Only Between Us (32 page)

“You didn’t want me to choose her over you.”

I close my eyes. It sounds so incredibly selfish. “I didn’t want it to be a choice at all. I never wanted you to feel like it was, and I didn’t trust
myself
not to be selfish. That’s why I didn’t tell you about Alex, especially when I wasn’t sure he was actually following me. I didn’t want you to think I was trying to manipulate you. I thought it was better to keep it to myself.”

“Do you have any idea how much that hurt?” he whispers.

“I’m sorry.”

He takes my face in his hands and tilts my chin up. “Things have to change.”

“I think you’re right.”

“I want us to fix it. Together. I think it’s fixable.”

Hope soars inside of me. We’re standing in the ruins of something that had so much life, so much potential. “I’m willing to try.”

The corner of his mouth quirks up. “I had a talk with Katie this morning, and then I met with her treatment team, including Amy. I said some things that I needed to say. Some things I should have said a long time ago, maybe, but I never felt strong enough or worth enough to do it, until I met you.”

“What did you need to say?”

His gaze moves over my face, from my hair to my eyes to my lips. “That I love her and always will, but that I love you, too, and we’re going to have to figure that out. I can’t do it all by myself.” His fingers smooth over my hair. “Because I need you, Romy. I need you in my life. And part of what I need is to be what
you
need.”

“I care about Catherine. I don’t want my presence to be hard for her—”

“Everything is hard for her, Romy. You know that. But when she realized how much I was hurting without you, she told me I had to come after you. It scared her—I could see the fear in her eyes. But she’s trying.”

“I’m sorry.” I draw a shuddery breath. “I wish it didn’t have to be so painful for her.”

“It has to be this way, though. I was going to start resenting her if things didn’t change.” He gives me a light kiss, his lips lingering, closing his eyes as his expression relaxes. “So … we made a plan. Katie will be discharged on the twenty-second, as long as she’s stable, and she’ll go stay at Amy’s until Christmas Eve. And that means, if you wanted me to come to your parents’—”

“I do. I’m sorry I made you doubt that.” I wrap my arms around his neck and he hugs me so tight that I’m lifted off the ground. “But I also want things to get better when we come back.”

“Me, too. So I want you to understand a few things.” He leads me to the couch and sits down, then pulls me down to straddle him. “The first is that you have to be honest with me. You have to let me in. We can’t be one-sided, Romy. You’re not my therapist, and this isn’t about you taking care of me. It’s about us taking care of each other.”

I stroke his cheek, looking down at his handsome face. “I’ll try.”

He takes my face in his hands. “I’m strong enough. I can do this.”

My throat is so tight. I hate that I made him think I believed he was weak. “I know, Caleb. You’re the strongest person I know.” I lay my forehead on his. “It’s why I ran to you yesterday. You were the place I felt safest.”

He closes his eyes, like it was what he needed to hear. “All right,” he says. “Then the other thing you have to understand is that I need you.” He grasps my hips and slides me toward him, awakening every nerve ending. “And that I want you. Always. I do have to be there for Katie sometimes, but—”

I tilt my head back as he nuzzles my neck. “I shouldn’t assume that means you don’t want to be with me. Got it.”

“Mmm. But I don’t want you to assume anything. If you need me, say so. If you need to hear me say how I feel about you, ask.” He nips at my throat, and it creates a chain reaction, lighting me on fire. “I’ll be happy to explain. And if I don’t have the words, I’ll draw you a picture.”

I bow my head over his and kiss him fiercely, grinding my hips against him. I love feeling him, hard and ready beneath me, and knowing I did it to him. “I can do that, Caleb, but you have to do the same. You assumed I didn’t tell you what was going on because I thought you weren’t strong. You were worried I didn’t want to take you to my parents’ house because I wasn’t proud of you.” I kiss the tip of his nose, his jaw, his chin, the smooth spot between his eyebrows. “Because I am so proud of you. And so in awe of you. And so grateful you want me to be in your life.”

He blinks fast and lowers his head, resting it against my shoulder. “You twist me up, Romy,” he whispers. “It’s almost painful.”

I rest my cheek on the top of his head, so full of relief and joy that I can barely contain myself. “I love you, Caleb. And I’ll happily untwist you if you give me a few hours.”

“I can give you a lot more than that.” He lifts my wrist and pushes my sleeve up my arm.
Out of difficulties grow miracles.
Slowly, he brings the inside of my wrist to his lips, sending tingles of pleasure along my skin. “You made me believe this, Romy.”

