Recovery

Rowan

I stir the thick meaty sauce in the pot, bickering with Chili on the phone, and wondering when the scent is going to lure Riley from his office.

I know how to cook one thing and one thing only. Grandma del Marco's bolognese sauce. When Bridge and I were little, we would spend long weekends with her, and she taught us how to make that one dish, because she said it was my dad's favorite comfort food and "God knows that mother of yours doesn't show any interest in learning to make it."

It's true. My mom doesn't cook. She grew up an only child on the Upper East Side of New York in a penthouse with a full time housekeeper. My dad grew up in a cramped Brownstone in Dyker Heights with working class parents, the youngest of four children.

They came from opposite ends of the New York Social scene. Different worlds, almost. Much like me and Riley. And much like me and Riley, they had to face a lot of skepticism about their love. My mother's parents thought my dad was a dreamer with no future. My dad's family thought Marianne was a bit stuck-up and only looking for a wild boy to build a teenage rebellion around. Their friends didn't much like each other at first. They took a lot of heat for their relationship.

Much like I'm taking from my best friend right now.

"Look, I know you still care about him," she's saying. "And I know you need to be there for him right now. But Riley is getting better, and you need an exit strategy, okay?"

I'm only half-listening to her. Chili is a little Nazi in her belief that I'm some kind of battered woman or something. Yes, my marriage got all messed up. Yes, I did way too many things to please Riley there at the end. But she forgets that for years two and three of my marriage, she and I were paryting it up in New Zealand and Riley felt like I was the one totally disregarding his feelings and wishes.

In this last month, after trying really hard to compromise with Riley on matters of no small importance—like his mobility issues and my poor lifestyle habits—I've come to see that we never compromised before. The first two years of our marriage, he was completely indulgent of me and I was completely selfish. The third year, he tried to tell me we were in trouble. I had two strategies to block hearing him. I placated him by doing what he wanted when we were together and doing what I damn well pleased behind his back or I completely distracted him from his concerns with sex. The fourth year, he was wise to my ways. I couldn't placate him anymore—not about the partying, the diet pills, the reckless stuff I did. We fought, I cheated, and he punished.

The fourth year is all Chili think of. She's never been married or even in a serious relationship. She doesn't see what I see know—for three years, I was digging the foundation right out from under my marriage.

"Row, are you even listening to me?" Chili hisses.

"Yes." Fuck it, I'm just gonna come out with the truth. "I don't think I want an exit strategy. I think...I want to work it out. I want him back."

"You want Maisy back? And the trackers on your cars? And you want to sit in production meetings and have Riley treat you like a piece of shit in front of the people you work with?"

"No, I don't want any of that back. I want a better relationship. A healthier one. I love him, Chili. We have problems but he says he still loves me too. He says...forgiveness doesn't seem impossible anymore."

She sighs. She's silent. I take the opportunity to listen for the lifts, indicating Riley might be coming upstairs from his office, but all is quiet. Apparently Chili is trying to get a hold of her temper because when she speaks again, she sounds sweet.

"Row, I can understand why he thinks that right now. And why you feel so...tenderly for him right now. But what happens when Riley is the actual Riley again?"

"Riley is not a bad guy, Chili. For fuck's sake, he was your manager for years, both in Strut and Soundcrush. You loved him—"

"Okay, maybe he's not a bad guy, but you two? You two went to a bad place together. A place where you bring out the worst in each other."

"That's true, but we can change."

"In my experience, people don't change that much," she says bluntly.

"Well, I disagree," I say coolly. "Look at my dad. Look at Trace. Look at Leed. Look at Ashlynn. Look at Mac. People can grow. People can change if they want to."

She says nothing. I stir the sauce meditatively.

After a long moment, she switches tactics. "Have you seen the appearance schedule for promoting the new season?"

I sigh. Season 4 of Girl Band debuts in North America in less than two months. Which means there will be a frantic schedule of morning and late night show appearances for the cast. I've completely avoided thinking about that. Part of me really wants to back out of the appearances, because the last thing I want is to sit on a couch with Aidan Mostellar and fake flirt with him while Riley watches at home—or worse, watches from backstage.

Then again, despite the fact that I'm the female lead of the show, Girl Band is not the Row Del Marco show. It's about a band. Chili and my two other band co-stars are important to me.Bailing on promoting the season we've already filmed would be a big signal to everyone, that I'm leaving the show. The speculation might impact the new season's ratings. It might even doom the show to cancellation.

