Page 114 of Between the Lines

“Yes. But I won’t apologize.” He closes the lid of the laptop between us. “Tell me aboutyourchildhood. Your parents. And I’ll tell you all about mine later.”

He’s surrendering. I can tell. And so I scoot down and turn to face him. It feels like I’m sinking through the mattress, being enveloped by softness on all sides.

“Okay,” I say softly. “My parents are… old school. They’re from a small town outside of Cleveland. My mom is a journalist for the local news station, and my dad teaches high school biology.”

“You’re an only child?”

I nod. “Yes. My parents struggled to have kids. It took them almost six years before I came along.”

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“I was surrounded by good friends in my hometown, instead. We all grew up playing together in our cul-de-sac. That part was pretty idyllic, actually.” My eyelids feel heavy, but I’m not about to stop looking at him. At those light-green eyes resting on me.

“Were you a tomboy?” he asks. “Did you prefer to read, to play indoors?”

“I wanted to be where the action was. My curiosity has always been my downfall.”

“Do you miss your hometown?”

I pick at the edge of the comforter.I miss that it used to be a safe place.It’s not anymore. Everyone knows me, knows ofThe Gamble. Everyone followed the show when it aired. Little Charlotte Richards on TV.

It’s the one place I’ve permanently lost my anonymity. No change of hair color in the world will save me.

“Charlotte.” Aiden’s voice is quiet. “Did something happen?”

“Yes,” I whisper. “And it makes it hard to go back. Even if I miss seeing my parents and my best friend, Esmé. But a gulf opened up between us, and I can’t seem to bridge it.”

His hand settles on top of mine, resting on the bed in the narrow space between us. Warm skin covers mine entirely. He has a firm grip, and I look at that instead of facing him. Focus on the long fingers and slightly rough knuckles.

“What happened?”

“I’d… rather not talk about that.” I avoid his eyes. It would be his right to remind me of our bargain. To force my hand, and tell me that without revealing my shame, he won’t talk about his.

But he doesn’t do that.

“What are your parents like?” he asks instead.

He’s a better person than I am.

A yawn escapes me. I smother it, curling up closer. “My dad makes the most amazing chocolate chip cookies. When I was a kid, the scent would waft out onto our street, and all my friends would line up at the kitchen window. The batch lasted an hour or two tops.”

“That sounds lovely.” His thumb circles over the back of my wrist.

“Did either of your parents bake?”

“No,” he says quietly. “They didn’t.”

“My mom wasn’t very good at it. But she’s always been a fantastic storyteller.” My eyes drift closed. “In the summers, we would… have BBQs in the backyard. Invite my cousins. And Mom would tell stories while we all roasted marshmallows at the firepit.”

“Like you,” he murmurs.

“Hmm?” I can’t keep my eyes open. He’s warm and smells good, and I feel like I’m floating.

“You’re a storyteller.” His hand is comforting around mine. “Sleep, Chaos. I’ve got you.”

CHAPTER 42

AIDEN

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