His eyes meet mine as he kisses his way up my inner arm. He makes me feel weak and strong at the same time, vulnerable and invincible. He has my heart, but I know I have his, and that makes me feel like we could do anything.

I raise my arms and let him lift my shirt over my head, smiling at his intake of breath, gasping at his hands on my body. “So that leaves one question.”

He’s busy slipping his fingers beneath the waistband of my pants. “What’s that?”

“Who gets to be in control tonight?”

He pulls me against him, trailing his fingertips up my back, making me shiver with anticipation, with excitement, with the intensity of my love for him. “Let’s feel our way through it together.”

And that’s exactly what we do.

Acknowledgements

Many thanks go to the team at New Leaf Literary, for all their wisdom, energy, and patience: Danielle Barthelle and Jaida Temperly most especially. I’m endlessly grateful to Kathleen Ortiz for her guidance in all things from revisions to strategy. My beta readers give me both kicks-in-the-pants and encouragement that I need, so thanks to Anne-Marie Bora, Justine Dell, Jaime Lawrence, and Stina Lindenblatt. My phenomenally talented cover designer, Jennifer Rush, knocked it out of the park with this one, so massive gratitude goes to her. And of course, to my family--who keeps me afloat and tolerates me even when I’m grumpy and confused by the real world—I love you, and without you all of this would be meaningless.

SPIRAL

Here’s a sneak peek at Mila Ferrera’s first New Adult novel:

Always do the thing that scares you.
That’s the way to break out of a cage of your own making
. My father used to say that all the time. He died back when I was fifteen and left me with a lot of bad memories and a genetic dark cloud hanging over my head, but his mantra’s what I’ve chosen to keep for myself. It gives me a bit of courage when I need it most.

Like right now.

The automatic doors to the Pediatric Oncology unit swing wide, and I force myself not to hesitate on the threshold. I push back a stray tendril of hair that falls across my cheek again a second later. I wobble a bit on the heels I bought over the weekend in the hopes of looking professional … and just a bit taller. I smooth my skirt and make sure the nametag that hangs from the lanyard around my neck is facing outward. It’s my first week of internship—the final year of training I need to get my PhD in clinical psychology—and my first day on this rotation. My nametag is the only way I can prove I’m actually supposed to be here.

Not that
Psychology Intern
is all that reassuring or impressive to anyone. But when the patients’ parents get too upset to reason with, the nurses call Psychology, and it’s Friday at 5:26pm, so I’m it.

I can hear the disgruntled father snarling from here. His voice is hoarse, like he’s been at it for a while. And as I walk into the atrium, where colorful fish swim lazily around the circular aquarium at its center, I see him through the undulating plastic seaweed. He’s a big guy in a stained t-shirt, sporting a serious case of hat-hair. His face is flushed and his eyes are red.

At the main desk, a plump, middle-aged nurse in lavender scrubs looks at me and raises her eyebrows. I walk over to her. “I’m Nessa Cavenaugh,” I say. “You called for a psychology consult?”

She folds her arms across her ample chest. “And like I told you on the phone, we’ve got a parent and kid who need some help.” She nods at the dad and gives me a
get a move on
kind of gesture.

My cheeks grow warm as I head for the big, angry guy. I round the end of the huge aquarium as he grabs for the kid at his feet, a boy of about four or five. “You
will
apologize to your brother, Shawn!” he barks at the kid.

“No!” Shawn shrieks. His face is pink like his dad’s. “Won’t!”

“He’s sick, and you have to be nice!”

“I don’t care!”

The dad opens his mouth to reply, but then he sees me standing there. “What?” It comes out rough, a challenge. He looks like a bull ready to charge.

“My name’s Nessa. Can I be helpful to you guys?” I wish my voice wasn’t shaking.

The dad looks me over, and his eyes narrow as he reads my ID badge. “Psychology? They called the shrink? And not even a real one. Some high school kid!” He rolls his eyes. “Thanks a lot, Lynette!” he calls over to the nurse.

My cheeks have gone from warm to freaking five-alarm blaze. I know I look young, but I’m not
that
young. I stand up a little straighter, not that it helps much, seeing as I’m five-five in my shiny two-inch heels. “Maybe she thought you might want to talk? She knew you were having a hard time.”

He rocks back. “A hard time?” he whispers, his face twisting. “
That’s
what you call it? One kid’s got cancer, the other one’s completely outta control, and their mother is—” He clenches his teeth.

“No, I’m sorry—I was only—”
Making things worse.

