Chapter Twenty

Every summer, like clockwork, Truly got a damn summer cold.

Fever? Check.

Headache? Yup.

Congestion? Ugh.

On top of the sniffling and sneezing and general malaise, she'd woken up to an email from her editor, edit letter on her latest book attached.

The book, the one she'd spent the better part of four months writing, was shit.

Okay, her editor had put it more delicately, but the second half of the book needed a complete overhaul, was going to require Truly to scrap thirty-thousand-some-odd words and rewrite the ending.

Apparently, the book lacked her signature Truly St. James spark. It was too heavy, light on the swoons, the dénouement lackluster, and the kicker?

Her editor found the romance unbelievable.

I'm just not sure I believe these two characters will be together past the final page, her editor wrote.

The most important element of the book and Truly had come up short. Way short.

The fact that she'd done this a dozen times didn't matter—Truly St. James had forgotten how to write a book.

She washed three ibuprofens down with a sip of peppermint tea—the only drink that didn't make her feel like she was gargling razor blades courtesy of her oh so lovely back-drip—rested her fingers on the keyboard, and stared blearily at the blinking cursor on her screen.

And stared.

And stared.

And stared.

Screw it. She slammed her laptop shut in disgust and shoved it away with a whimper, muscles aching worse than they had that time Lulu roped her into taking a pole fitness class. And all Truly had done today was move from her bedroom to her couch to her bathroom and back in the world's saddest, smallest circuit.

She sniffled, feeling completely pitiful, only the sound that escaped was more of a bleat, the dying honk of a goose, maybe. Everything hurt and Truly—

Truly really, really wanted her mom.

She pinched her eyes shut against a fresh onslaught of tears, tears that would do nothing but make her more miserable, her stash of Kleenex already worryingly low.

In the two weeks that had passed since Mom had left the lake house without so much as a goodbye, Truly had yet to hear from her. Mom hadn't texted and neither had Truly because if Dad was right about one thing it was that she had definitely gotten her stubbornness from Mom.

Mom was mad? So was Truly. But it didn't change the fact that nothing, nothing sounded better than Mom's chicken noodle soup, a secret recipe she kept closely guarded. It was magic in a bowl, transcendent and comforting and it was the only food Truly craved when she was sick, the only food she could stomach.

Across the couch, her phone vibrated.

She studied the distance between her hand and her cell and did the complicated mental math on the effort it would take to reach across the space and grab it, factoring in that it was after six, further factoring that just thinking about moving even her pinky choked her up. Whoever it was could wait until her ibuprofens kicked in or her bladder forced her up from the couch. Whichever happened first.

Her phone rang and she groaned, forced to bite the bullet and grab it.

Colin.

Despite the crushing headache and soreness in her muscles, she cracked a smile.

"Hello?" she croaked.

"Hey, are you—are you okay, baby?"

"'m fine." She covered the receiver, muffling her cough.

"You don't sound fine," he said, concern obvious in his voice. "What's wrong? Where are you?"

"Home. 's just a cold." She sniffled. "Allergies, maybe."

"I just got out of the office and thought I'd see if you wanted to grab a bite. But now I'm more concerned about this cold. Are you running a fever? What are your symptoms?"

"I'm fine, Dr. McCrory." She laughed, which would've been reassuring had it not led to a coughing fit, all her hacking undermining her attempt at brushing off his concern.

"Truly." The way he said her name, all stern, sent a shiver down her spine. Either that, or it was the fever. It was probably the fever. Not that she'd tell him that. "What do you need? Talk to me."

"N-nothing." Her voice cracked and her bottom lip wobbled, the tears she'd resolutely kept at bay finally spilling over, the day finally taking its toll. "You can't. You're sweet, but you can't."

"Try me."

Tears sluiced down her cheeks and dripped off her jaw. The effort it would've taken to dry her face was too great. "My—my mom, when I was sick, she made me soup."

"What kind of soup?" he asked. "Chicken noodle? Tomato? Beef and barley?"

"Chicken noodle, but it was—" She pinched her eyes shut, not sure how to tell him it tasted better because it was Mom who made it. How she wasn't so much craving the soup as much as she was the comfort it provided. "You know, I don't have much of an appetite. Rain check on dinner?"

"Of course. Do you want me to come over?"

She cringed. "I'm all snotty and gross."

"That's not an answer."

"You don't need to see this."

Not the snot, not the phlegmy cough, and definitely not how being sick turned her into an emotionally fragile mess liable to burst into tears at any moment and for any reason.

"Truly, baby, the only thing I care about right now is making sure you're okay. A little snot isn't going to send me running for the hills."

She stared at the mountain of used tissues on the coffee table. This was more than a little snot. "I don't want to get you sick."

"I can afford to take a few sick days."

Her throat clicked painfully when she swallowed. "I think I just... I think I just need sleep. I'm sure I'll feel better in the morning."

He sighed over the line. "If you're sure."

She managed to choke out a goodbye before a fresh wave of tears brought on by Colin's concern and exhaustion hit.

Eventually the tears subsided, and she managed to shut her eyes, but not before putting in an order of pho from the Vietnamese place down the block. It wasn't Mom's chicken noodle soup, but it would have to do.

She wasn't sure how long she drifted in the space between sleep and waking, but eventually the pressure in her sinuses abated. Maybe she'd be able to get some sleep tonight after all.

Against her hip, her phone buzzed.

Truly keyed in her password and stared blearily at the screen.

