Can't Let Go (34 page)

I shake my head. “I don’t want you to resent me someday, but I’m not sure I can stick around if you continue to gamble either.”

Inching forward, he grabs my hands. “That’s what you aren’t hearing. Maybe I would have continued if you wouldn’t have come back. I don’t know. But, because you did, you make me want to stop. It’s an easy choice, Chrissy. You’re an easy choice.” He smiles, and I bite the inside of my cheek.

My heart flutters because no one has ever chosen me over something else. “Dex, I don’t know.”

“Chris, I would never resent you. As long as you’re in my life, I don’t need anything else.” Tears prick my eyes, because no one has ever said they needed me, let alone felt that way about me. “Why are you crying?” He comes closer, but I scoot back, my head hitting the headboard.

“Don’t say anything else.” I wave my hand in front of my face to dry the tears.

“Why? Chris?” he continues pushing for me to confess.

I sit there trying to collect my thoughts as the world around me shifts. As though I feel the axis positioning me on a better course. That course being Dex. I wish I could leap on to it and allow it to take me where I want to go, but what if it doesn’t? What if I end up crushed?

“You’re words scare me,” I admit, and this time he doesn’t accept the distance. Grabbing me by my hips, he raises me up and then seats me on his lap.

“They’re supposed to make you happy. I’m supposed to make you happy,” he says.

“You do. But what—”

“Stop it, Chrissy. I’ve done enough ‘
what if’s’
to last us until our dying days. We’re done with that shit. Now it’s I love you, kiss me, hug me, and your mine time. Got it?” He winks, his eyes void of the guilt from the past two days, being replaced with the love he’s so willing to give me.

I smile, and he takes his fingers pushing my lips further. Once I’m almost laughing, he smiles. “Better,” he remarks. “So what will it be first?”

I tilt my head to the side. “Kiss me, hug me, f—” he begins suggesting.

“Let’s start with hug,” I direct him, and he wraps his arms around my waist, tugging me close, securing me into the warmth of my home.

His head nuzzles in the crook of my neck, exactly where he likes it. “Come with me tomorrow?” he murmurs in such a low voice, I barely hear him.

Pulling back from him, I keep my arms linked around his neck. “My dad’s. I have to tell him.” His body deflates, and I massage the back of his head.

“Always, Dex … I’ll always be here for you.”

“Thank you for not blowing a gasket. I was terrified you were going to go all ballistic and leave me.” He kisses the corner of my mouth.

“Well …” I joke, and he shakes his head.

“No, Chrissy. I seriously thought I was going to lose you.” He pulls me into him again, a little tighter this time. “The thought of losing you again was gut-wrenching.”

“You’ll never lose me, Dex.” I grip him tighter, because his honesty and my acceptance to his secret shows how deeply we do care about one another.

THE NEXT MORNING, Dex drops me off, a little quieter than previous mornings. I don’t say much, because I know he’s struggling with telling his dad. Like a robot, he opens my door, I slide in, and he walks to his side. He leans over, and his lips peck mine, but I grab his head, holding it there. I sneak my tongue into his mouth, and, for a while, he doesn’t reciprocate. A minute later, it’s his hand on my neck, claiming my mouth, and, as always, he makes me feel utterly and completely wanted.

Tearing away, he kisses my forehead. “Have a good day. We’ll continue that tonight.” He winks, but there’s not as much of a punch as before. He’s hurting, so I’m hurting.

Ryland’s been in his studio for the past week, working on some new pieces, which leaves me alone with myself. Locking up the door, I walk down the block to grab some lunch. Lily’s in the window of her florist shop, putting together a display, so I decide I need some cheer in my life and walk in.

“Good afternoon,” Lily’s voice rings out from the display window area.

“Hi, Lily. How are things?” I ask her, bending down to smell the different scents of flowers.

“Busy. The holidays always increase business, and then I have to prepare for Valentine’s Day.” Her hands reaching for flowers out of big buckets to position in other arrangements for display.

“How do you know what looks good with what?” I ask her, because her arrangements are so beautiful, I wonder where she finds her inspiration.

“Hmm … I’m not sure.” She shrugs. “Years of experience, I suppose.” She giggles.

“I love them—” I look around the small store, “all,” I finish, and she turns around, smiling with gratitude.

“Come here,” she says, motioning me toward the counter with long green stems that have been cut from their beauty.

Following her, she pulls a few buckets up from below the table and sets them on top. “Pick the flower you like the most,” she prompts me.

Bending down and inhaling the different fragrances each emits. Picking a Dahlia pom pom, I offer it to Lily, who shakes her head and hands me a pair of scissors. Demonstrating how to cut the stem, I snap the excess green and place it in a vase. “Now, you go ahead and finish it up,” she instructs. “Use anything you want.” I check my watch, finding I have a half hour left for lunch.