He waves his arm, shooing me away. “Leave me
alone
. If you think this is just a hard time ...” He’s shaking his head as he grabs the little boy by the arm and drags him, kicking, into Room 411. The tag next to the door says “FINN BEEMAN.” It’s printed in block letters with a blue marker, like maybe the kid wrote it himself.

I look over my shoulder, and the nurse points toward the doorway, her mouth tight as Shawn’s sobs echo down the hall. I draw in a long breath, dread curling in my stomach. I’m stuck—I already messed up with this dad, and trying to talk to him again so soon is risky at best. But the nurse is going to tell my supervisor—and worse, all the other nurses and docs on this unit—if I don’t at least
attempt
to fix this.

So I do the thing that scares me most and head for Finn’s room.

Lying in the bed is a little guy who doesn’t look much older than Shawn. Finn’s got a red bandana tied over his bald head, and his sallow skin is lit up by the screen he’s holding a few inches from his face. His brother is huddled in the corner, wailing, and his dad is on the plastic recliner chair, his head in his hands. And I think I get it: Shawn wanted a turn, Finn didn’t want to give up the Gameboy, and Dad feels too guilty to say ‘no’ to his sick child. As I open my mouth to speak, Mr. Beeman’s head jerks up. “I told you I didn’t want to talk to you.”

“I understand, but I hoped we could—”

“Get out!” he booms, standing up suddenly.

I take a stumbling step back, and the heel of my pump lands squarely on … someone’s toe. “Ow,” says a deep male voice.

I spin around. Lab coat over a striped button-down. Splattered with coffee. “Omigod,” I mumble, reaching out like an idiot to wipe brown droplets from the center of my victim’s chest, vaguely registering firm muscles beneath the fabric … and the fact that I am smearing hot coffee over them and (once again!) making things worse. “
So
sorry.” I lift my gaze to his face.

Whoa.

I’ve stomped on the most gorgeous guy I’ve ever seen up close. And made him spill his coffee. And wiped it on his neatly pressed shirt. He’s a few inches north of six feet tall, lean and broad-shouldered, with dark blond hair and seriously green eyes. A small, crescent shaped scar just above his angular jawline somehow only makes him hotter.

He’s gazing down at me like he’s expecting an explanation.

“Uh,” I say, grasping frantically for words and coming up empty. Because: his mouth. I can’t stop staring at it. “Sorry. You’re
very
… stealthy.”

His eyebrow arches, then he looks over the top of my head at Mr. Beeman, giving me the chance to read the nametag on his lapel:
Aron Lindstrom, M.D.

Oh, crap.

“Hey, Greg,” Dr. Lindstrom says. “Got you a coffee when I was in the cafeteria. Thought you could use it.” He holds out the cup, now only three-quarters full thanks to my clumsiness, and Mr. Beeman’s footsteps clonk as he comes to retrieve it.

“I got something for Shawn, too,” Dr. Lindstrom says more quietly. “If you want to give it to him.” He holds up a small Dunkin Donuts bag. From inside the room, Shawn’s sobs fall silent.

I step to the side while Greg Beeman accepts the Munchkins from Dr. Gorgeous.

“Thanks, Doc,” Mr. Beeman says. “Tell your nurse to call off the shrinks, ‘kay?” He jerks his thumb at me. “I’m not crazy.”

The doctor doesn’t bother to look in my direction as he claps Mr. Beeman on the shoulder. “Of course not. Everything all right now?” Shawn approaches his father cautiously, a fragile, hopeful smile on his face, and Mr. Beeman chuckles and hands him the bag, like he’s relieved that he can offer this kid
something
—and that Shawn is no longer screaming. Dr. Lindstrom smiles at him. “Looks like it.”

They start to talk about Finn and his IV nutrition, and I back away slowly. The nurse who called for the consult is riveted to her computer screen, and all I want to do is shout, “Why did you call me down here if all it took was coffee and some Munchkins?”

I clamp my mouth shut and walk quickly to the back hallway, toward the booth where I’m supposed to enter stuff into the electronic medical record. I have to document that I was here even though I did nothing but demonstrate my incompetence to one and all. Wishing to God that I’d chosen different shoes this morning, I climb awkwardly onto the high stool in front of the computer on the counter. My feet dangle several inches from the floor, and I swing my legs as I type the password and find Finn’s chart. I click the tab labeled
Psychology/Psychiatry
. And then I stare at the screen for who-knows-how-long, my eyes stinging. What am I supposed to write?