I’m not sure who pulls away first. There’s a mutual understanding between us when there’s a few inches of space separating our bodies, his heat still caressing me as he scopes out my bootcut jeans with a little tear in the knee and inside thigh, white t-shirt and zip-up hoodie tied around my waist, and my ratty sneakers. I can sense the disapproval, the need to say something, anything, but not wanting to upset me.
I don’t want to leave him.
I don’t want to go to my grandma’s.
But I don’t want to stay home either.
“Be careful,” he tells me with a rasp to his voice that he fails at hiding. Before I know it, he’s hugging me again, this one not lasting as long and I’m not sure if I’m sad or grateful.
“You have to let me go,” I whisper, burying my face in his neck and squeezing him as hard as I can. His arms are like a hook around my waist, anchoring me to the bedroom I’ve spent more time sleeping in than my own. “Trust me, Aiden. I’ve got this.”
When he draws back, his lips skim my cheek and I suck in a silent breath as my heart skips in my chest. He straightens to his full height, already six-one with more room to grow according to his father and looks to the window.
He doesn’t mention the sort of kiss.
He doesn’t say goodbye.
So, neither do I.
“Head in the game,” I tell him with one foot out the window, the other still planted on his off-white carpet stained from all the years of wear from him, Cap, and me.
I don’t allow myself to hear his response before sliding out, grabbing my bag, and offering him a wave as I fight the waver of my lips.
Tears blur my vision as I face forward and tune out the two houses I’m leaving behind.
Out of your head, Underwood.
Porter is still pale when Mr. Griffith greets the two people I haven’t seen in over four years at the front door. My brother and I stand shoulder to shoulder, arms entwined by the elbow, with Aiden on my other side and his mother slightly in front of me as if they’ve formed a barrier between me and the past.
Thudthudthud.
It’s almost impossible to hear what exchange happens between the two fathers as my heart gallops in its cage. My eyes lock at the wide-eyed woman who’s gaping at her two children with utter shock across her face.
Mom looks nothing like I remember. Her copper hair is chopped short and graying, her face makeup free, her clothes worn and faded, and her eyes—the eyes that Porter and I get our color from are hollow until she darts between my little brother and me. “Ivy?”
My father has hardly changed. His hard face is stoic as he stands by my mother, arms crossed in front of him like he’s always on guard waiting for something bad to happen. “Care to explain what’s going on here?”
When his eyes rake over me, I notice the slightest raise in his dark eyebrows, the same brown his hair us
ed to be before the obvious receding hairline took over. Looking at my parents, I remember the beautiful shade of copper brown my hair used to be with natural red highlights in the sunlight. Mom used to brush her fingers through it and tell me how jealous she was over it.
“Ivy?” Mom repeats, stepping toward me with a newfound hesitation in her tone.
Porter tightens his grip on me. “Before you start yelling, it was my idea to come here. Ivy had no clue and when she found out I lied about where I’d be this weekend she wasn’t happy.”
The choking noise my mother makes is almost in disbelief as she shakes her head, shock still the dominant feature on her face. When her lips part, I manage to refrain from flinching over the unknown anticipation of what will escape them, but it all dies down when she closes them again as if she’s incapable of giving me anything other than my name.
Four years.
And that’s all I get.
Mrs. Griffith clears her throat, breaking the growing tension in the entryway. “Perhaps we should sit down? Aiden, this is your house. It’s up to you.”
Blue eyes swing to me, a silent conversation passing between us as I stand frozen between him and Porter. It’s the same look I got the day I walked away from him, except now it’s leading us to a very different outcome.
He nods once before turning to everyone else with a similar impassible expression like his father wears. “We can sit in the living room, but I don’t want any fighting or else those who initiate it will have to leave.”
I’m not surprised it’s my father who scoffs over the agreeable request. “Who are you to tell us what we can and cannot do about our son after he up and left, lying about where he was.”