Wild Love: Chapter 29

“Okay, and it’s just going to stick to your panties like this.”

I pass the pre-applied pad back under the stall door in the school bathroom as Cora shoves her less fortunate pair of jeans into a plastic bag. I’ve handed her everything under the stall door after checking multiple bathrooms for her throughout the school like a total creep.

“I’m so embarrassed,” she says tearfully.

“Why? We all get our periods. It’s very normal. Welcome to the next, like, forty years of your life.”

“In class?”

I wobble my head as I consider that. “No, not everyone. But statistically, based on the age of people who get their cycles and the number of hours they spend per day in class, it definitely wouldn’t be unusual.”

“I don’t think anyone noticed.”

“Probably not. Plus, if someone was looking at your butt, Ford might kill them.”

That draws a sad little chuckle as the sounds of her righting herself in a fresh set of clothes fill the otherwise empty bathroom.

“Rosie?”

“Yeah?”

“There’s just… there’s a lot of blood. Are you sure I’m okay?”

I lean against a sink and glance over my nails, trying not to laugh. Because it’s not funny. But it is a walk down memory lane. “Oh yeah. The first couple of days are often quite heavy.”

“How can you just… talk about this so casually?”

I try not to think about Ford. Showers. Dark towels There’s a man who talks about it casually. “Well, when it happens for one week out of every month, it eventually loses its shock value.”

“Oh my god. How am I going to handle having this every month? It’s so awful.”

“Don’t fret, little storm cloud. It’s not so bad. I’ll show you more when we get home.”

“Okay,” she says quietly before the sound of the toilet flushing fills the space.

When she comes out, she looks embarrassed as hell.

She reminds me so much of Ford that it’s hard not to smile.

“Come here.” I open my arms, and she shuffles forward. Her face drops against my chest and her arms go around my waist as I envelop her in a hug.

“Thank you, Rosie.”

I realize she probably thought her mom would be here for this occasion, and that just makes me squeeze her harder.

“Of course. Told you I’d always be here.”

“Can I skip the rest of the day?”

“Hell yeah. I’ll sign you out. Everyone at the office thinks I’m Mrs. Grant anyway.”

She laughs as she pulls away. “Would you ever want to be?”

My brows furrow. “Be what?”

“Mrs. Grant?”

Oh god. The way kids put you on the spot is so brutal.

I deflect with a wink and say, “Who wouldn’t?”

Luckily, that satisfies her because she nods, slips her hand into mine, and doesn’t let go as we walk out into the hallway.

“I’ll take you home. But first, we’ll make the stop that my mom made with me the day I got my period. I always told myself I’d do it with my daughter when her big day came.”

We both know I’m not her mom. But neither of us points it out.

In fact, all she does is give my hand a squeeze.

When we walk into Ford’s house after our short shopping excursion, he’s sitting at the kitchen counter staring at his laptop screen, pretending to work.

I can tell he’s pretending because beside him is a pile of what I would refer to as period products.

Pads of every shape and size.

Tampons of every shape and size.

Midol.

A hot water bottle.

I sigh and glare at him. So awkward.

“I thought you weren’t going to tell him?” Cora throws her hands over her face like she can hide behind her palms.

I rub her back, bending at the waist to face her. “I didn’t. But, honey, adult men are well aware this happens to women every month. It’s not a global secret or anything. And you live with him, so like… he was going to figure it out.”

“Stop talking. I want to die.”

When I peek up at Ford, his eyes are wide. He’s a tall, green-eyed idiot who does not know what to do right now. I tip my head toward him, signaling that he shouldn’t just sit there like a statue.

He unfolds himself from the stool and takes long but tentative steps toward Cora. Then he crouches down in front of her, giving my calf a squeeze that sends butterflies erupting through my stomach. His other hand cups the pointed end of her elbow.

“Cora, I’m going to go bowling like a small-town weirdo tonight and leave you and Rosie to it. I’m not trying to make you want to die. I’m just trying not to drop any balls, remember? I didn’t get to know your dad, but it sounds like he was a great man. I think he’d want me to make sure you had all the things you needed. Your mom would too.” He points at the counter. “And that’s what I went and did to make myself useful, because I’m nervous and fumbling and trying not to fuck this all up with you.”

