. It doesn’t matter how many years have passed since, I still feel the ache of grief, of utter self-loathing.

Softly, as though she’s worried that I might make a run for it, Savannah’s hand drifts up to mine. Intertwining our fingers, she offers silent encouragement with a telling squeeze of her hand.

Jesus, this girl. The weight of the world always seems to be resting on her shoulders, and yet here she is, still wanting to help me through this, even knowing that she might not like the answer.

She won’t.

Never in a million years is she going to like what I’m about to say.

Gruffly, I mutter, “You know my dad died. You know how.”

Her thumb grazes the back of my hand in sympathy, a single stroke that I feel like a brand on my heart. “I remember Gage talking about it—at that EOCC meeting when he gave his speech. A drunk driver up on the I-10 while he was helping someone with a breakdown. I wish . . . I wish you never had to endure that loss, Owen. I wish we could rewrite history.”

I sweep my gaze over her solemn face. “Rewriting history means you lose other precious memories. Lose one, gain another. Memories are a sliding scale that never seeks balance. Changing one would mean changingyou.”

Her lips quirk up in a soft smile. “A philosopher along with being a tattoo artist and real estate mogul? Will the surprises never cease?”

You have no idea.

Maybe in ten minutes she’ll be storming out that front door, never to look back at me, but right now I don’t think about any of that. Leaving my beer on the floor beside my foot, I lean forward, cupping her face, and tug her close for a kiss. It’s about comfort. Safety. New memories to replace the old.

When I pull back, she goes so far as to touch her fingers to her mouth, like she’s trying to keep the taste of me on her lips. She’s too fucking sweet.

I go for another pull of beer. Liquid courage. “I told you once that my mom died, but I never told you how.” Jaw clamped tight, I breathe through the memories. Through the pain. I wouldn’t rewrite a lot in life, but if given the option, I’d rewrite this to pretty much anything else. If not for me, then for Gage. “She committed suicide.”

The fingers Savannah has pressed to her lips fall limply to the floor beside her hip. “Owen—”

“Her and my dad,” I cut in, because if I don’t now then I won’t ever, “they were together for years. But their relationship was always up and down, more down than up. My dad lived and breathed his job. Third generation cop. It was in his blood. And my mom”—I shrug, though nothing about this feels casual, more like devastating—“she put up with it, until I guess she couldn’t deal any longer. That’s when we moved out to Hackberry. Once we were out there, they rarely spoke.”

But she never got over my dad. I don’t know how many times I knocked on her bedroom door, only to find her sitting at that inherited vanity of hers, wearing the pearl necklaces Dad bought her for every one of her birthdays. Sometimes all at once, sometimes one at a time. Those memories, they haunt me still.

I clear my throat, banishing the visual from my head. “Gage and I spent the next seven years being trotted from one home to the other. We were with her during the week and with him on the weekends. We all used to meet at this McDonald’s right outside Baton Rouge, on Fridays and Mondays. Don’t think I’ve eaten at one since I turned eighteen . . . I can’t stomach it.” Swallowing roughly, I force myself to go on. “But when they called her about the accident—told her that Dad hadn’t made it—I guess she couldn’t handle the thought of him not, I don’t know, being around. She was dead that night, and Gage found her the next morning.”

“Oh, my God.” Voice soaked in anguish, Savannah jerks forward, heedless to the fact that she’s in only her underwear, and slips her hands over my jean-clad thighs. Drops a kiss to my bare bicep, then lets her forehead rest there on my arm for a long, silent moment. I breathe in her scent, fingers flexing down by my sides. When she finally peers up at me, it’s with her beautiful eyes drowned in sorrow. “We don’t have to do this. If it’s too much—if it hurts—we can lay it to bed. Right now.”

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