Page 14 of That Time We Kissed Under the Mistletoe
At this I can’t help frowning. “You’ll see themsoon?”
“Soon is relative.” He lets out a little snort. “And so are they.MYrelatives, I mean. Except they’re not mean. They’re nice.”
Soooo, okay. Three may not be slurring anymore, but he’s definitely still … groggy. Under the circumstances, though, I suppose I should just be grateful. He could be super-sad. Or super-angry with me. He is missing Christmas with his family after all.
“Okay.” I hit send. “Done.”
Three slumps back against the couch. “Thank you, Sara.” My name falls out of his lips all soft and slow and drowsy.
“No big deal,” I say, but my cheeks heat up. I shouldn’t let him affect me like this. No, Ican’tlet him affect me. I barely survived the rift in my soul ten years ago. And yes, we’re older now, but I’m wiser too. If I’m going to get out of this situation with my emotions intact, I’ll need to keep my wits about me.
You’ll need to keep a close watch on him overnight, the nurse’s voice echoes in my head.
Yeah. Thanks a lot, Hairy.
“Here.” I push Three’s phone back into his hands, and hop up from the couch. “Just sit tight while I get your bath ready. Ford should be here soon with your suitcase.” Three nods like a compliant kid, then he lets his eyes slip shut. With the bandage wrapped around him, he looks so innocent. Almost fragile. Which is ironic considering how broken he made me feel the last time we were together.
“Sara?” he murmurs, with his lids still closed.
“What?”
“I like itreallyhot.”
Gah! My throat constricts, and I gag a little on my spit. “Excuse me?”
“The water,” he says. “I like it really hot. Hot enough to turn my skin red.”
His voice is deep and dreamy, and there go my cheeks again. Oh man. My heart might not stay in one piece through the rest of the night, let alone a few more days.
Chapter Seven
Three
So yeah, I might’ve told Sara I’m a shower guy, but this bath she set up for me is pretty much heaven on earth. Or in this case, heaven in Abieville.
A wireless speaker on the back of the toilet is playing some kind of soothing classical music. Small tea lights flicker along the edge of the vanity. The water’s topped with pine-scented bubbles, so I slide under until I’m up to my chest, letting the heat soak through to my bones.
Not five minutes later, a knock sounds on the door. “You alive in there?” Sara asks, on the other side.
“So far, so good,” I answer, but her voice sends memories of us flooding through my brain. I guess that’s the side effect of these pain meds slowly filtering out of my bloodstream. The clearer my head gets, the more I’m freed up to replay images from the past.
Like Sara at a bonfire in my oversized sweatshirt, the bottom hanging almost to her knees.
Sara sipping my super-sized Coke, her lips leaving a ring of cherry Chapstick on the straw.
Sara on my lap while I steered my uncle’s boat around the lake. She’d lean back against me, her long hair blowing across my face, the sweet scent of her suntan lotion filling my lungs. She was young, but already so true to herself. Confident enough to wear her heart on her sleeve. Back then, she saw the good in everyone. She saw the good inme.
But that brand of innocence—the total certainty you can and will conquer anything—comes only once in a lifetime. And wishing for its return is probably more dangerous than taking a fire extinguisher to the head.
Inhaling a deep pine-scented breath, I try to stop the tide of memories from washing over me, but I can’t get them fully erased before Sara’s back and tapping on the door again.
“Still doing all right?” she asks. “You haven’t slipped under the water or anything?”
“Nope. Still breathing actual air.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then she says, “Sorry if I’m being annoying.” Her voice is softer now. “I just want to be sure you’re safe, since you’re only in there because of me.”
“You’re fine.” I tack on a sharp exhale, but the truth is, I kind of like that she’s concerned about my welfare. Whether her worry stems from guilt or genuine emotion, I haven’t had anyone looking after me—besides me—for the past ten years.
