“How so?”
“Brushing off how she’s feeling, whether it’s shaky or irritable. Not sticking to her eating schedule because it might inconvenience people or disrupt class.” I glance toward the door. “I get that. I do. She’s going to make friends, though. Friends that she feels comfortable with and make her happy—honestly, I can’t wait for her to start having fun and doing college her way. I know she’s going to be way better at it than me.” I pause. “She’s going to go out and—sorry, but she’ll probably have one too many drinks—and I guess those are the times I get nervous about.” I pick up the brochure and put it back down. “This will help, though. So if you could just—”
“Call the insurance company. Yeah,” Jason interrupts, looking thoughtful. “I’ve thought of this, too. Birdie partying. Maybe not waking up even if there’s a glucose monitor beeping…”
I look down at the floor, not wanting it to be obvious that I’ve thought of this a million times. Birdie is strong and capable and I don’t want her brother thinking anything different. She wouldn’t want that. “Like I said, she’s amazing. She knows what she’s doing.”
“But you help take care of her. Is that why you want to move in with her?”
“I want to move in with her because I’m in love with her.” The rest of the truth sits on my tongue for a few seconds, before I have to say it out loud. “And loving her means I worry. I won’t lie about that. But worrying about her is a privilege.” My heart knocks against my ribs, images from the last two weeks flipping through my mind. “When her sugar is low, the tip of her nose turns white. When she’s high, she can’t decide what to eat and gets annoyed over having to pick. Or she gets really quiet.”
“So you give her more insulin.”
“She gives it to herself. I suggest it.”
“Smart man.”
We laugh quietly.
“Look,” I say, after a beat. “I can’t believe someone like her is even real. And on top of that, she loves me back. I still wonder if I’m dreaming. So if worrying at night is all I have to do to keep her, that’s what I’ll do. I’d do anything.” I back toward the kitchen door. “Maybe when you know me better, we can talk about moving in together again. I won’t push it.”
“Wait,” Jason says, eyes clenched shut. “Goddammit.”
“Sir?”
He eyes me for long moments. “She wants to move in with you?”
I hold my breath and nod. “Yes, but you should ask her, anyway.”
“I will.” He snatches up his beer bottle and points the tip in my direction. “Two visits home from her per month. And more phone calls. Video ones.”
Jesus, is this really happening? “Done.”
Jason walks past me on his way to the living room, slapping me on the shoulder. “Welcome to the family. Go crack a damn beer.”
“Yes, sir.”
He hesitates. “But you better drink my wife’s lemonade first.”
“Will do.”
Shell shocked, I stand there in the empty kitchen for a full minute, unable to believe I’m going to live with Birdie. I’m going to share a home with her. And when she bursts through the door of the kitchen, launches herself into my arms and whispers, “You did it,” happiness wraps around me in such a way that I know it’ll never let go.
*
Birdie
It’s moving day.
I’m so excited, I’m almost hyperventilating as I jog up the walkway toward our apartment building. It’s a cute new development half a mile from campus and our apartment is on the second floor. The freshly painted white door is propped open and I can see Jerimiah carrying a box on either one of his massive shoulders, turning sideways and ducking to fit through the doorway. I’ve been at class all morning and I begged him to wait so I could help, but he insisted on taking the morning off and getting started.
It’s been two weeks since we visited Jason and Naomi. We came back and started looking for apartments right away. This one felt right the moment we walked inside. There’s sunshine, space, it’s close to a bus line stop that runs directly to campus and most importantly, there’s a shower that Jerimiah can use without squatting.
God, I love my giant, sensitive, intuitive, gorgeous boyfriend. I love him with all my might and now I get to wake up beside him every morning. Get to fall asleep in his arms and make him breakfast and paint my toenails while he studies his football playbook. I’m so happy I don’t know how my feet remain on the ground.
I burst through the apartment door and set my book bag down. “Honey, I’m home!”
“Hey,” comes that delicious rumble from the bedroom. “How was class, beautiful?”
“Long. I wanted to be here helping…” I trail off when I see what’s hanging on the wall in the living room, bathed in sunshine. My heart lurches up into my throat, my eyes filling with moisture. “How did you get this?”
