The Boy I Grew Up With

“I might not be the man for you now.” He cupped the side of my face and moved my head back so I could see him. His eyes were downright smoldering. “I will never be worthy of you, but one day, I hope to be better. One day, I will give you everything. I promise.”

58

Heather

Present day

Jesus Christ.

The Fallen Crusties were out and in full force. I watched them from my front porch again. The cigarette in one hand, the lighter in the other, and a 40-ouncer between my legs. I was as white-trash as possible. Again.

Sunglasses over my eyes.

My top was low, my shorts tight and high, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I even had my hair all blowing in the wind, because I didn’t give a shit.

That asshole.

Like I didn’t know what he was doing.

He went off, saying he’d fix everything, and it had been three days of silence.

Three. Fucking. Days.

Not a goddamn word.

“Hey.”

And just like that, now he’s here?

I looked up, saw him standing on the sidewalk, looking all hot and shit. He wore frayed jeans that slid down his hips and a white T-shirt. That shirt—I hated those shirts. They weren’t supposed to look good. They’re basic shirts. Basic. That should mean they’d look basic on everyone, but nope. Not this asshole who’s graced with some of the best genes I’ve known.

Fucker.

All calm-like, I lit my cigarette.

“Heather.”

Staring him down, I flicked it at him.

He batted it away, hissing. When it fell on the ground, he ground it out. “Are you serious?”

I grunted, not answering, and pulled the ouncer from between my legs. It’d been there so long it was warm, but I didn’t care. I’d had two others before grabbing this one. I took another healthy swig.

Three. Days.

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. “Fuck you.”

He sighed, coming up the two steps to my porch. “You’re pissed.”

“And you’re smart.”

My throat burned. I needed to finish the ouncer.

“It’s six in the evening.”

Which meant I needed to catch up. I was behind. I finished my ouncer and held it out.

Channing took it. “Can we talk now—”

I reached down and grabbed another one from beneath my chair.

“Oh God.”

I opened the can, giving him a bright, wide smile at the sound of it without looking at him. To be honest, I wasn’t seeing much of anything. If I focused on one thing, it started swimming around and my head got all fuzzy.

Channing leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He caught his head in his hands, raking his fingers through his hair.

I ignored how his shirt tightened over his back.

I ignored how his back was tight and corded with muscles, and how it was making me ache in a few places, and—I needed to drink. Heavily.

“Everything’s worked out with the Demons.”

I grunted. “Good for you.” I needed pizza. Swinging my legs down from the railing, I almost clipped Channing in the head.

Almost.

Too bad.

“Where are you going?”

He had no right to sound wary and defeated. That fucker let me hang for three days. Waiting. Worrying. I’d called. He didn’t answer. I’d texted. He didn’t respond.

Fucker.

FUCKER!

“Heather.” He grabbed for my hand.

I held it up. “No.” A step forward. The porch was tipping. Nope. I caught him on the head, righting myself. I could do this. I could go inside and make a pizza. My stomach was growling, and fuck it all, I was going to eat the greasiest pizza ever.

Or whatever was in the freezer.

Wobbling inside, I felt like I was walking on a slant, but I made it. The screen door slammed shut behind me. I needed to grab the counter. Using it as a base, I maneuvered myself around it and into the kitchen.

I had to use the counter all the way past the microwave, sink, coffeepot, stove, and then the fridge. Aha. At last. Touchdown.

I opened the freezer door with a burst of energy.

Fumbling through the cartons, I pulled out one of the pizzas. I didn’t care which one. I just grabbed the first round thing and dropped it on the stove.

“You’re going to make pizza? In your condition?”

The—I couldn’t…why wouldn’t it open? I stuck it in my mouth and tried to bite the wrapping. There. It tore open. I flung an arm backward, my middle finger in the air.

“You,” I barked, letting the pizza drop on the stove again. “You don’t start. I’m still deciding if I want to talk to you.”

He let out a sigh.

I fumbled around, grabbing a pan and putting the pizza on it. I was putting it in the oven, feeling pretty proud of myself, when Channing walked up behind me. He reached over and took the pizza out.

“Hey—” My voice died as he turned the oven on. “Oh.”

His hand went to my hip. He turned me around gently. “Go and sit down. I’ll make it for you.”

“I like it extra crispy.”

“I know.”

“I like it with just cheese.”

“I know.” He was picking something off it. I focused and saw I’d grabbed the sausage one. He was taking all of them off.

“I—”

“Go and sit.”

He abandoned the pizza, settling both his hands on my hips, and he walked me backward until I felt one of the chairs behind me. I sat, and he leaned down, his face close to mine.

He stared hard at me, his forehead almost touching mine. “I know what pizza you like, how you like it, how you want it cut. I know how you like to eat it on a paper towel, how you’ll want a beer with it, but I’m really only going to give you a soda, and then I know you’ll eat one piece, but will want a second, and I’ll sneak one on your plate and you’ll eat it, pretending it’s been there the whole time.” He pressed a kiss to my forehead. “I know you as if you’re me. Okay?”

I wiped something away from my eyes. I didn’t know what that was. And my throat was swelling over a lump.

I didn’t know why that was there either.

“Well.” I wiped again. “I’m just hungry, that’s all.”

“I know you are.” A second kiss, this one to my cheek, and a third to the corner of my mouth before he went back to the oven. He finished picking off all the sausage, and after a few minutes, he started talking.

“In first grade, you gave me my first Trapper Keeper.”

He turned around, resting his hands on the oven door behind him.

I frowned. What was he talking about?

He looked down. “I didn’t have one. I didn’t have anything except a folder the school counselor gave me. That was it. Then second grade, you gave me a football. It wasn’t much to you. You probably don’t remember—”

I did. Barely. “It was one of Brad’s. I was mad at him, so I took it to piss him off.”

Channing still didn’t look at me. He tightened his hold on the oven door, cording his arm muscles. “He saw me with it. I was walking home and he pulled over, asked where I got it. His initials were written on it in red marker. He saw it from the street. When I told him my friend gave it to me, he didn’t take it away. He could’ve.” His voice was gruff. “He gave me a basketball that Christmas. I never told you.”

Oh man. My throat was really burning now. I whispered, “He never told me either.” ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">