Washed Up (Bayside Heroes)

And through it all, David just watches me with a shit-eating grin on his face.

Finally, after showing me around almost all the house, I tug on his jacket and force him to face me.

“Why did you do this?” I ask, still gaping as I look around at the furniture. “How did you do this?”

“I didn’t.”

I bark a laugh. “Right. I’m supposed to believe this was Santa Claus?”

David smiles. “Come on. There’s one last room to show you.”

He grabs my hand, walking me down the hall to his old bedroom.

“Oh, please, tell me you finally cleaned it after all these years,” I joke.

But when he pushes the door open, I no longer find anything funny.

Greg Weston stands in the center of that bedroom — or what used to be a bedroom-turned-storage-room — in an all-black tuxedo with an arrangement of flowers in his hands so spectacular it rivals the rest of the house.

David’s old bed, desk, and dressers are gone, as well as my tired treadmill and the boxes I’d shoved in here over the years. They’ve all been replaced by a brand-new desk, a laptop, a library corner, and an emerald green velvet couch. A patterned rug brings the room together, along with the fresh paint — all neutral shades of white and gold and green — and potted plants combined with the massive number of books make the room feel homey and studious all at once.

That’s about all I can take in of the room.

Because Greg is standing in it.

Just the sight of him after so long steals my breath, and I struggle to catch an inhale as tears prick my eyes again. He’s so devastatingly handsome, it hurts to look at him, his hair styled and neat, face freshly shaven, endless brown eyes soaking me in like he’s been just as miserable without me, like he’s just taken his first breath in years.

I can’t speak, can’t move, can’t do anything other than stare at him in disbelief.

Greg takes a few small steps, holding the flowers out to me, which I take with numb hands and a gaping mouth.

“I hope you like what we’ve done with the place,” he says.

“I…”

Words fail me, and Greg’s eyes widen slightly. “Oh, God. You hate it.”

“No! I love it,” I assure him. “I’m completely in awe that this is still my house if I’m being honest,” I add. Then, I roll my lips together. “It’s just… what is going on? What is all this?”

“This,” he says, stepping even closer. “Is two weeks’ worth of hard work from some people who really care about you.”

“And you, too, asshole,” someone calls from down the hall.

I whip around, another shocked laugh slipping from my lips at the sight of a dozen people peeking out from different rooms. There’s Asher and Meadow, Dane and Larsen, a couple whom I don’t recognize, but am pretty sure is the infamous Beck and Carly whom Greg has mentioned, and then there’s my son and his beautiful wife, Julia, with a smiling Tucker on her hip.

“I don’t understand,” I say when I turn back to Greg.

“Well, your bonehead son and I finally put our pride aside and made amends after what happened. And while we may not agree on how perfect you and I are together—”

“That qualifies as gross,” David interrupts him, but Greg ignores it.

“We were both well in agreement on one thing.” He steps a little closer, that boyish grin I love so much spreading wide on his face. “You deserve to be happy.”

“That’s when this guy told me his idea,” David says from behind me, and I turn to face him. “He wanted to give you a place free from the memories of the past, a new place to start over.”

“A home,” Greg finishes, and when I turn back to face him, he brushes my face with his knuckles. “Which is exactly what you’ve given me.”

David clears his throat, and I shoot him a warning glare that makes him throw his hands up. “Hey, we had a deal — no gross stuff when I’m around.”

“That’s true,” Greg confirms. “I’m supposed to keep ten-feet distance, actually.”

I laugh a little at that, but still the tears build and build until a silent one pours over my cheek and down the line of my jaw. Greg thumbs it away, and I lean into the touch as his eyes search mine.

“All my life, I’ve wondered what it would feel like to have a home — a real home — that sense of warmth and comfort and safety. I didn’t know what it felt like. The closest I ever got was in this house with you.”

David coughs.

“But now,” Greg continues. “I realize it’s not the house at all. It’s just… you. You are that feeling for me. And I know it’s not simple. I know it’s not the future you probably had in mind. But damnit, Amanda, I don’t care what anyone thinks — about our age, about how we met, about any piece of our story. Because it’s our story. And I don’t want to cut it short before we get to read the best chapters.”