Jerimiah comes out of the bedroom and stands beside me, looking at the picture that hangs on the wall. It’s a blown-up photograph of the mural we painted together the second day we knew each other. The diverging branches that represent me and Natalie are right there in beautiful detail and until this moment, I didn’t know how badly I needed a reminder of her here. A reminder of what we were together and who I am, just as myself.
“It’s perfect. Thank you,” I whisper, turning and wrapping my arms around him as far as they’ll go. “Right here. You are exactly where I’m supposed to be.”
He warms me in his embrace. “Welcome home, Birdie.”
THE END
Go back to where Naomi, Jason and Birdie’s story began…
The GIRL Series by Tessa Bailey
GETAWAY GIRL (Girl Series #1)
CHAPTER ONE
Addison
Scandal Erupts as Captain Du Pont Left in the Lurch at Church
—Charleston Courier
When I woke up this morning, I didn’t plan on crashing a wedding.
But here I am.
In leather pants and a faded T-shirt, I didn’t even bother dressing up, which is drawing censorious raised eyebrows from the Charleston upper crust. There they are in their pressed pastels and bow ties, neatly divided into two sides of the aisle. Golden blondes on the left. Deep, rich brunettes to the right. Not a head of midnight-black hair among them.
None like mine.
Defiance rears back inside me and I toss that mane of inherited black hair now, letting it whip and settle around my shoulders. Perhaps it’s the move that causes an older woman in the back row to recognize me—finally. Or recognize my mother, rather. I’ve grown up a lot since leaving this town, and since I own a mirror, I’m aware of the resemblance.
Green eyes, resting bitch face, stubborn chin, indecent curves.
I’m a Potts girl, head to toe.
Looking as if she’s seen a ghost, the woman fingers her pearls and leans over to start a gossip wildfire, no doubt. My mouth curls into a pleased smile and I go back to observing the congregation. Everyone is seated and waiting for the bride to walk down the aisle, except for me. I’m standing in the far back corner, cloaked in shadows. Appropriate, considering my cousin, Naomi, is getting married this afternoon and no one in my family was invited.
What family? You’re the only one left now.
An invisible fist grinds into my chest and I push off the wall, intending to duck out for a breath of fresh air. No way I’m going to lose my composure in front of these people. Especially the blonde side of the room. When I turn to leave, however…that’s when I see him.
Once, during a hurricane, I made the mistake of leaving my apartment in Brooklyn for a gallon of milk. Cereal makes up ninety percent of my diet, so I was desperate and tired of eating fistfuls of dry Cheerios. I didn’t make it two steps out of the building when a hundred-mile-an-hour wind swept my feet out from under me, landing me on my back with a view of the dark thunderheads above. I still went and bought the milk, because I am a stubborn piece of work, but I remember that feeling of ut
ter shock. The confirmation that forces more powerful than my iron will exist, just waiting to knock me on my butt.
That’s how I feel when I see the groom. Naomi’s groom.
My throat resists my attempts to swallow, coating itself in mud. Palms sweaty, pulse clamoring, knees buckling—yes, buckling—I fall back against the back wall of the church. I turn to find a full back row of blonde heads watching me and I lift my chin, commanding myself to pull it together. What in God’s name is wrong with me?
As if induced by magic, my gaze lifts to the groom once more. He’s not the cookie-cutter trust fund boy I was expecting. No, he’s…compelling. Hands clasped behind his back, he’s the authority in the room without moving a single muscle. He must be six foot five, based on the way he towers over the groomsmen, and the breadth of his muscular chest is somehow fierce. Braced and ready for action. He has a thick head of tobacco hair, face shaven but already battling a beard. His blatant masculinity isn’t what robs me of the ability to stand, though.
It’s his eyes. For all this man’s obvious power, they’re heartbreakingly kind.
When I read the wedding announcement online, I scoffed at the description of Naomi’s fiancé. I rush to recall it now. Elijah Montgomery DuPont. Citadel graduate. Served three tours overseas with the army. What else? There was something…else.