Taking flowers out and comparing to those already in the vase, I go back and forth, indecisive to my core showing its mark in this task. Once I’m done, I can’t stop fixating on it. To me, it’s beautiful, and I can almost see a little of myself in it. Deep pink Dahlia pom poms, white daisies, purple gallants, and a couple light pink roses sprinkled around. A few green sprigs fill the voids. Lily ventures back my way when she hears the clap of my hands when I’m finished.

“See, it’s beautiful, Chrissy,” she compliments my mediocre, compared to hers, arrangement.

“Thank you, Lily, it was a lot of fun.” I appreciate her allowing me to explore a little creativity during my break, and I wish I could stay to do ten more.

“You’re welcome. Why don’t you take it with you,” she offers, but I immediately shake my head. I’ve never even bought a single stemmed rose for myself. For some silly reason, I’m holding out on one day a delivery man shows up at my door.

“Okay, well, I’ll let you know when it sells because I’m positive it will.” She places her hand on my shoulder, and warmth, like a mother’s touch vibrates through my fabric.

“You’re very optimistic,” I say, beginning to make my exit from the heaven a few doors down from where I work.

“I only speak the truth, sweetie.” She remarks and I laugh as the door chime rings above my head, announcing my departure.

THE REST OF the afternoon, I research flowers and their meanings. Finding such an array of beauty in each one of them. I get nothing done, not that Ryland has much for me to do these days. Just the scheduling of shows and arranging drivers for delivery of purchased pieces. Ryland recently opened a small area in the back of the gallery for up and coming artists. Many having small shows on Friday or Saturday nights.

Dex arrives right at five o’clock. I’m surprised he actually comes in to get me. “Hey. I’ll just be a second.” I raise my finger in the air and finish shutting my computer down.

“Okay,” he says, walking around the room. “The guy’s pretty talented, huh?” he remarks, staring at the same piece I did the first time I came here. The Unfixable one that always has me pondering what Ryland’s inspiration was for that specific piece.

Walking up beside him, I shrug my purse over my shoulder and he takes my hand in his immediately. Even with his quiet demeanor, and occupied mind, Dex still shows me affection. “Isn’t this one amazing?” I comment, and his head swivels to me.

“What do you think it means? The woman’s face is so—”

“Sad,” I finish, and he nods his head. “Lost,” I continue. “I know.”

“It’s a little hard to look at actually.”

“Maybe that’s why it hasn’t sold,” I say, debating those words in my head. As though the painting scares people because the woman portrayed is a little too close to their comfort level.

He shrugs and turns my way. “You ready to hit it?” he asks, and I nod my head.

MY STOMACH CHURNS, my fingers drum, and my knee bobs. All day, I’ve gone hot and cold on this conversation with my dad. I think he’ll understand. I hope he’ll see how I need to leave. After Chrissy fell asleep last night, I dissected my love-hate relationship with betting. Finally realizing I love the part of my dad’s praise and accolades, but hated most everything else. Except for the money, who would hate that? But, since I’ve never gotten in too deep, I’ve never truly lost like others.

That thirty grand my dad handed me a few nights ago sits in my safe with maybe a few other thousand, but it’s the biggest amount I’ve ever received. Ted and my mom pay my tuition, my room and board, and give me an allowance. They have no idea about the bets I make, and I’m positive they wouldn’t be happy about it. That’s why I’ve already decided the thirty g’s are Chrissy’s. For her to go back to school.

I just need to find a way to tell her and pray she’ll accept it. She’s so stubborn I could see her not accepting it from me.

The closer we come to my dad’s, the more deep breaths I’m taking. My heart races, but Chrissy reaches over and links my hand that’s currently tapping on my knee. Glancing over at her, she smiles and slowly my reflexive body movements calm down.

“It will be okay,” she reconfirms, and I pray she’s right, because I’m scared I’m going to lose my dad tonight. That he’ll no longer want me if I can’t win him money or help him out at the house when he needs me.

Pulling in the circle drive, we walk up to the door, and I walk in with Chrissy’s hand in mine. “Dad!” I yell, and the smell of his spaghetti sauce greets us.

“In here,” my dad calls out from the kitchen. Chrissy tugs my arm, and I peer down at her smiling, encouraging face. Bending down, I sneak a kiss and bring her my way.

My dad’s in the kitchen with a pot on the stove, and his reading glasses on while he measures some form of herbs. “Hey, Edge,” he says, never looking over. Chrissy releases a small huff upon hearing my nickname. It clearly disgusts her the same amount as me.