possible.” And then she left and took that away. My heart squeezes with the ache of that loss.
“My mom was like that, too,” Arrow says. “I’ve always been surrounded by people who believed in me, but Mom believed in me without expectation. There were never any strings to her affection. She just wanted me to be happy.”
He hardly ever talks about her, and I want to know as much as he’s willing to share. “When did she die?”
“Five years ago this weekend. The end was tough. I was glad when she finally let go. When did your mom leave?” he asks, rubbing my arm under the blanket. I wonder if he even realizes he’s doing it.
I shift against him and wrap an arm around his waist, as if his nearness could protect me from the pain of talking about my mother. “She left the summer before I started high school, so just over five years ago.” I frown at the coincidence of both of us losing our mothers around the same time.
“Did she say why?” he asks.
“I think it was all too much for her. Dad was sober more often back then, but he was still a lazy misogynist. She did everything. She worked nights at the dry cleaners, got us to school every day, cleaned the house, did the shopping, cooked the food, picked up side work as a maid anytime she could for extra cash. She was just done. So she left.”
“Why didn’t she take you with her?”
I spent so many years avoiding asking that question out loud. Asking a question means you’re willing to hear the answer, and I didn’t think I could handle someone telling me what I already believed in my mind. She didn’t want us.
“I’m sure she wanted you,” Arrow says, as if reading my thoughts. “She had to have made the decision for a reason.”
“I don’t know. Maybe she thought it was my father’s turn to do all the work and child rearing. She never said. She didn’t even say goodbye if you don’t count the note. She couldn’t have known that her leaving would drive Dad to drink. She couldn’t have known that he’d lose his job, and Nic and I would be left fending for ourselves.”
“I’m sorry, Mia.”
“I wish you’d quit apologizing for my life. It’s embarrassing.”
“You deserve better than what you’ve been given. Better than a mom who leaves without explanation, better than an alcoholic father, and better than a boyfriend who sleeps around on you.”
“What makes me so deserving?” I pull back to look at him. He’s watching me with cautious eyes. “Doesn’t everyone deserve all that?”
“No, Mia. Some people don’t deserve shit. But you . . .” He touches my face, tracing my jaw and skimming his thumb across my lips.
“Do I deserve you?”
He draws in a breath. “What happens tomorrow? After I take you home and Brogan calls? What happens after your buzz wears off and you remember you don’t want to be with me?”
“Why would you say I don’t want to be with you?”
“Wasn’t that the decision you made when you decided to date Brogan? You didn’t want to be with me because of who my father is, and so you chose him,” he says. “I don’t blame you, but I’m asking what happens tomorrow when you remember all of that.”
“I don’t know.” I remove my hand from around his waist and find the dark trail of hair I know from memory starts just above his navel and travels down under his shorts. “I’m sick of making decisions based on tomorrow. I’ve been doing that since I was fourteen. I want tonight. For once.”
He releases a long, slow hiss of breath. “You’re sure?” he asks, his voice low and husky.
I nod, move to straddle his lap, and let the blanket fall off my shoulders.
His lips part and he stares up at me in a way that makes me feel like a goddess granting his greatest wish. I release the clasp on my bra, and he watches as I toss it to the floorboards.
Cupping my jaw gently, he leans forward to trail soft kisses down my neck. His mouth opens, and his hands go to my sides. His thumbs brush the undersides of my breasts.
He strikes me as absolutely vulnerable in this moment. He touches me with such tenderness that I’m melting from the very center of my core all the way out to my fingertips.
“You’re beautiful, Mia.” He dips his head to my breast and draws