Craft (The Gibson Boys 2)

That’s Mariah for me.

For the first time in my adult life, a relationship is not just about the sex. With her, it’s more than the conversations we have, or the way she looks at me, or the way she makes me want to consider what impact my actions have on the world. She doesn’t just make me want to be better for her. She makes me better in every way.

Nora said coming over here and breaking it off with her was the stupidest move I could make. She’s seen me do some seriously stupid shit too.

I agree. This is so fucking stupid. It’s stupid in the same way chemotherapy makes you sick but you have to undergo it to rid yourself of cancer. But, just like chemo, this is best choice I can make under the circumstances.

I cross the threshold and shut the door behind me. She stands in the little hallway that leads to the kitchen, the light illuminating her from behind.

There’s a suspicion, a leeriness to her gaze that seems so utterly unfair. It’s the most cutting thing I’ve felt in a very long time. I want to whisk her up into my arms and kiss the hell out of her. I want to tell her to stop looking at me like that. I want to tell her I’m standing here wondering what she would look like under the kitchen light at three in the morning when she comes down for a glass of water and I follow her because I can’t stand to be in bed without her. That I wonder what she’d look like in this position in the middle of the night prepping a bottle while I lie in bed with a baby awaiting her return. What she would look like coming in after a concert she’d always wanted to see.

All of this confession is on the tip of my tongue, ready to be screamed from the deepest recesses of my consciousness.

“How was your evening?” she asks, choosing each word with the care of a surgeon.

“Good. Helped Machlan and Peck fix Nana’s shed.”

She arches a brow. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

Exhaling a hasty breath, she turns away. Her hand plants on the refrigerator door. “What’s wrong, Lance?”

I take a step back. I’m not ready for this conversation. I thought I was in control, still figuring out how to bring it up, and I’m sure as hell not ready to go there yet. There was supposed to be time to figure this out first, to get a game plan, to maybe hold her one last time.

“Lance?” She turns on her heel and leans against the counter. “What’s the matter?”

“Why do you think something is the matter?”

Her arms cross her chest. “I don’t know what all of this is, but it’s not us.”

This is the opening I need, handed to me on a silver platter—one I’m trying to shove right back her way instead of just accepting.

My heart clenches as I read all the messages her eyes are telling me. “What is us, Mariah?”

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

Goddamnit.

Not yet.

I’m not ready.

“Can I ask you a question?” I ask, wrapping my hands around the posts of a chair.

“You just did.”

Cracking a smile, I can’t find it in my heart to fire back at her with some innuendo-filled response. “What do you want?”

“You mean like pizza?” she gulps.

“I know you like pizza.”

“And sushi,” she adds, her bottom lip starting to quiver.

“And tacos, right?”

She nods, sitting at the table with her hands in her lap. I don’t trust myself to move because I know exactly what I’ll do—It’ll end with her in my lap, putting off this conversation.

“I meant more like …” I think about how to phrase it. “What are the most important things you want out of life?”

Pretending I’m just waiting on her reply, I send her a silent plea that tells her to answer in a way I can feel good about. I want her to talk me out of this.

Her features soften, letting go of the fear that had crept into the lines of her face. She pulls her knees to her chest. “Night kisses,” she says just loud enough for me to hear.

I look at the ceiling as her words slice open a wound across my heart I’m certain will never heal.

“I don’t want anything fancy,” she says softly. “Loyalty from those I love. Feeling safe, like I don’t have to compete with anyone for anything.”

“You deserve all of that.”

“I think I do.” She puts her feet back on the floor as I look down at her. “What do you want, Lance?”

I pace a circle around her kitchen, my hands in my hair, tugging at the roots. I wish I could tell her what it is I really want.

Her.

Just her.

“I don’t know what I want,” I lie, unable to even look at her as I say it. My teeth clench, trying not to let the words by.