Page 211 of Scrimmage

“Can’t wait,” I grin.

“I don’t understand you.” She tries to shove me out of the bed, but I’m a brick wall.

“I don’t understand you either.”

She gives up. “I’m so fucking confused.”

I shove everything aside and look directly at her. I want her to know I’m serious, and that I mean every word I’m about to say.

“I watched you die. You were in my arms. Three minutes, they said. That’s how long you were gone. I never realized how long three minutes is. Each second felt like an eternity. I’ve never felt so desperate in my entire fucking life. I’m an idiot. Hand on the fucking Bible, I’m a complete and total idiot.”

She blinks at me. “Is that it?”

“No. I had a lot of time to think over the last three weeks.”

“Surprised you could,” she mumbles.

“That’s the thing. It should piss me off when you say shit like that, but it never does. I thought I might never hear it again. That thought alone is devastating. The last few weeks without you have been the worst weeks of my life. I’m pretty sure Alexi is tired of me wallowing. Actually, I know he is. He’s only said it a million times. I’m in love with you, baby girl, and I should have said it that day in your house.” I take a deep breath.

“I care about you. So, when they said you wouldn’t live, I begged them to make it happen. When everyone told me to go home, I wouldn’t. You told me to take care of Penny, and I will for the rest of my life. I’ll make anything happen for you. You hate my fucking car? I’ll buy a new one. Want to see the pyramids? You’ll be fucking Cleopatra. If you hate my face, I’ll fucking change it. Just…Just let me take care of you. Let me love you.”

There’s a silence that echoes throughout time and space. Finally, Ashland clears her throat. “Hand me that one.”

And I do. I peel the lid back, and she doesn’t complain. She dips her spoon in and inspects the contents. “Is this chocolate vanilla?”

I look at the label on the other one. “It is.”

When she runs the spoon over her tongue her eyes roll back into her head. “This is the one.”

“Yeah? That’s the one?”

“Mmhm. This is the one.” She smiles, and it’s so goddamn infectious.

“So, you have a little brother,” I huff.

“Sinclair,” she muses. “The definition of mischief. I remember when he was little. Feels like it was yesterday that he had chubby cheeks and wouldn’t stop fucking following me around.”

“Why’d you never talk about him?”

“Seemed irrelevant. You didn’t ask if I had siblings.”

I chance the question. “Are you from England?”

“Born here. Between foster care and…other stuff, we ended up in different parts of the world.”

“I was in foster care,” I admit.

She smirks. “Makes sense on why you’re such a control freak.”

I stretch back on the small bed. “You really didn’t know?”

“I know you’re adopted, but I figured it was when you were a baby.”

“I had a short stint in foster care when I was eight. When I got placed with my mom and dad, they did everything in their power to keep me.”

“Sounds nice. My favorite part was the trash bag,” she laughs. “It’s so fucking sad, but I’d never really had stuff before that. Every time they tried to take Sinclair away from me I bit anyone who got near us.”

“Not much has changed,” I tease.

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