Oh. Right. Elijah is the son of Charleston’s longest-sitting mayor. Plans to follow in his father’s footsteps. Imminently. Would I expect anything less in a husband for impossibly polished, former pageant girl Naomi? Granted I haven’t seen her sailing through town since we were teenagers, Naomi in her private school getup, me in ripped jeans and Salvation Army specials. I remember well, though. I remember the way her gaze skimmed over me and shut down, the whispers to her friends. Her mother. Her mother is the one…
I release a shaky laugh under my breath when I realize…I’m jealous of Naomi. Right now in this moment. Actually jealous over this man I’ve never met, who can’t possibly be as kind as his eyes suggest. I don’t even like kind men. Even as I tell myself that, I squint, trying to make out the color of those eyes. When I realize what I’m doing, I shake myself and turn to leave the church through a side exit. As much I wanted to shake up the proceedings and remind these people my side of the family existed, I can’t stay now. The irony of me returning home only to develop this weird, instantaneous attraction for my cousin’s fiancé is way too much.
Tomorrow, I will probably forget all about him. This afternoon will feel like a dream or a hallucination. But for right now I…I don’t think I can watch him get married.
Steeped in disbelief, I press the handle of the exit down. Turning to take one last, stupid look over my shoulder, I pause when I see a woman jogging up the aisle. She’s not the bride, but in that teal, ruffled nightmare of a dress, she screams bridesmaid. Her face is white as a sheet, a bouquet of flowers limp at one side, a folded note in the opposite hand. I take my fingers off the door handle, noting that everyone around me has started to murmur amongst themselves. What is going on?
The groom inclines his head, leaning down so the harried bridesmaid can reach his ear. Finished speaking, she hands him the note, averting her eyes as he unfolds and reads it. He’s very still. Something is definitely wrong, but he seems more concerned about the bridesmaid’s obvious upset, even patting her on the shoulder with a steady hand as he reads. Gentle giant.
I flinch at my own thoughts. They simply cannot be coming from me. Men are meant to be pleasant diversions from time to time. They all want one thing and I take a twisted pleasure in proving that. Proving I don’t want anything more, either, and sending them on their way. Reminding myself of how I operate doesn’t help now, though. As the groom—Elijah’s—face turns more and more grave, I grow restless. I want everyone to stop whispering.
Finally, the bridesmaid turns and leaves the way she came, sniffling into her forearm. Elijah tucks the note into his pocket and faces the congregation alone, appearing almost thoughtful. No one is whispering now. They’re all made of stone, waiting to see what the robust military man in the tuxedo will say. “I’m very sorry you all came out on a Sunday. It would appear…no one is getting married today, after all,” he drawls, his deep voice resonating with southern gentility. At his announcement, there are gasps from every corner of the aisle, women fanning themselves with almost fanatical fervor. Camera flashes go off. Elijah isn’t immune to the sudden activity. Or the fact that he’s just been jilted. No, he doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands, a forced, wry smile playing around his lips. “I hope your wedding gifts came with a good refund policy.”
His attempt at a joke is met with a smatter of uncomfortable laughter, but mostly silence. I think. It’s hard to hear anything over the wrenching in my breastbone. Yeah, I didn’t want to watch him marry my cousin for some weird reason. But there’s zero satisfaction in watching him get left at the altar. None. I’ve never seen someone look more alone in my life.
I watch as Elijah turns to his groomsmen and rolls a shoulder, his eyes averted. And in that tiny slice of time, I know exactly what he’s going to do. Tomorrow, maybe I’ll marvel over how easily I read Elijah in a room full of people who should know him better than me. But for now, I don’t waste time slipping out the side exit, getting swallowed up in warm March wind and the scent of salt air. I weave through the parked cars to find my ancient Honda, breathing in time with my steps.
Moments later, I watch from my idle at the curb as Elijah strides out of the church, then comes to a dead stop. He looks straight ahead at nothing, the powerful cords of his neck standing out in the hazy, southern afternoon sun. Heartbroken? Angry? I can’t tell a single thing, except that he wants to escape. Now. But before I apply my foot to the gas, I give myself a mental slap in the face. A cold, hard reality check.