Riley and I haven't spoken one word about the show since I told him I wanted to quit. My feelings haven't changed. But the more I think about quitting, the more I think about having to tell Chili. I have already screwed her over once, when I quit our real band and caused it to disban.

"No, I don't think it's out yet," I say.

She's quiet. "It's out. I guess maybe your manager hasn't let you know."

Now I'm really starting to get irritated. "He probably doesn't know. He's barely working right now, Chili."

Except he is. I mean, not around the clock like he used to, but he's working 3-4 hours every day now. But maybe he didn't see the schedule. Or maybe the PR department didn't even send it to him. Maybe Ari or Marley dropped the ball. Or hell, maybe they sent it to me and I've dropped the ball. I haven't checked my "work" email in weeks.

"He's going to ask you to quit the show," she says quietly. "If you want him back, you'll have to give up everything you've worked for. You know that, right?"

I say nothing.

"He's already asked you. And you've said yes."

I open my mouth to deny. To lie. To placate my friend in just the same kind of ways I used to placate Riley about my late nights out partying, the recreational drugs, the diet pill. It would so easy.

So much easier than doing the right thing and telling her the truth.

"No. He hasn't asked. And nothing's been decided officially. But honestly Chili? It's not him. I think fixing my marriage and staying on the show might not be compatible goals."

"You aren't married, Row," she says calmly. "Don't even thinking about doing this, okay? Remember that he left you. and he will leave you again the next time you do something he doesn't like."

"You make it sound like he left me because I broke some controlling, unrealistic rules he put in place or something. I didn't break his rules, Chili. I broke my vows. I cheated on him, and I've regretted it since the moment I let it happen. And where the hell were you that night, anyway? My wing woman who should have pulled my ass aside and said, Think about what you are doing dumbass—do you really want to end your marriage tonight?"

"Oh hell no. I'm not taking the blame for you fucking Aidan Mostellar. Apparently that's what you do, Row. You fuck over the people you are supposed to love. You're really going to do this all over again, aren't you?" Her voice is hoarse with disbelief. "You're going to quit on me again. I can't believe this—"

Suddenly I realize she's so right. I'm so selfish. I'm fucking over my best friend. Again.

"Look, Chili...I don't know what the hell I'm doing," I backpedal. "Everything is so crazy right now. Right now all I can worry about is Riley. Helping him get better. Don't freak out, okay? Please—"

"I can't even talk to you right now. I'm sorry, Row—I love you, but right now, fuck you, okay?"

"Chili—" she hangs up on me.

"Fuck," I say into dead air.

I've really screwed up. If Chili tells the show's producers about our conversation, I've sped the eventual shit-storm up to now.

I drop the spoon for the sauce and go back to hand-cranking the pasta. I try to forget about the conversation with Chili and focus on the satisfying production of long, thick strands from the pasta mill. I hear one of the lifts activate, but to my surprise it's the closer one, not the one on the other side of the living room. Damn, I was so lost in thought I didn't hear the first one.

I'm hanging the last of the fresh pasta on the drying rack when Riley strolls into the kitchen with his walker. He's wearing jeans, sneakers and a slim cut, beige button down with tiny burgundy diamonds on it. He stops, looks me up and down—I'm barefoot, in jean shorts and a tight, cropped sweater—and resumes his casual stroll toward me.

"I smelled it, but I had to see it to believe it. Rowan del Marco. Cooking. What's the world come to?"

I put my hand on my chest and give a fake twitter of laughter that dies away immediately as I flip him a bird.

"And what would Laura say to that pretty gesture?" he teases. Laura is my grandmother. Riley is well aware of my specialty dish and its special meaning.

"She would say you don't get to eat if you harass her favorite granddaughter," I quip back.

I attend to the water for cooking the pasta while he opens a bottle of wine. I'm stirring the sauce when he brings me a glass.

Wow. He's using the walker with one hand. Part of me is not sure he should be doing that, but the bigger part of me overflows with happiness to see him walking more confidently every day. I'm not sure he'll ever move quite the way he did, but I don't care about his gait or the braces or even the walker. I care about the look on his face when he's walking. It's not longer that terrible look of forced exertion. He looks...free.

He holds out the wine. "My darling, I wouldn't dream of it. There shall be no more harassment between us."

