Love on the Lake (Lakeside 2)

I barely have the car in the driveway, and he’s already hitting the release on his seat belt, and his hand is on the door. “Thanks for the ride.”

“Aaron.” I grab his wrist.

“I can’t do this with you, Teagan. It was a mistake to bring you this weekend.”

His words feel like salt in a fresh wound, but I steel myself, aware that this is him working through his own emotions. “I know that you’re going to shut me out, Aaron, and that I’m probably not going to hear from you at all this week. I understand that you need time and space, but I’m not the enemy. And I will be here when you’re ready to talk.”

“There’s nothing to fucking talk about.” He yanks his wrist free and bolts from the car, leaving his backpack in the trunk in his haste to escape. I leave it on the front porch and head home, my heart heavy.

One step forward and half a step back. Every single time.

I don’t want to believe I’m setting myself up for a broken heart. Not when I can see so clearly that this shattered man doesn’t feel deserving of the love he so desperately wants.

I go straight to my apartment when I get home, not in the mood to talk to Van or Dillion, since this weekend started off great and went south fast. I expected it, but it still hurts. And I have to wonder if I’m fighting a losing battle when it comes to him.

I dig into work to take my mind off my woes. I have thirty new emails to weed through. And that was just in a twenty-four-hour period. Over a weekend.

I’m sitting in my chair with my laptop on my outstretched legs, eyes starting to droop since I took my sleep medication earlier than usual, when I’m startled by a knock at the door. I glance out the window, noting that the lights in the house are out, which makes sense since Dillion and Van both get up around six in the morning.

At first, I think I must be hearing things. Or that maybe there’s a bear outside. But the knock comes again, followed by the muffled sound of my name.

I set my laptop aside, pad over to the door, and throw it open to reveal a very disheveled-looking Aaron standing there.

“I’m sorry I was a donkey,” he blurts.

I smile at his phrasing. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not, though.” He gives his head a shake. “I brought you to meet my family, and then I treated you like crap because I couldn’t handle the way I feel about you and the whole fucking situation.”

I step back and pull him inside, closing the door behind him. “It’s hard to let people in.” I take his hand and lead him to the couch.

“Why do you have to be so fucking perfect?”

“I am far from perfect, Aaron.”

“You’re patient and kind and giving and understanding. I don’t deserve you, and one day you’re going to figure that out, and then I’ll be right back where I started.” He knocks his hat off his head and runs his hands through his hair, gripping the back of his neck and resting his elbows on his knees. “It was so much easier when I could keep everything separated.”

I settle my hand on his back. I want to say so many things. I want to fix all his broken pieces. “I know you blame yourself for what happened to Devon, but at some point, you’re going to have to learn how to forgive yourself so you can move forward with your life. You deserve to be happy, to be loved, to be cared for, and I know that you don’t believe that right now, but I’m going to be here to keep telling you that until you do.”

He shakes his head, and I shift, sinking to the floor in front of him, taking his face between my hands, forcing him to meet my gaze. “I will love you even when you can’t love yourself. I’m not going anywhere, Aaron.”

His expression is pained and yet hopeful. “I don’t feel like I deserve to be happy.”

I stroke his cheek. “I know. I’ll be here to keep reminding you that you do, until you’re ready to accept it as truth.”

He kisses me, ending the conversation.

Because sometimes it’s easier to feel than it is to think.

Aaron doesn’t push me away again. Instead he lets me in, a piece at a time. He shares college stories about his brother. We stay up late some nights, lying in bed—his or mine—just talking. I love that he relies on me, that he trusts me, and that he comes to me when he needs me.

Over the weeks that follow, I take on more design projects for the Stitches and get ready for the first farmers’ market at the end of August. I manage to entice all my employers to participate in the market. Harry’s Hardware has a booth set up with small DIY woodworking projects; the diner has take-out lunch boxes; Bernie’s law office is participating because it’s National Make-a-Will Month, and they’re offering their services for free; and the Town Pub managed to get a liquor license and a beer tent set up with a cordoned-off area for the plus-twenty-one crowd. The majority of the local businesses are participating; even Tucker Patrick from the real estate office has a booth.