Page 100 of Beg, Borrow, or Steal

“Jackson Bennett,” she says, stepping between my legs to cradle my face and tip it up to look at her. “You said you’d sit with me in my darkness; don’t you dare keep me out of yours. There’s not a single thing you need to say or do, just come with me.”

So I do. I get up, and with Emily holding my hand, I follow her through my construction zone, out the front door, and across the yard to her house. She ushers me inside the quiet and then steers me to the couch. I’m gently pushed by the shoulders until I sit, and then I’m pushed even more so that I sink fully back into the comfort. She buzzes around the living room collecting things. A fuzzy blanket that she drapes over my lap. A cushy pillow that she places under my feet on the coffee table. She goes back to her room and emerges with Ducky, placing her right into my arms where she immediately goes back to sleep and purrs like she’s the happiest cat in the world.

Emily rushes into the kitchen and comes back with a bowl full of what looks like candy salad. There are seriously five different types of fruity candy in this bowl. She then curls up next to me on the couch, candy bowl clutched to her and TV remote in hand.

“What do you want to watch?” she asks, looking over at me as if everything she just did was completely normal. “What?” she asks when I just continue to stare at her with questions stamped all over my face. “I can’t fix what happened to you this morning and I can’tmake your dad pay like I want either, but I am excellent at comforting the people I love.”

I lean over and kiss her, savoring the way she smells and feels. The heaviness in my chest recedes. I may have lost the safe place I needed all these years, but I have found a far more incredible one for the years ahead.

“And to think you consider yourself hard to love.” I kiss her temple. “Loving you is the easiest thing I’ve ever done.”

Chapter Thirty-Six

Emily

The shower water is scalding but it’s nothing compared to Jack’s palms as they scrape deliciously around my skin. We’ve done nothing but couch rot all day. He was pretty sullen at first, but after bingeing nearly an entire season ofThe Golden Girls(his choice) with his phone nowhere in sight, his spirits lifted. Lifted enough to have sex on the couch—which admittedly makes almost everyone feel better. And now, he’s sudsing me up like his life depends on it. He’s already washed my hair and conditioned it, peppered my entire body with kisses so sweet I could die, and now he’s washing me. Head, shoulders, knees, and toes. He keeps squinting because he’s not wearing his glasses or his contacts.Scrumptious.I love him.

I turn and loop my arms around his neck and say it out loud.

He smirks. Kisses me, and then says, “Mm. I love…your nipples.”

“Romantic.”

He laughs. “You already know I love you. It’s time I wax poetic about these nipples you once asked me about and I couldn’t give proper feedback on. But now that I’ve really been up close andpersonal,” he says, covering me with his hand, “I just need you to know that I’m a big fan.”

“Oh god—you’re never going to be able to be mean to me again, are you?”

“I don’t think so.”

“That’s insufferable. You’re just going to be nice from now on?”

“I would honestly love to beverynice to you every single day.”

We eventually—after another delayed interlude where I’m a little nice to Jack—step out of the shower. I move right into a fluffy towel that Jack is holding open for me and then he wraps me tightly like a human burrito. He kisses my head and pats my toweled ass as I shuffle past and sends me on my way. But on my bed, I find a little gift. One of his Mr.-Rogers-wannabe knit sweaters. He must have run home and grabbed it for me before he joined me in the shower.

Five minutes later, clad in his oversized sweater and a pair of comfy shorts, I meet him in the kitchen. I’m dressed for winter and he’s only wearing his glasses, boxer briefs, and green beaded necklace. We both have wet hair, and he’s…making dinner. He does a double take of me in his sweater when he sees me walk in and then his attention is back on his task at hand, but with a quiet grin.

“What are you making?” I ask, watching him chop veggies.

“A little scrambled-eggs-and-veggies hash. Is that good with you?”

“Absolutely.” My stomach growls as if to punctate my answer. “I’ll crack the eggs.”

Jack stops me with an extended forearm and then points away from the kitchen. “No. I’m cooking you dinner.”

Here’s the thingy-thing, though—I’ve been here before. And when I can’t make a polite face while crunching through the unborn-chicken housing in my food, Jack might get offended. “It’s no big deal. I’ll just do the eggs.”

He sees through my easy-breezy. “Get your ass out of the kitchen, Goldie.”

“Jack…”

“Emily, I swear to god, if you insult me any further by suggesting I can’t crack a damn egg without getting shells in the mix like your other nitwit boyfriends, I will—why are you smiling?”

“Because…you’re still you. You’re not nice to me all the time. It’s just…it’s a relief. I like bickering with you.”

He breathes out a smile. “I’m going to make you dinner. Okay? I’m going to make you dinner because I love you and I want to take care of you sometimes. And I will in no way allow any eggshells on your plate because that’s just disgusting. All right?”

“Can I…can I at least hang out?”

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