Huh. That's what you think buddy.

I haven't begun to harass Riley. I'm on a long-term mission to get his number one soldier standing at attention, because I refuse to believe that he's not going to recover in every way. He's made too much progress on all the other fronts, not to get his libido back.

I think it's working, even if he doesn't realize it. He's standing very close to me. Much closer than he wanted to stand to me in the last year before the accident. He puts one hand on the counter and angles the walker away toward the open kitchen. He places his other hand on my lower hip, and leans in over my shoulder.

"Let's have a taste, then..."

I raise the spoon to his mouth. He draws the bite of meat sauce off, and savors it.

"Delicious," he pronounces in his bedroom voice.

"I'm glad you like." I try to make my smile sweet and seductive. I try to give him an open invitation.

Kiss me. Kiss me. Kiss me. Kiss me.

I would kiss him, but I don't think I can play the role of aggressor this time. This has to be at his pace, if it's going to work at all. Literally.

My eyes linger wistful on his lips as they thin back in that line of self-control.

He looks regretful as he tucks a loose strand of my hair behind my ear and reaches for his walker, putting it between us. "What's the special occasion, then?" he nods at the dinner I'm preparing.

"You know," I say lightly.

I watch him cross the room, knowing I'm right. He remembers every milestone in our relationship. This is the anniversary of the first time we ever kissed. Tomorrow is the anniversary of the first time we ever made love. What can I say, I've mostly lived my life in the fast lane.

"I do know," he agrees. "Which is why I'm not going to commemorate such a special date with a hasty and garlicky re-enactiment of our first kiss."

"Hasty. Right. Cause it's been weeks and weeks with the darlings and the hand holdings and the thing you do with your eyes—" I give him the up and down he gives me, "and the love songs."

He's eating the olives I've put out for the salad. "One can not rush the best things in life."

"Like my bolognese. That is not garlicky in the slightest. That's a parmesean rind, in the sauce."

"Ah. As I said it's delicious. But if we are to kiss, I would prefer to taste you." He's nonchalant, as if we are still married and this is just an ordinary moment in our day.

I drop the spoon into the sauce and curse. He chuckles from across the kitchen where he's propped on a barstool.

I turn, and the bar is between us. "Do you want to kiss me?" I ask softly.

His face is utterly smooth. "Badly."

How is it possible that two softly uttered syllables can make my heart skitter out of control?

I feign consideration. "Well you have been working really hard at PT. I'm very impressed and proud of you. I suppose you deserve a token of my affection."

"Deserve? No," he disagrees. "Desire? Yes."

"You desire to..." I trail off, leaving him room, wondering if he's trying to tell me something more here. Has he been experiencing some progress he hasn't shared? It's possible. I mean, it's not a very easy topic to talk about.

Suddenly I'm a little scared. We keep saying no expectations, but we keep inching closer and closer to reconciliation.

Does he want to take the big leap and get intimate tonight? Are we ready to jump back in like that? What if it doesn't go well? Physically? Or worse, emotionally? What if it's like he said—like before? What if my betrayal is there with us in the moment? What if we make an uncertain situation much worse by rushing in?

"To kiss you," he clarifies with a very gentle tone. "Just to kiss you, like I did all those years ago. Under a hopeful night sky.

"Oh," I say, sort of stupidly. "Well, do you think you are going to follow through on that desire?"

"Probably, if you'll let me," he admits. "My better judgment never wins any argument when it comes to you."

I'm moving toward him, unable to stop myself. I don't just want him to kiss me. I need him to. I need to know this thing we're drowning in has air and life and hope. I need to know it's worth the struggle and the sacrifices. I need to know our love is worth choosing Riley over and over again—even if it means losing someone else I love because she doesn't understand my choice.

He doesn't kiss me yet, but he pushes up from the bar stool and wraps me in his arms so naturally, as if it hadn't been more than a year since he held me like this, standing, bodies touching, one strength. I find myself crying, like I always seem to do these days.

"I can't kiss you with things unsaid on my lips." He still holding me close, speaking low in my ear. "Before we begin our romantic dinner...I feel I must confess..."

"What?"

"I was sitting in the living room just now, working on...something...with pen a paper. Sound carries. I overheard your half of the call with Chili."

I stiffen in his arms. He eases back down on the stool with a sigh. He's hanging his head.

"You should have made your presence known."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"Why didn't you?" I ask.

