Page 122 of What's Left of Us

Who the fuck cared what color a guest bedroom was? I sure as hell didn’t, and I doubted we’d have many guests who would. Frankly, I couldn’t think of one person who would need to stay with us.

But it mattered to her, and it took one swift smack upside the head by my mother to realize it had nothing to do with the color at all. “It’s about making it a home,” she says when I stop by to help her fix her tire on one of my few days off.

A home. “It’s just paint,” I murmur, grabbing my wrench and tightening the lug nuts on the new tire.

“Oh, honey,” she chides. “It’s never just paint. Not to her.”

Then what the hell is it? “I’ll never understand women.”

Her laugh is light. “That’s how women feel about men,” she reassures, helping me up once I’m finished with the job. “Do me a favor, though. Go easy on her. We both know you’re not an easy person to be with. Oh, don’t give me that look. I love you unconditionally, but that doesn’t mean I don’t see facts.” She eyes me when I go to argue, clamming me up. “Your job is demanding, and that puts a strain on any of your relationships. Georgia is trying to deal with that by making your house into a home for the two of you, which I can only imagine is difficult since you’re gone so often. Put yourself in her shoes. She’s in a new place, all alone, attempting to make it into something you look forward to coming home to.”

Flexing my fingers around my wrench, I stifle a sigh. I never thought about it that way, but she has a point.

“To her, it’s not about the paint color,” my mother concludes, patting my shoulder. “It’s about making decisions together that you can both be happy with.”

Shoulders tightening, I realize I’ve been an ass. I told Georgia she could do whatever she wanted with the house because I wanted her to feel at home—to make it hers. It wasn’t that I didn’t care; it was that I’d done this whole thing for her. To give her room. A place for the books she loves reading. A space to cook and bake using the recipes she’s collected from my mother over the years. Room to grow.

Together.

No matter what is happening between us.

My mother squeezes my shoulder. “You should go,” she encourages.

Go home to her, is what she doesn’t say.

But I listen to the unspoken advice.

And when I walk up the stairs that lead into the living room, I see her sprawled across the couch with a book in her hand and say, “I liked the beige color.”

She blinks, closing her book. “The…what?”

I walk over and sit on the edge of the couch, grabbing her feet and draping them over me as I scoot back into the cushion. Massaging her feet, I say, “For the guest bedroom. I liked the beige you picked out. It’s…homey.”

Her eyes go from where I work her feet up to my face, hers pinched in confusion. “Oh.” She sets her book on the table. “I didn’t think you cared that much.”

“My mind has been preoccupied,” I admit apologetically. “But I want this house to feel like ours. If that means going over paint samples for each room, that’s what we’ll do.”

A small smile tugs at the corners of her lips as she settles into the cushions. “Does that mean we’ll paint them together too?”

I’ve always hated painting, but for her, I’d do it. “Yes, Peaches. It means painting them too.”

Her smile grows, and damn, is it a sight I’ve missed. “The house…” She looks around at the large living room that was a selling point to me thanks to the high wooden ceiling. “It’s beautiful, Lincoln. It’s the last thing I expected.”

My hand works its way up her calf. “I know things haven’t been easy for us lately, and I want to fix it. Hopefully, this is the first step.”

As quickly as her smile stretches, it wavers as her eyes dip to where my fingers squeeze and rub the muscles in her legs.

“I want that too. But…” Her tone is full of hesitation as she pulls back one of her feet. I keep hold of the other, seeing her withdraw into herself and not wanting her to put that distance there.

I’ve let her do it too often lately.

“What is it?” I ask softly, using the pad of my thumb to caress the sole of her foot.

Her top teeth dig into her bottom lip. “We said no more lying or holding anything back.” Her chest rises with a slow inhale.“So, you should know that I’m going to dinner with my family this weekend. When Luca came to the bookstore, he said Leani had bruises on her that he suspects my father is responsible for. She wants me to come to dinner to see if I can ease some of his stress.”

The word “no” is out of my mouth before I can stop and process it.

“Lincoln—”

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