“Yeah,” I say, kissing her cheek lightly. “But he likes you. And that’s not easy to do.” She shoves me, kinda hard, and I realize what I said. “I mean…getting Ty to like you. No, liking you is easy. Ah, f**k…I hate grammar. It’s always screwing me over.”

Rowe giggles, then slides to my lap and kisses me, and soon her lips—and the rest of her—is all I’m thinking about, and I’m pulling her from the couch, quietly tiptoeing away from my father, and the murmur of the television, to the lavender room—that she’s supposed to stay in alone, but to hell with that.

Chapter 28

Rowe

Eggrolls for Thanksgiving are my new awesome. Seriously. Awesome. I’m usually a sick kind of stuffed on this holiday, and it’s normally from mashed potatoes. But today, it’s eggrolls. The lasagna was good, too, but I think there’s a chance I may try to marry those eggrolls.

After our early dinner, Nate took me on a tour of where he grew up—driving us by his little league field, grade school, high school, and first girlfriend’s house. He even showed me the tree where he first carved into the trunk NATE LOVES STACY, and then came back a few weeks later and scratched it out with a pocketknife. Stacy, apparently, did not love Nate. He was twelve, and bitter.

After the tour, he gave me my first driving lesson in three years. I wasn’t awful, but I wasn’t good either. I stayed a good fifteen miles per hour under the limit and stuck to the side streets. At this rate, I should be driving by age thirty-five.

We spent the rest of the night watching old Christmas movies, like White Christmas and It’s a Wonderful Life. I got excited when Home Alone came on, and when Nate admitted he had never seen it, I forced him to watch it with me. I caught him laughing a few times.

At almost midnight, we’re the only two left awake in the living room, so Nate pulls a few logs from the pile in the corner and builds us a nice fire. I snuggle in between his legs as he sits on the floor with his back against the side of the sofa, putting us right in line of the fire’s warmth.

“Thank you,” I whisper, reaching my hands around his forearms, which are wrapped around me, and dipping my head to kiss his skin.

“For what?” he whispers back.

“For letting me have this…today, this trip—this time here with you. I don’t think I would have liked the Bahamas over Thanksgiving, and being here has sort of made me forget all about how my mom and dad are selling the house.” Truthfully, I haven’t thought about it once, and even talking about it now, it doesn’t hurt as much as it did when my parents first told me.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Nate says, squeezing me tightly to his chest, and resting his cheek on the top of my head. He holds me there for several minutes while we both stare blankly at the fire.

“Hey, guess what?”

“What’s that?” he asks, his lips brushing against the side of my head in the sweetest way, I almost forget what I wanted to say.

“I’m picking a major when we get back. I’m meeting with my advisor,” I say, actually excited about my future.

“Astrophysicist?” he asks, turning my chin to look at him so I can see his serious face, just before half of his mouth curls into a sarcastic smile and he winks.

“Yes, I totally want to work on rockets, despite my absolute detestation for math. And science. And fear of being lost in space,” I say, and Nate laughs but then stops quickly.

“Fear…of…being…lost in space?” His eyebrows pinch.

“Yeah, I can’t watch those movies. Like Apollo 13? I get all freaked out,” I say, and he laughs. Hard.

“That’s…a strange fear,” he says, still sporting his perfect grin—dimples and all. “And, you know Apollo 13, that…that really happened.”

“I know, but I like to pretend it was just a movie. Swear to god, freaks me out. Lost in space?” I snuggle back into his arms and relish the low rumble of the chuckle in his chest.

“So what do you want to be then? When you grow up,” he asks.

“A curator. Like in a museum. I’m going to be one of those art-history nerds,” I say, the smile on my face one of excitement. Nate is quiet for several long seconds, and I start to wonder why, so I turn in his arms so I’m facing him, and he smiles, fast. “What do you think?” I ask, really wanting his acceptance.

“Sorry, was just thinking of funny art-history jokes.” He looks proud of himself, so I nod my head toward him, encouraging him to let me have it. “Okay, so…how do you get an art-history major off your doorstep?”