Page 262 of The Lies We Play

Creed looks at it and growls. “I might as well get out of bed and start my day.”

“It’s too early to run and do physical activity,” I complain.

He scoffs. “I’ll be starting thirty minutes early.”

“Unacceptable.”

He kisses my shoulder. One kiss. Then another, slower, closer to the strap of my tank top, though calling it a tank top feels generous at this point because it is mostly twisted fabric and poor decisions.

“I missed you so fucking much,” he says against my skin. “Tell me you’re spending Christmas with me this year—I’ll ditch the Lafontaine celebration for you. Unless you two want to join us. It’s . . . interesting.”

The heat in me changes.

Softens.

Hurts a little.

I pout because, of course, that’s not possible. My parents believe I will arrive on the twenty-third and stay through Christmas. They have a schedule. A dinner. A church service my mother claims is optional with the facial expression of a woman who doesn't believe in options.

Creed kisses my nose.

“Maybe next year?”

I put the tablet down on the nightstand.

Then I roll onto my side so I am facing him. His hair is flattened on one side. His eyes are still sleepy. His mouth is soft from sleep and kissing and everything we did last night that my body is trying very hard not to replay in full color while Halston is listening.

I want to say yes.

I want to say I will spend every Christmas with them. I want to tell my parents today, this morning, before coffee, before fear has time to put on shoes. I want to stop dividing myself into rooms where they exist and rooms where my parents still believe I am single, because that is easier for everyone who isn’t me.

But I can’t break their hearts with a sentence I haven’t practiced enough.

They’re older.

I’m the only person they have.

And I know that sounds like an excuse because it is one. An understandable one. A tender one. Still an excuse.

Creed’s hand closes on my hip because I am still mostly on top of him, and in this position, I am the structural support of whatever the bed intends to become next.

I say, “I have an idea.”

Halston says, “No.”

“You haven’t heard it.”

“No.”

“It is a good idea.”

“Liv.”

“It is, in fact, the best idea I have had since I got off the plane.”

That gets their attention.

Creed’s thumb stops moving on my hip.