What I Need

Right?

I pinch my lips together, because I don’t know which word will come out of my mouth, yes or no, and I’m a little scared of both answers.

“Cannon.”

CJ’s voice lifts my head and our eyes meet.

“Huh?”

Cannon? What?

He clears his throat, then cocks his head with a surrendering smile. “Cannon Jake Tully. That’s what the CJ stands for,” he reveals. “And before you ask, yes, my mom gave my brother my middle name. She liked it too much to not use it as a first, so she says.”

I feel myself leaning closer as excitement quickens my breath. “Cannon. Really? Like . . . cannonball?” I ask.

“Yep.”

“Your birth name is Cannon Tully?”

“Now you see why I changed it.”

“What?” I sputter. “No way. I love it. That might be the coolest name I’ve ever heard.”

CJ lifts his brows and stares at me for a beat. “You love it,” he echoes back, looking and sounding unconvinced.

He doesn’t believe a word I’m saying.

I nod quickly, smiling at him. “It’s different,” I explain. “I don’t know anyone else with that name. And cannonballs are so fun. Your mom did good.” I hold up my free hand between us.

Cannon Jake Tully.

Seriously cool.

CJ’s eyes jump from my palm to my face. “You want to high five this?” he asks.

I shrug. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“We high five things that are awesome, babe. Things worth celebrating. Not my shitty name.”

“It’s not shitty. It’s totally badass.”

“Badass?” CJ breathes a laugh, shaking his head. “Right.”

“It is, Officer Cannon Tully. Kicking ass and taking names, one small town at a time.” I stick my tongue out at him when he makes a face like he can't decide whether to be disagreeable or amused with me. Then I tilt forward, getting closer and leaning around my hand.

We lock eyes. His narrow. My smile stretches wider.

I get my high five.

“Thank you for telling me,” I say after letting my hand drop. “I feel special knowing something most people don’t know about you.”

CJ’s eyes shine with meaning. He gives me a warm smile, replying, “Same, darlin’,” in that smooth, charming voice, the kind of charm that’s hard to unhear and even harder to wash off.

My cheeks grow hot. I clear my throat and get through the rest of the bath at lightning speed, forcing CJ to do some of the washing because . . . well, penis, and asking him to towel himself off. Then I retire to my room, declining his offers of open door policies and free morning cuddles.

I find myself smiling until I fall asleep.

“Mr. Tully, hi, I’m Andrea. I’m one of the therapists here who will be working with you.”

CJ gives the woman a friendly smile, gets to his feet with help from his crutches, and takes the hand she’s offering, shaking it. “Nice to meet you,” he says. He releases her hand and tips his head to where I’m sitting. “I brought my lady with me. Do you mind if she comes back and sees what all I’ll be doing? She’ll be making sure I keep up with it at home.”

My eyes go round. I press my lips together and trap a giggle inside my mouth.

His lady? He did not just say that.

CJ looks over at me, mischievous smirk in place.

He totally said that.

I scrunch my nose up and make a face at him.

It’s been two weeks of sponge baths, sharing meals I’ve prepared, and late night conversations that leave me with sore sides and cheeks from laughing so much. I know CJ pretty well at this point. I know he likes to joke around, it’s part of his charm, and calling me his lady is just another example of that.

I think . . .

“Sure. She can come back. We have chairs back there,” the therapist says, offering me her smile.

I stand and gently nudge CJ’s ribs after the woman turns away to lead us. He feigns injury and I laugh.

“Are you coming?” he asks me, gesturing with his head toward the therapy room.

I nod and slip out my phone. “Yeah. I just want to make a call first,” I tell him. “You go ahead. I’ll be there in a minute.”

CJ lifts his chin at me, accepting that. Then he follows behind the therapist and leaves me in the waiting room.

I sit back down and scroll through my contacts until I land on Beth.

I haven’t seen or spoken to her since I moved in with CJ. She was out of town for some wedding in Chicago the one weekend and sick this past one, keeping her from making it to Holy Cross—the soup kitchen we both volunteer at. And lately, I’ve been slammed with school and busy doing other things. I just haven’t found the time to return any of her calls.

And I need to speak to her. I need to tell someone what I’m doing—just one person so I don’t feel like I’m lying to everyone—and she’s a good someone to tell. A great person.

She’s my sister. She’ll understand. She always does.

“Hey you,” Beth answers with a smile in her voice. “I was beginning to worry. I told Reed we might have to hunt you down on campus if we didn’t hear from you soon.”

“I’m living with CJ,” I blurt out, skipping pleasantries for hand-to-heart honesty, and when Beth doesn’t say anything for what feels like a solid minute, I look down at the fraying on my shorts and twist pieces of string around my finger. “So, how are you feeling?” I softly add. 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">