Rich, powerful, handsome. Unattainable. This is the same kind of man my mother fell for. Fell hard. Everyone inside that church remembers how that ended, too. It tore apart two halves of a family, leaving one side to flourish in their wealth and the other to fall from grace.
Elijah Montgomery DuPont, the next mayor of Charleston, heir to southern immortality might have been left behind by his bride today, but someday soon? There will be another one.
She won’t be a Potts girl. She will never, ever be me.
It costs me a surprising effort, but I paste on my most dazzling smile and pull up to the curb at the bottom of the church steps. By now, guests have begun filling the church doorways, slinking out one by one in the distance behind Elijah.
When I roll down the passenger side window, I get Elijah’s attention all to myself for the first time and it hits me like that gale, hurricane wind—only nine times stronger. He’s so inviting up close. A man who could double as a human shield. Or a furnace. He’s just radiating warmth and capabilities, like he’s someone to depend on. Oh God. I’m losing my freaking mind.
Sucking in a breath, I open the glove compartment and fish out the bottle of Grey Goose vodka, waving it at the jilted groom. “It’s half empty, but you’re welcome to it.”
I was right about his eyes. That’s my only coherent thought as he ducks into my Honda and straightens, his head resting against the ceiling. His gaze is made of the finest chocolate and just as fulfilling as it lands on me, grateful and weary. “Thank you, ma’am.”
His thick burr rocks me down to the soles of my feet, making me think of cuddling. Cuddling. An activity I’ve never performed a day in my life. Hoping my shock isn’t showing on my face, I twist open the bottle and hand it over. “All dressed up and nowhere to go?”
Humorless laughter leaves him in a slow rumble. “Something like that.”
“I’m so sorry about what happened,” I whisper, without thinking. “No one deserves that.”
He cuts me a look, obviously just realizing I witnessed his humiliation. He becomes aware of more than that, though. Until right this second, I don’t think he was really seeing me. I was just a blurry figure
in a car. An escape hatch. Now, his attention travels down to my leather-clad thighs, before shooting back up to my face, alertness inching into his expression. “Who are you?”
“That’s a long story.” I tip the bottle up to his mouth. “For now, I’m Addison. And if you want to avoid the sympathy coming down the steps, I’m your girl.”
Without turning to look at the church, he twists the bottle on his knee. “How so?”
“There are probably very few places you can hide in this town, am I right?”
Weary brown eyes focus back on me. “Yes.”
So much weight and meaning packed into a single word. “I have a place. You can lay low for a little while.”
His body language is still grateful, but hesitant now. “I mean no disrespect, Addison. I’m not assuming a damn thing, either, you understand.” He waits for my nod. “But if you’re thinking of offering me more than a place to lay low, I’m not sure I’m in the right frame of mind for it. Wouldn’t be fair to you.”
Just the suggestion of sex with this man makes me slippery between my legs. Which is pathetic considering he’s just turned me down—not that I was offering. Still. What did I think? I would pull up in my late-model, chipped pain steed and sweep him away like an avenging cowgirl? The man is reeling from being jilted. Any romantic notions I have that are coming to life against my will need to be put to rest. Immediately. Not so easy to do when I like him more with every genuine word that comes out of his mouth.
Ignoring the clang of doom in the back of my head, I pull away from the curb. “That’s pretty noble of you. Most people wouldn’t be concerned with fairness after something so shitty happened to them.”
“Shitty things happen to people all the time,” he answers, his tone conversational. Not in the least bit preachy. “It’s no excuse to be selfish.”
“No, I guess not.” I barely manage to sound human after hearing him say selfish in relation to sex. Is that how he’d be with me beneath him, if we went to bed this afternoon? Rough and selfish and—Lord. I need to get a hold of myself, right now. Even if he was in the right mind frame for sex…Naomi is his type. Girls with a pedigree. Not a girl who was born out of wedlock and spends her life scraping by, week to week. I would be nothing more than a quick itch-scratcher.
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