Page 242 of The Lies We Play
His mouth curves, small and dangerous. “I am extremely competent.”
“I have missed your arrogance.”
“It has missed you too.”
I laugh, and the sound comes out shaky.
He hears that.
He always hears that.
His face softens, and the heat turns tender so quickly it almost hurts.
“Creed is waiting at home,” he says. “He just finished training and I told him it wasn’t practical to try to arrive on time.”
Home.
My eyes burn.
I hate that word. I love that word. I have spent months pretending Paris was home because my suitcase lived there and my toothbrush stood in a cup by the sink. But home is a couch in Chelsea, Creed’s socks in places socks should never be, Halston’s legal pads on the kitchen island, and the two men I love arguing over whether I have eaten enough to qualify as an adult.
“Is he okay?” I ask.
“He misses you.”
“That is not what I asked.”
“No,” Halston says. “He’s not okay. Not entirely. You were gone for too fucking long.”
I nod.
That hurts, but it also helps. Truth usually does both.
“Neither are you?” I arch an eyebrow.
“No.”
“Neither am I,” I confess.
His hand tightens at my waist.
The car moves over the wet road, and Manhattan rises ahead of us, lit and waiting and entirely too much. I look at Halston, at his tired eyes and controlled mouth, at the man who came to get me himself because he needed to be the first one I touched after landing.
I think of the tattoos on my ankle.
The hawk.
The key.
He hasn’t seen them yet.
Soon.
Not in the car.
Not while I still smell like a plane and fear.
Soon, I will show him what I planned. I will let him see that I didn't spend the semester leaving them behind. I spent it learning how to come back with proof.
