Page 66 of If Only In Our Dreams

“More than a month.”

“Close enough.”

“A lot you can do in a month.”

“And break my own heart? No thank you.” I took a longer sip, my own thoughts spinning. “Look…it’s not like I haven’tthought about it. I obviously have. A lot. I mean…Ben isBen. Have you seen his smile? It’s like…angelic or some shit. And the hands. Man. He’s got big-ass hands. If you know what I mean.” I couldn’t help but leer.

“Right,” Miles agreed, looking more amused than he should.

“But he’srelatedto you?—”

“No, he ain’t,” Miles immediately deadpanned.

“Kinda,” I soldiered onward ignoring him and his sass. “And I’m not gonna fuck up what you’ve built here. You’re happy. He’s happy. I’m here temporarily. I’m not gonna be the Mento in your Coke bottle.”

“That’s a weird metaphor,” Miles snorted again, amused, though his eyes now carried a sadness to them, amusement dampened.

“Simile,” I corrected.

He laughed again, “Pretty sure it’d have to have the word “like” to be a simile.”

I frowned because that felt correct.

I wrote music for a living, so I was no stranger to poetry. Musicwaspoetry. Just with vibrations and a whole lot of extra soul. It could make you feel things with no rhymes and no words at all. It’d been a long time since I wrote something that felt like that, raw and real and honest.

Back in the early days, that’d been all I’d written.

I’d been young and bitter then.

Now what I desired to create had changed, less angry—less brittle. The music in my heart was silky and sweet. Love songs and longing. My label didn’t want it. In fact, they’d half convinced me the world didn’t want it either.

Robin “Trashmouth” Johnson was supposed to be all bark and bite. There was no room for lace and loneliness. No room for regret and ache and love. No room for Christmas songs. No space for me to dream about coming home. Still though, a lovesong played silently along my fingertips every time I tapped against my leg. Because while they’d convinced me it wouldn’t happen, my heart was stubborn, and it didn’t want to listen.

I shrugged again.

“You know there’s such a thing as a long-distance relationship, right?” Miles hummed, taking another bite of his pizza.

“All of my relationships have been long distance,” I countered. Miles stared at me, confused. “You know.” I blinked. “Because I’m basically five feet tall.”

“JesusChrist,” Miles cackled, choking again. When he was somewhat controlled a few minutes later, he softened all over again. His sweater was wrinkled. Cow print, like always. There was a hickey on his neck—good for him—and he looked happier than I’d ever seen him.

“You fit in here,” I told him because it was true. “In your fancy lil kitchen. In this town. With these people who care about you. With your picket fence and your husband who adores you.”

Miles smiled, lips twitching up. “You do too,” he said, laying a large, warm hand across where mine rested on the dining table.

“You know I don’t.” My voice broke and Ihatedthat it did. I was Miles’s big brother. It’d always been my job to be strong, but lately I wasn’t sure I could do it anymore. Like my battery had simply run out.

“You wanna know what I think?” Miles asked.

“No, but I think you’re about to tell me anyway.”

“I think…” Miles didn’t remove his hand, and it burned. “I think that you’re scared to be in love. That you’re ready to run the second anyone gives you a reason to, whether it's a good reason or not.”

“Scared?” I huffed, eyes rolling. “I’m notscared.”

“I think you are.” His voice remained the same smooth Southern drawl that felt like home, and I hated that the soundof it alone was enough to make my eyes burn. “I know because I was scared too. Hell, sometimes I still am.”

I remembered the text he’d sent me. The long one from over a year ago. The text that had come through just when I’d needed it. That had reminded me that there was a place for me here, even if it was temporary, that somewhere out there I had a home—even if it was only borrowed.

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