He shrugs. "I don't quite know. I could say it was because I couldn't swiftly leave the room nor swiftly come here to make you aware I was nearby. But perhaps it was...also old habits. Chili doesn't have the best opinion of me."

"No, but you earned her poor opinion," I remind him.

He nods. "Still, I know she's trying to convince you to remove yourself from this situation. Part of me agrees with her, and part of me is terrified she might succeed."

I don't like that, what he just said. "Why does part of you agree with her?"

"I think you know why," he says softly.

I do. He thinks we can't love each other well if he's not fully recovered. Because we will never be able to put my betrayal or his insecurities over it to rest if we don't recover a full relationship.

I slide my hand beneath his. "It's not Chili's choice. It's not entirely yours either. I certainly get a say. And I'm right where I want to be."

"The way you stood your ground with her...I was...well, darling...I can't tell you how much it meant to hear you be honest with her and to stand up for the possibility of us." He gives me such a look of adoration that my heart starts to skitter. He hasn't looked at me like that in so very fucking long.

"There's going to be hell to pay for it," I whisper. "What if she tells the producers what I said?"

"Yes, I've been thinking about that too. Since I received the promotion schedule yesterday for Season Four. I think it's time you made a firm decision about the show."

I nod, as our fingers play with one another's. "I don't know what to do. There's no good decision for anyone but you and me. I don't want to do it anymore. I can easily walk away, ut what if it's canceled? I don't want Chili or the others to lose their show."

"It's a possibility," he nods, and cups my cheek. "Do you still trust me? To help you? To advise you? To manage your career?"

Do I? That's a huge question. Loaded with land mines. I don't want to lie. It went so badly, so quickly, me giving him all the power to strategically map my career. So instead of giving him an unequivocal yes, I say, "What do you think I should do?"

The lips tighten. That's when I know I'm not going to like his answer.

"I have some thoughts. Let's discuss it over dinner, shall we?" he says lightly. He eases onto the stool once more and begins chopping a cucumber for our salad.

The conversation ruins the romantic dinner I worked so hard for. We sit across from each other in candlelight as Riley tells me he's been giving the matter a lot of thought, and that after looking at many precedents and having a few very discreet conversations with insiders he trusts, he believes breaking my contract outright and refusing to return for my character's write-off is career-suicide. He thinks I should do the promo tour with Aidan and the rest of the cast and do it well, giving us room to negotiate being released from my contract with a partial season next year.

"If your exit was well-done, it could be quite a boon to the show," he says.

I can't even eat the delicious meal I prepared. I put my fork down. "You know how they will write me off..."

"Yes. I imagine they will play up Stella and Lars' romance and then have you die in some horribly tragic way, so that his character is redeemed and becomes the gravity that holds the show in place. Most likely Stella overdosing will send him straight and pave the way for his new love interest—whomever they bring on to replace you," he says quietly.

I grip the napkin in my lap, twisting it. "I can't do that, Riley. I can't...play against him. Not after what happened."

"That's not true, love. You went back for a fourth season, after what happened. You told me there was nothing between you." Even though this is own horrible idea, now there's an accusatory edge to his voice. "Was that not true? Is there something you haven't told me?"

I throw the napkin down on the table. "Of course not. I didn't even talk to him outside of rehearsals and shoots. But how can you possibly think this is a good idea for us?"

"I don't," he says slowly. "I don't think it's a good idea for us. I imagine it will be quite difficult in some capacities. But I think it's the only way you come out of the show with...any career options left. You were only able to walk away from your contract at Colossal because your father and Aidan Moran have more than business relationship—they have a long-standing friendship. But if you break another contract, destroy another lucrative endeavor...even your del Marco name won't save your reputation."

"I don't care," I hiss at him. "I care about this," I gesture between him and me. "I care about this relationship. I'm willing to sacrifice for it."

"As am I," he says with that voice that lets me know he's choosing his words more carefully. Possible they have some meaning I don't understand. He reaches across the table for my right hand, gripping it lightly. "It is not in me, to let you sacrifice any hopes of a career. I don't think...in the long-term...it would serve either of us well. You are a star, darling. I won't let my jealousies and insecurities snuff you out. And if we are to have any hope of a future...we have to face our difficulties. We can't stay in this house, pretending the sum of our life is this."

"We can stay until you are better. Until we are better," I plead.