His voice hitches as the words come out, and I reach for his shoulder. It leaves us all huddled at the entryway to the kitchen. All connected by touch. By experience. By time and space and, shit, DNA.

Cora peeks at him from between her hands. “You’re not dropping any balls, Ford.”

He nods back at her. Squeezes her elbow. Then he stands abruptly and whispers roughly against my ear, “There are glass bottles of Coke in the fridge and the pantry is stocked with boxes of Old Dutch sour cream and onion chips. I flew them in for you. That was my errand. Have fun.”

I gasp because I told him weeks ago those were my favorite snacks. A cut above.

He smiles against my cheek and presses a firm kiss to my hair before striding away like he’s being chased.

“I’m going bowling.” He swipes his keys off the counter and makes a very Ford joke in an attempt to leave us both laughing. “I’ll see you period princesses later.”

And it works. We’re both in stitches when the front door clicks shut.

I wake up to the feeling of knuckles brushing my cheek. When I open my eyes, Ford is sitting on the coffee table. Just like he did once before.

“Hi,” I murmur, shifting but not really bothering to right myself. I feel safe enough around Ford that being laid out in front of him isn’t alarming in the least.

“Hey.” He takes his hand away and I instantly wish he’d put it back.

“How was bowling?”

“Fucking awful. Bash was away, and he’s pretty good. West thinks getting team shirts and coming up with a name will somehow make us better. Crazy Clyde told me about the time aliens abducted him. So at least that was entertaining. And the beer was good.”

I smile sleepily. “I want to meet Clyde. You smell like beer.”

“It was West’s night to drive.”

West. I’m hit with guilt over not having seen him much lately even though I’m living on his property. Everything between the three of us is so different from when we were kids.

Ford sounds downright tortured when he whispers, “Rosie, I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“With what?”

His eyes search my face.

“With work. With Cora. But mostly with you. I don’t know what to do with you. West is… He’s such a loyal friend. Possibly my only true friend. Such a long-standing part of my life. And you work for me now, and that…” He runs his hand through his hair, mussing it just the way I like. “That makes everything so much worse in my head. So much more complicated.”

I stare back at him. Reading the indecision that consumes him.

“I stepped away from running Gramophone because my business partners became people I didn’t recognize. Actually, I didn’t step away. I was ousted from the board and left as just another shareholder. We were college friends, and we founded that app with the best intentions. We founded that app because we loved music. Or at least I thought so. But money changed their goals, their outlooks… their loyalty.”

My throat aches. My chest hurts. “Ford.” I reach out and squeeze his knee. “I’m so sorry that happened to you. I had no idea.”

His warm palm lands over mine. “Been too embarrassed to tell anyone. I guess it was nice that they agreed to say I was leaving my role to start a new venture.”

I sit up, ready to punch someone for making this man, who brims with integrity and reliability, feel so low. Both hands on his knees now, I lean forward. “That was not nice of them, Ford. It was a cover for themselves. Fuck them.”

He sighs. “I know. But I still… The pressure to keep up with my perfect record. To found another successful company so I don’t look like a fool of a trust fund baby. I just… Remember when you told me you were tired?”

I nod, gathering his calloused hands in mine.

“I’m tired too, Rosie. Everything inside me feels so fraught, and I just want to get it all right.”

“You’re doing great. I don’t tell you enough, but you’re incredible. Your life has been turned upside down in so many ways. And here you are, excelling. Persevering. You aren’t the titles those magazines give you—hell, you aren’t even the titles I give you. You’re a good man who is doing his best. And your best is more than good enough.”

“But Cora⁠—”

“Is going to be fine.”

He just glares, so I carry on.

“Listen to me. Your taste in music is mediocre and your fashion sense is mountain-man-but-make-it-expensive. Your bank account is so full that you don’t even know what to do with it.”

“Great, thank you,” he says dryly.

