in front of us. Our next course began yesterday, and I know the next stage will improve our communication in ways I only dreamed about. She’s open to talking this way, and it thaws the worry coating my heart all this time.
We’re in the middle of having fake tea and cookies when the front door opens for the first time in too long. Both Ainsley and I look at it as Easton makes his way in, his eyes immediately finding ours where we’re perched around the coffee table. His gaze drifts to the food and plate set, the very ones he bought her for Christmas, before he tips his head.
It’s nearing March, but the cold weather hasn’t broken. Cold air drifts in behind him as he shuts and locks the door, the chill pebbling my arms with goosebumps. “Welcome back,” I tell him quietly.
His grip on the strap of his black backpack hanging from his shoulder loosens, then tightens as he examines the living room. Toys are scattered everywhere from Ainsley’s playtime antics and a partial blanket fort is constructed next to the couch. I tried making one like he did the day he watched her, but when Ainsley and I stepped back to examine the horrible job I did, she yanked on my shirt and signed, He did it better.
“Piper. Dudette.”
Once again, a smile forms on Ainsley’s face over their special nickname. Every time I see the sliver of white from her happy smile, it tugs on my heartstrings. “How was the convention?” He stops moving toward the stairs to look at me, not saying a word. I clear my throat. “Jenna saw the sign on the shop door.”
His chin dips. “It was good.”
Rubbing my lips together, I manage a nod before pushing myself up. “Mind if we talk for a minute? I’m sure you’re busy, but…” Letting my words fade, I gnaw on the inside of my cheek while he contemplates his answer. When he finally bobs his head, I sign to Ainsley that I’ll be right back and follow him upstairs.
When he opens his bedroom door and walks in without looking back at me, I hesitate. It feels weird entering his domain when he’s always come into mine. I stop at the door, glancing around the beige walls like the rest of the house is painted, noting very few personalized items littering the room. There aren’t any picture frames or trinkets or posters, just a shelf with some books on them, a nightstand that doesn’t match his bedframe with a light on it, and a dresser with a half-dead plant on top with some folded clothes next to it.
His bedding is dark, his curtain light, and nothing about what I see is … Easton. Then again, what do I know about him? He’s quiet, cautious, and good in bed. He gets along with kids, or at least Ainsley, and would give you the shirt off his back. His love for art design made him thrive as a tattoo artist, and his best friend and co-owner is the only other person he seems to talk to besides me.
“What’d you want to talk about?” he grumbles, setting his bag down on his bed and finally turning to me.
“Where’s all your stuff?” I blurt.
His brows go up. “What stuff?”
I hesitate, regretting even asking when I hear the irritation in his tone. “You don’t have any pictures.”
The curt reply comes quick. “Don’t have anyone worth remembering.” It pierces my heart as he turns back to his bag and takes out clothes and a few other items. “Is that all you wanted to talk about? I’ve got shit to do.”
My jaw ticks. “You don’t have to be a dickhead, Easton. Not that you care, but I was worried when you didn’t come home.”
His back straightens, shoulders pulling back as he abruptly faces me. “Why would you care?”
I blink. “Because I … do.” Crossing my arms over my chest, I add, “I don’t know if that’s a foreign thing to you, but you do have people who give a shit. You could have texted me saying you were going away for a while that way I didn’t think anything bad happened.”
“Stop,” he grinds out.
My eyes widen. “Stop what?”
“I don’t have to report to you, Piper.”
Lips parting, I find words lacking in response to him. I know he doesn’t have to report to me. I’ve reminded myself of that multiple times. But doesn’t he see that I care? That we’re friends? “I know that.