Craft (The Gibson Boys 2)

We sit for a long time wrapped in each other’s arms. A truck goes by all too fast, rocking Lance’s car back and forth. We just sway along with it, unable, or unwilling, to pull apart.

With a kiss to the spot just below his earlobe, I finally lean back. My heart is so swollen it puts pressure on every other organ in my chest. Brushing a strand of hair off his forehead, I search his eyes.

“Fuck her,” I say, trying to get him to smile. “There are so many ways to build a family. Fuck her for not seeing that.”

His forehead creases as he now leans away from me. “I can’t blame anyone for wanting kids.”

“Then she didn’t love you.” I fall back into my seat, my eyes blinking back tears. This time, they’re for me.

I wouldn’t have left him after the accident. I wouldn’t have left him if it left him in a wheelchair and I had to take care of him every day for the rest of my life. Because even if that were my day, it would still be a day with him.

Tears slip down my cheeks, burning hot as they fall to my shirt.

Why can’t he love me as much as he loved her?

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “Now you see why I didn’t tell you.”

“Well, I’ll hate her for the rest of my life.” I dab my eyes with the neck line of my shirt. “She gets to walk away with your heart and—”

“Woah,” he says, shifting in his seat. “Hold up.”

“No. It doesn’t seem fair.”

He presses his lips together. “What doesn’t seem fair, Mariah?”

“That you still love her.” My words are woven in the emotion pouring from my heart, the tears flooding my lips as I try to speak. “That she gets to break your heart and …”

I stop talking when he starts laughing. It’s not one of his belly laughs like I’m ridiculous. It’s more like he’s in disbelief.

“What?” I ask, sniffling.

“Mariah, this isn’t about her.”

“No, it’s about you,” I acknowledge.

“No. This is about you.” He looks at me, puzzled. “You are the blessing in all of this, even if I didn’t see it like that before.” He shakes his head, like his thoughts aren’t coming together right. “I didn’t tell you this before because, for one, it’s kind of humiliating in a way.”

I watch him bite his lip, flex his fingers and wonder what it felt like to tell me that. If the roles were reversed, I think I’d be terrified. I’d feel … like something was wrong with me, even though logically that’s just ridiculous.

“Why?” I ask, dumbfounded. “It’s like me being embarrassed because I have small boobs. I can’t help it.”

He shakes his head, almost laughing. “It’s not the same, crazy lady, but okay. We’ll go with that for now.”

I shrug.

“I …” He looks down. “I love you. And I thought if you loved me too, you’d have to pick between me and having a baby someday.”

I don’t move. I don’t even blink. I’m not sure I even breathe.

He loves me?

He loves me.

It’s a few seconds before I realize he’s still talking and I’ve heard none of it.

“Hey, Lance,” I interrupt, waving my hand in the air. “I’m still back there on the you love me part.”

“Yeah? What about it?” He stares at me. “You didn’t hear anything I said after that, did you?”

“Nope.” I crawl across the console, wedging myself between him and the steering wheel.

He laughs, moving the seat backwards so I’m not hitting the horn with my butt. I get settled, his hands locked at my waist. We’re eye-to-eye with no place to go.

“There,” I say. “Now let’s go back to that part.”

“I love you.”

I must beam or do something similar because he laughs.

“This conversation was me explaining to you how I can’t ask you to choose between me and your conditions.”

I brush his hair back with my palm, searching his eyes for something to make me resist. Or hesitate. Or not trust him. All I see is a man who’s asking to be loved despite his imperfections.

It seems silly that he’d think I’d hold his imperfections against him. Lord knows I have my own. I have terrible bedhead in the morning, I fall in love too fast, and I need to hold his hand whenever he’s remotely close.

It all makes sense why he didn’t tell me and although it frustrates me and we’ll definitely have a conversation about it later, it’s not what I want to focus on now. Right now? He needs me. And I need him.

“Good. Don’t ask. I’ll choose on my own.” I kiss the top of his nose. “I pick you. We’ll craft our life together.”

“You need to think about this, Mariah.”

“Are you telling me that if I were to develop ovarian cancer and couldn’t have babies, you’d leave me?”