“I’M surprised you forgave them as easily as you did.”
Her brow puckers. “Liam, I can be cordial and forever hold a grudge.”
My grin makes an appearance. “So, we’re in agreement?”
“About?”
“Forgiving your brothers on the surface but then making their lives hell at one point or another?” I drawl, because Kow might have said sorry to me earlier but that doesn’t make up for the heartache he caused Gracie IMO.
She snorts. “Of course.”
That’s one aspect of their family that has forever amazed me—their capacity to move on so swiftly.
It was why, when I came home, I knew all was technically right with the Bukowski world again.
They’re innocent.
No highly traumatic pasts, no major problems—they’re just a family. Two folks, four kids, an ice hockey addiction, and a five-hundred-dollar-a-week grocery bill when they’re all together.
Feeling a touch nervous, I approach the bed once I’ve dragged off my clothes. “I have something for you.”
Yawning, she flops onto her back and studies my dick with mild interest. “If you think I’m going to fall for that after how long today has been—”
“Not that.” I chuckle. “You don’t have to read it. You don’t have to even look at it, but I’m going to leave it on your nightstand.” She won’t have a clue how tough it is to do this, but I texted Mike today and he said if I was ready, I should go ahead.
But that I could also never show her what are my most intimate thoughts and feelings and memories…
That it was my choice.
This is Gracie, though.
My Gracie.
She blinks at me as I place the blue leather journal beside the lamp on the nightstand. “Why so cryptic?”
“Not cryptic,” I counter. “Just something I’d like you to have if you want to read it.”
She leans up on her elbow and stares at the small leather-bound book. “What is it?”
“When I first started with Mike, he told me to write a journal because I was struggling to open up to him. I couldn’t do it, but Mike and I figured how to—I pretended I was writing to you.”
When her eyes widen, I try not to feel embarrassed.
This is Gracie.
She loves me.
Clearing my throat, I continue, “There are entries from back at the beginning. You can read them or not, but I didn’t want to hide it from you anymore. It would have felt deceitful.”
Reaching over, she touches the leather. It’s tentative. Cautious. “I’m glad I could help you even without knowing because I’d never want you to think you couldn’t come to me or share something with me. Whether it’s in person or in word. And as much as I’d like to read this, I won’t—”
“But—”
“—let me finish.” She holds up a hand. “Unless you share it with me.”
That’s a solution, only…
I huff out a laugh. “I figured there’d be distance between us when you read it.”
“Physical distance?”
“Yeah. Like if I’m at practice. I didn’t think I’d be in the room or that I’d be actually seeing your reactions live, you know?”
“Does it matter? I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I just thought, this way, you control what you share with me.”
Though I’m willingly sharing all of it with her, I appreciate what she’s saying.
Deep down, I like her suggestion even if, on the surface, some of the shit I said will be cringe.
“Yeah, okay,” I mumble.
Those beautiful eyes of hers stare at me warmly as she asks, “One now?”
I grimace. “Really?”
“Really.”
Though I heave a sigh, I pick up the book and flick through the pages. Scanning where it falls, I nod to myself then read aloud:
“‘Dear Gracie,
Today, I watched you eat ice cream and I thought I was going to come in my pants—’”
She howls with laughter and slaps my arm. “Shut up! You did not write that!”
I grin at her. “I did. If you don’t believe me…” I shove the journal at her before pushing her over to what’s usually my side.
Snorting, she leans on her elbow again and, with an expectant look, says, “Go on then. Tell me the rest.”
“‘Honestly, watching you eat ice cream is a holy experience. You eat it like you do everything else in life—with your heart and soul. I both admire that about you and am jealous of that personality trait. But then, how can I be jealous of something that I love about you?
“And being at the center of that, knowing that you’re there and with me, not just a member of my team but my partner, it’s a beautiful thing to be a part of.
“I’m a lucky bastard. I think you should know that.
“Yours,
“Liam.’”
She doesn’t say anything, just sniffles then burrows her head against my shoulder. “Read me another one?”
“‘Dear Gracie,
“I’m so embarrassed about my nightmares—’”
“You have nothing to be embarrassed about!” she spits, head snapping up to glower at me so quickly that she almost bumps her forehead into my chin.
Ignoring her, I continue, “‘I know you’re down the hall and that you can hear me cry out like a baby in the middle of the night but the truth is, I’d prefer to be embarrassed and have you close than be alone and wake up to an empty apartment.
“You don’t know what you bring to my life by simply being here.
“Thank you.
“Liam.’”
Her throat is croaky as she whispers, “Read me another one.”
And that’s how we spend the next hour.
Me reading snippets of my life since the inception of this journal and her listening, arguing with me, laughing over some shit I wrote, weeping a little over some of the entries about my nightmares that revolve around her getting hurt, or growling at me over what she perceives as my ridiculousness.
I fucking love it.
Love her.
Love what she brings to my days and how much warmth she imparts simply by breathing.
I really am a lucky bastard—now, I just have forever to prove to her that she was right to have faith in me.