“A lot of the time, your vocabulary consists of grunts and bitchy, one-word answers.”

“You should see how big my dick is, though.”

I roll my eyes and forge ahead, trying not to get tripped up by the mention of his dick and how annoyed I am that I haven’t seen it yet. “You grew up rich with a celebrity father. You founded a world-famous music-streaming service. Your bar is where musicians get discovered. You’re about to work with some of the planet’s most talented artists. I bet you donate to charity.”

“I do.”

“But from where I’m sitting, she’s the best thing you’ve ever done.”

That strikes him silent.

“I mean, look at her. She’s smart, she’s funny, and she’s so damn special. Give her everything you’ve got right now. She needs you. Nothing is more important. The rest can wait.” He’s still staring at me. Knees on his elbows. Face drawn.

Hands over his mouth.

“I don’t know what’s going on between us, Ford. But there’s something, no point in denying it. And yeah, it’s messy. And complicated. And confusing. And I also worry that if things go sideways, it could be really bad. For both of us and for everyone around us. Especially Cora. And since I basically played a part in her conception⁠—”

He groans and scrubs both hands over his face. “I already regret telling you that.”

“Yeah, and it’s even in writing. But anyway, stop overthinking it. Let’s just carry on like nothing happened. Go back to being frenemies who don’t… exchange pens. This thing is so new, it never even got any legs, so nothing needs to change. I’m a big girl. I’ll be fine.”

I wonder if he can hear the lie in my words. I won’t be fine. But there’s too much at stake. I don’t want to hurt his and West’s relationship, and I especially don’t want Cora to get attached to the idea of something that might just be a blip on the radar. She doesn’t need anything else in her life that isn’t permanent.

“I worry about you,” is all he says. And I can hear the anguish in his words.

“Why? I got a really great make-out session behind the bar and the world’s okayest orgasm out of the deal.”

He drops his head between his knees now. Like he’s on a plane, preparing for a crash landing.

I chuckle. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry over it.”

“Rosie. You kill me.”

“That was funny. Why aren’t you laughing?”

Now his head tips up. Eyes glowing neon, like they defy the dim light in the living room. “There’s nothing funny about the way I want you.”

I swallow, and my gaze snags on the silver chain that has slipped out from behind the V-neck of his T-shirt.

The pendant is dangling between us, in plain sight. I’ve felt it before in my hand but never really processed what it was. I reach for it and feel the familiar smooth metal of the key that’s attached, warmed from resting against his skin.

“That’s…”

He looks bashful now, like it’s a struggle to hold my gaze.

“That’s my diary key.”

Ford nods.

“From like… ten years ago.”

Another wordless nod.

“You kept it? All this time?”

“I figured I’d see you again one day. I just… I’ve worn it for so long that I’m attached to it. And the lock broke when you tossed it out the window, so it really wasn’t necessary anymore. I just didn’t say anything.”

He wore the key to my diary for ten years.

My chest aches. My mind spins. This man has been keeping me close to him for a decade. Breaking speed limits to get to me. And I never noticed until now? What is wrong with me?

I want to hold him, I want to kiss him, I want to tell him I’m sorry for not seeing him. But that key can’t change what we just agreed to—what we both know is best. I don’t want to be another complication in his life right now.

Maybe one day. When the timing is right.

So, I offer him a nod of my own. Accompanied by a watery smile. “You’re one of the good ones, Ford Grant Junior. Keep the key.”

Then, refusing to let my resolve wither under the intensity of his stare, I add, “Thank you for the boxes of chips and bottles of Coke. You’re a very thoughtful boss.”

He winces at the title.

But he still says, “You’re welcome,” and walks me home like the gentleman he is.

And it takes everything I have not to beg him to come in. To be a little less gentlemanly just for one night. But I don’t.

Turns out it’s better this way because as soon as I close the door, I cry, and I’m not even totally sure why.

I’ve always hated Ford Grant—or at least that’s what I tell myself.

And that’s what I cling to all of Friday and the entire weekend.

It’s the only way I’ll get through.