"I know you think that right now," he agrees, "But I have always had your long-term interests at heart. Of course, it's entirely your decision, Row. As the man who cares for your career and the man who...the man who loves you, I've offered my best advice." He squeezes my hand gently, drops his, and drinks his wine.

I watch him with complete disbelief as he twirls his pasta and chews manfully. "This really is delicious, love."

I drop my fork with a clatter and leave the room. I go to my bedroom and shut the door.

I want to scream. I want to throw things.

I feel like I'm in a time warp.

When I cheated, I wanted to quit and Riley wouldn't let me. But he couldn't stop punishing for staying, either.

I would venture to say now that Avery Thompson is dead, the only person Riley despises more on this earth than Aidan Mosteller is me, in the presence of Aidan Mosteller. How can he sit there so nonchalantly, eating his spaghetti and telling me he thinks I should go on a tour with Aidan and play up our on-screen chemistry, go back on set with Aidan, shoot love scenes with him, wrap my character around him and let her devolve her even more, do all the very things he couldn't abide before?

Is Riley serious or is he delusional to think we can make it through this? Or is this some kind of test? Does he want me to agree with him, or does he want me to refuse his advice? Even as he was offering me the advice, I could hear the anger in his voice when he thought of the filming I did with Aidan after he filed for divorce. Scenes he hasn't even seen himself. Just his imaginings made him tense.

I lay fuming and angry on my bed as darkness descends through the windows. I don't know if I'm angry at Riley or angry at myself or maybe just angry because deep down I'm afraid he might be right.

I don't care about the show. But I do care about something else. An ambition buried so far down I can't even name it in my thoughts. But it burns in my gut and I know...I don't want to ruin my name. My professionalism. My...potential.

After a little while and a few bitter tears, I realize that Riley might be trying to clean up the kitchen by himself...a task he's really not ready for.

I'm wrong. He put the plates in the dishwasher but left the heavy pots. He's sitting in a deep cushioned loveseat on the patio. With his guitar.

I open the slider and listen. For a long time. I can't place the song. I've never heard it. It's a soft, complex fingering on the guitar, but Riley doesn't seem to know the words as well as the melody. I listen to him struggling with the melody. Then I listen to the words, and I realize...

He's struggling with them because he's creating them.

Oh my god. He's writing a song.

And it's...good.

It's more than good. It's about us. It's about desire and disconnect at the same time. It's about the tension of reliving mistakes versus learning from them. Maybe the most beautiful theme is struggling to marry the practical and the creative.

I listen and as I listen, I realize it's not just about us. It's bigger than that. He's done the thing that not every songwriter can do. He's taken a personal narrative and cultured it into something more. He's taken the spoiling fruit of our very personal pain and turned it into a wine that's fit to nurse anyone's love story.

I slip away, I return with the rest of the bottle of wine and some candles that I light. He says nothing as sit down beside him. I drink the wine and he plays the song again. Over and over, he plays the song, until the melody solidifies and the rhythm of the words become natural.

A long time later, he stops.

"I'm sorry I ruined our evening, darling."

"It's not ruined. The song was beautiful."

"It had more potential than a sad song, but now I've made you angry."

"I'm not angry...I'm...scared. Scared that we're repeating the same mistakes. It's like before. You're telling me to stay on the show, but I'm afraid you're going to punish me for it.

"That is not my intent. But the promo tour has made the decision of what to do somewhat urgent and I've been wracking my brain and searching my soul all day to give you very best of me. As your manager. As your...partner."

"Is that what we are?" I whisper. "Partners?"

"You said you are where you want to be. Well, I want you here, too. God help me, I know I shouldn't and I don't know if we can survive one another, but I want you here."

"I don't know what to do. About the show, or even the promo. I don't want to risk the ground we've gained back."

He puts the guitar down. He turns toward me, takes my head in his hands and searches my face.

"We still have a lot of ground to cover, but I realize now, if we don't make it, it won't be because Aidan Mosteller took you. It will be because I lost you. Rowan? I don't want to lose you. I want to try my best to be man enough to stay by your side."

I am so ready for his kiss, but I am unprepared for the torrent of feeling it unleashes in me as his mouth caresses mine deep and long. He kisses me with the practiced attention of one who loves me. He kisses my lips, jaw, my throat. He kisses his favorite spot—the dip where my collar bones come together.

