Page 31 of From Square One

“Harassing you is only fun when you’re awake to respond to it,” he protests.

“Amazing. You’re a beacon of integrity.”

Another puff of air in my ear, which means he’s laughing again. “I like it when you get sassy,” he says, his index finger tickling my hairline, which makes me squirm my neck with a hiss. “Or I like making you regret it.”

Something hot scrapes at my stomach. I decide responding will only give him more ammunition, so I close my eyes. His warm breath and his thumb massaging mine is strangely relaxing—a repetition that eases my tension. I think we’ve been here before. His weight pressing into my back. His arm snug around me. His legs trying to heat mine. His mouth moving slowly, methodically, along my skin.

I’m startled when I feel something join Aaron’s lips against my neck. A droplet that slides down my nape and melts into my flannel shirt. Then another.

He’s crying.

A lump expands between the walls of my throat, thinning my air supply. I try keeping steady, but my eyes are moistening and my heart is plummeting into my stomach. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

“Don’t.” Aaron rolls me into his chest with such overwhelming desperation that I don’t dare protest. His right hand sprawls over the back of my head, hugging it to his shoulder, and the other latches around my waist, notching me tight against his body.

I wish he were wearing a shirt so he wouldn’t feel my wet lashes. “I don’t mean to cause you so much pain,” I say, my voice muffled in his collarbone.

He buries his lips deep into my locks. “Please sleep, Riley.”

I don’t know how I’m supposed to do that when he’s clearly feeling so tormented. I’ve never seen Aaron Beckham cry. Or show any emotion aside from amusement. I want to see his face—to know what he looks like when he cries—but his hand is nearly clawing through my hair as he holds me to his shoulder. My palms are limp and smashed between our chests. They’re warm there, so I don’t try to move them.

“Can I help?” I ask quietly.

His lips stretch into a gentle smile against my head. “Just stay here for a bit, if you don’t mind.”

His grip is so unyielding, I’m not sure I could leave if I wanted to. “I’m not going anywhere,” I say, relaxing until I’m fully limp in his arms. “It’s my bedroom.”

I hear a breathy laugh. “You’re right. It’s been a while since we’ve slept here.”

He’s probably referring to the fact that I was supposedly living with him before the accident. I wonder if we shared a room, or if they had a spare. I don’t feel like prying, though, so I remain where I am, letting him squeeze me into unconsciousness. This hasn’t jogged any memories. Maybe I’m okay with that. I’m not sure I want them to interfere with what’s happening here now.

Aaron Beckham is being human. I’m not sure why he fell in love with me, but the longer I spend around him, the more I’m convinced it’s not an exaggeration. And the more I believe him, the less anger I feel.

A couple of days ago, I would’ve shuddered with revulsion at the thought of falling asleep curled up in Aaron’s arms.

Tonight, I allow his warmth to carry me into my dreams.

12

Aaron slides out of bed earlier than I expect. Something about a paint job in a fancy house that he’s tackling with his dads. Which is good because it gives me time to handle my to-do list. I use Dad’s account information to make his quarterly tax payment (he forgot), I book an appointment for Mom to get her license renewed at the Secretary of State (she forgot), and I take Logan’s car (or technically Aunt Lydia’s, since his was totaled) into the shop to repair a leaking tire, since he took mine to a late-morning study session.

Thank you!! I owe you some Ben and Jerry’s ice cream, Dad texts.

You’re the sweetest, honey. Love you and hope you get lots of rest today, Mom texts.

You didn’t have to do that. You should be relaxing, Logan texts.

I’m in less pain today—my bones and joints aren’t throbbing as offensively. But I’m lightheaded and my knees are wobbling more prominently. My body is clearly sucking on all my energy to continue healing. Anyone else’s marks and bruises would’ve faded by this point, but I try not to annoy myself with pointless thoughts.

I cleaned the kitchen already, but I’m paranoid about the rest of it. I haven’t had any side effects to indicate that I’ve been glutened, but I shouldn’t risk extending my healing process, so I decide to do it all again. Mom apparently took an online baking class after I moved out, so there’s every possibility the dust from the top shelves and living room might have flour in it. Better to be safe than sorry, so I get to work.

As I scrub every nook in the house I can find, I try to keep my thoughts from wandering. Aaron occupied my mind all of yesterday—I won’t let him steal today, too.

But when I close my eyes, I can still feel his tears sliding down the back of my neck.

This “reclaiming my memories” ploy isn’t a game to him. He genuinely wants to help me remember the time we’ve spent together. The teasing and prodding…it’s more than personality coming into play. I think it’s a defense mechanism. A way for him to cope with my inability to remember.

Though I have the feeling teasing and prodding is also a regular part of our relationship.