Royal(71)
He blows a held breath and glances away.
“So no, Royal. I’m not with you. And I’m not going to move in with you. But I do want to keep seeing you,” I say carefully. “I have a lot of hurt. A lot of questions. And I have a lot of healing to do yet. And looking at you, I think you do too.”
Our eyes meet, and my hand runs down his rippled abs until it finds his. He takes mine, threading our fingers.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says. “I want you to know that. I’m never leaving you again. Not unless you want me to. And when you’re ninety years old, lying on your deathbed, I don’t want you thinking about what we once had when we were kids. I want you to think about the beautiful life we had together. Because I want that with you. I want us to spend our whole lives together. I can’t imagine being with anyone else but you, Demi. And if you decide I’m not what you want, if we go our separate ways, even if I find someone else someday, you should know that I’ll never love her half as much as I love you.”
“Royal.” My hand lifts to my chest. No one’s ever loved me the way he has, and I don’t think anyone ever will.
“Fine,” he says. “You’re not mine now. You’re not with me now. But someday you will be. And I’ll wait, because you’re worth waiting for.”
He leans down, kissing the top of my head, and I burrow into the crook of his warm, bare shoulder.
“You really love me, don’t you?” I ask.
“You’re the only thing I’ve ever loved.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Demi
Mom’s rolled sleeves are covered in flour dust as she rolls a piecrust on the kitchen island Thanksgiving morning.
“Look who’s up,” Daphne teases, peeling and slicing apples by the sink. She got in from Paris a couple of days ago, and I’ve been spending as much time with her as I can, balancing my nightly visits with Royal with catching her up to speed.
Daphne confided in me last night about her French lover. He was almost twice her age, and Mom and Dad would flip if they knew. Although she only spent a semester away, it’s like she came back years older and wiser, and she wants to go back for another semester. Her lover has the hookup for a graduate residency at a centuries-old art museum in the south of France, but I have a hunch she mostly wants to go back to see him.
My sister was surprisingly unfazed by and at the same time supportive of the Royal reunion , and she wants to see him before she goes back to school after break.
“Late night?” Daphne winks when Mom’s not looking, and I lift my fingers to my lips to shush her. It feels like we’re back in high school again. It always somehow seemed like Daphne was the one covering for me when I’d sneak downstairs into Royal’s room at night.
I’m twenty-five, and they can’t control who I spend my time with, but I don’t think they’d appreciate me sneaking in the house at one in the morning most nights. And no matter my age, they can always pull the “my house, my rules” card, and there wouldn’t be a damn thing I could do about it.
“Demi, sweetheart, why don’t you roll up your sleeves and start peeling potatoes?” Mom asks. “I’ve got a five pound bag over there. Peeler’s in the top drawer.”
I get to work, my heart racing in my ear when I think about dropping the news on them.
I’m not staying here for Thanksgiving dinner today.
It’ll be my first Thanksgiving without my family. Ever. And I don’t know how they’re going to take it, especially with Daphne being home from Paris for the first time in months.
Biting my lip, I drag in a slow breath and clear my throat. “I’ll help you cook today, Mom, but I won’t be staying for dinner.”
Daphne drops an unpeeled apple, brushing a wave of blonde hair from her frozen face, and Mom turns to face me.
“Since Royal’s not welcome here, I’ll be spending Thanksgiving at his mother’s house.” The collective weight of their stares prevents me from speaking another word. I need a reaction. I need to know how upset they are with me.
“His mother?” Mom asks. “Is he in touch with her?”
Her curiosity and the fact that she didn’t sweep any mention of Royal under the rug makes me hopeful. She always did have a soft spot for him.
“They reconnected.” I clear my throat. “She was there for him when no one else was.”
Mom returns to her piecrust and Daphne picks up the slick, naked apple and slices it into thin strips.
“I don’t appreciate your passive aggressive tone, Demetria,” Mom says.
“That’s not how I meant it. I was simply stating the reason they reconnected.” I run a potato under water and start peeling, nearly slicing a thin layer of skin off the side of my index finger. “Anyway, that’s where I’ll be today.”