I'm caught up in the way his lips feel so differently than I remember. Probably the last hundred of Riley's kisses were either stoic pecks or angry demands. Tonight his kisses are loving. Giving and coaxing. I've never felt so...adored. That's when I realize I'm not doing my part adoring him. He's twisted toward me and that can't feel good. I climb atop his lap, straddling him, tugging at his hair as his hands roam up my waist, and sides.

We make out for a long time. I haven't made out with a boy like this...well...in exactly six years ago tonight. The last time we did this, it was so different. He was holding back hard and I was enticing him take my clothes off. Tonight, we're neither holding back nor seeking more. We're just...enjoying each other in a way we skipped over.

I can feel him so strongly—the beating of his heart, the pace of his breath, the way he's holding his muscles, that I instinctively know when his back is beginning to hurt. I slide from his lap and snuggle beside him, entwining my arm in his. He rests his head upon the sofa back and stairs up at the stars.

"That was incredible," I whisper. "You've never kissed me like that before."

"Well, you know what they say about losing one sense and gaining in another area," he says wryly. "I suppose it's much the same principle."

I kiss his shoulder, pressing all my unspoken words of love into him. "There are lots of things we can try. Whenever you're ready."

He swallows heavily. "We'll try, darling. That's all I can promise."

"One day at a time," I echo.

After a long silence, I add. "About the song. I don't think it would be beautiful only to me. It's really fucking good." I whisper. "You should do something with it."

"Like what?" he asks lightly.

"Sell it. I bet you could send out three demos and sell it tomorrow."

"There is only one thing I would like to do with it," he says.

I smile. Does he want to lay it down himself? That would be awesome. I bet Adam would put it together for him. "What?" I prompt.

He pulls my chin up. "I would like to play it with you. Whenever you're ready."

A strange thing happens in my gut,like a switch. Less panic and more burn at the idea of holding a guitar in my hands.

"We'll try, darling," I echo into Riley's shoulder.

In the dark I can feel him smile. "That's all you can promise."

"Yes."

He groans. "Help an old man to his feet?"

I blow out the candles and brace his forearms with mine as he rises. Inside, he sits at the bar and talks to me as I quickly clean the kitchen. Then it's time for bed.

I wipe the counter over and over as he watches me, loathe to part from him.

He rises, walks to me with his walker—slowly now, he's very tired—and kisses my mouth tenderly. "Come to bed, love," he says simply.

The damn tears always sneak up on me. He wants me in his bed. He trusts me enough to share sleep again. He hasn't said it yet, but I think he's nearly sure he's forgiven me.

"I'll meet you there," I say hoarsely.

It's insane, how stupid I feel dressing for bed. I feel like a virgin on Prom night.

I pull the toothbrush from my mouth and point at myself emphatically in the mirror. "Get a fucking grip, del Marco. It's a bed. And Riley. This is nothing new."

But even as I say it, I know I'm lying to myself. This is all new, unchartered territory. Riley and I started with a chemical attraction. Our relationship was grounded in sex for years before we admitted that we loved each other. And now we are starting at the opposite end—all the feelings, but maybe without all the possible natural ends of love.

"Just be cool." I tell myself.

Be cool? Jesus Christ. If ever there was an inadequate self pep talk, I just gave it.

Riley has a new bed, it's adjustable but california king sized. He's sitting up, barechested, when I enter the room.

He laughs at me. "You look nervous as a cat."

I smirk at him. "I'm afraid the bed is going to squish me."

He begins to lower the head. "It's all right, I mostly sleep flat now."

I slide in, staying well on my side.

He turns out the lights. His voice is low. "Rowan?"

"Yes?"

"If you're going to sleep all the way over there, you might as well be in the other room..."

I smother a laugh and snuggle closer. He moves gingerly, putting an arm around me. I rest an arm across his chest. "How are the ribs?" I ask.

"Fine."

I hug him more tightly in response and he slides his fingers along my outstretched arm. "I've missed you," he whispers. Then, "I've finally found the silver lining to all this. I can't feel my feet, but I can't feel your freezing cold ones, either..."

I slap his chest lightly. He chuckles and grabs my hand. "Goodnight." After a moment's hesitation, "I love you."

He means it, but it still doesn't come easy. Every time he says it, he feels the price we've both paid for it.

"I love you, Riley."

I always will, I add silently, because I know we aren't ready for promises.