As if she'd manifested it through sheer will, a message from Mom sat at the top of her inbox. Truly's heart rose into her throat. She couldn't click the text fast enough.

Mom (7:32 p.m.):Your father and I would love it if you'd join us for brunch on Sunday. We need to talk to you.

Truly's fragile heart plummeted into a pool of extra-corrosive stomach acid.

This was it. The moment she'd been dreading since that awful Sunday months ago when Mom and Dad first told her they were separating. Nothing good ever came from we need to talk. Those words could mean one thing and one thing only.

Mom and Dad had signed the DNR on their relationship and there wasn't a damn thing she could do about it.

Truly dragged herself into the bathroom, head pounding. She flipped on the overhead light and cringed. Her face was puffy, her eyes fever bright and her lids swollen, tear tracks dried on her blotchy cheeks. She reached for the mouthwash, desperately needing to erase the stale taste from her mouth, her hand bumping her toothbrush.

Nother toothbrush.

Colin's, blue where hers was purple, both set in the holder by the sink, the bristles of their brushes kissing. Across the city, in his apartment, two almost identical toothbrushes sat in the cup beside his bathroom sink.

His comb had found a home beside her brush and beside that was his pomade and her flat iron, the cord wrapped around his cologne and—

Truly's knuckles went white around the edge of the sink.

A knock sounded against the front door, jolting her from the panic creeping up her throat.

A dizzy spell hit her in the middle of the foyer, and she braced her hand against the wall. Food. She definitely needed to choke something down.

A second knock followed.

"Just a second!"

She stole in a deep breath and opened the door.

Colin stood on her doormat juggling several paper grocery bags, a plastic bag of takeout dangling precariously from one finger, which was turning white, handle cutting off his circulation.

"You're not my Doordash."

He chuckled and the sound warmed her all the way to her slipper-clad toes.

"I'm not." He buffed a kiss against her forehead, her skin undoubtedly clammy and gross, and slid around her and into her apartment. "But I did catch the delivery driver on the way into the courtyard. I figured I'd save 'em a trip to your door."

She shut the door and followed Colin into the kitchen, where he was already in the process of unloading the groceries onto her counter.

"You weren't exactly forthcoming with your symptoms, so I sort of bought out the pharmacy. Let's see... we've got DayQuil, NyQuil, Robitussin Nighttime Cough, Claritin on the off chance it's allergies, which"—he shot her a look that was all fond exasperation—"clearly, it's not."

She jammed the heel of her hand against her breastbone, trying to quell the ache inside her that no amount of cough syrup or fever reliever could fix.

"Colin... what is all of this?"

"This?" He held up a bottle of Emergen-C. "Vitamin C. Good for your immune system."

"But—"

"I didn't have your mom's number," he said, and her protests died on her tongue. "So I texted Lulu."

He set several cans of Campbell's chicken noodle soup on the counter.

"Lulu, fortunately, did have your mom's number, so I gave her a call. Not to completely ruin your childhood, but it turns out her secret recipe is Campbell's with a liberal dash of"—he grabbed a bottle of Tabasco from the bag—"hot sauce. She swears by it."

She put a hand out, steadying herself against the fridge. "You... you talked to my mom? When?"

He looked up from the bag he was unpacking. "After you and I got off the phone. I called to ask for the recipe of the soup she used to make you." He ducked his chin and laughed. "She thought it was sweet that you actually believed she made it from scratch."

Colin reached inside the drawer beside the stove and pulled out a can opener she couldn't remember buying. A can opener he didn't have to hunt for, a can opener he just knew was there.

Just like Mom was the only one who could find Dad's glasses when he misplaced them and Dad always knew exactly where Mom had left her keys.

No amount of uncoupling, conscious or otherwise, could untangle thirty-three years. Not without leaving scars behind.

"I can't do this."

Colin paused with the opener poised over a can of Campbell's chicken noodle soup. "I've got this. Go sit. Have you taken your temperature lately or—"

She cut him off with a quick jerk of her chin, biting down hard on her lip so it wouldn't wobble.

"I mean"—she gestured between them—"this. I can't do this."

"Okay." He set the can opener down carefully and braced his hands against the counter. "Let's talk."

She shook her head and that—that was a bad idea. Her head swam and she gripped the back of the closest barstool.

Colin practically threw himself across the counter in his haste to reach her. "Truly—"

She stole a step back, out of arm's reach. If she let Colin touch her, she'd fold, and right now she needed to be strong and get this out.

That didn't stop the stab of remorse from striking her sharply in the chest as soon as his face fell. "I'm fine. I'm... there's nothing to talk about." Nothing to say she hadn't already said before. "I told you. I told you I'm not in the right headspace for—"

"And I distinctly remember telling you that whether or not I want to be with you is my choice."

"So, I don't get any say in the matter? I just have to go along with it because it's what you want?" She scoffed. "That sounds healthy."

He scrubbed a hand over his face. "Your mom warned me you were a terrible patient, but—"

She thrust a finger at him, poking him in the chest. "Do not talk to me about my mother."

Colin held up his hands, a mea culpa if ever there was one. "Forget I said that. Let me just make you this soup and—"

"God, would you quit?" she begged. Quit being so sweet, quit being so kind. "I—I am a mess, okay? A mess."

"So we'll get some soup and a nasal decongestant in you, and you'll be good as new."

This wasn't something soup could fix, Chicken Soup for the whatever soul be damned. "I'm serious, Colin. This isn't the time for jokes."

"Considering you're being ridiculous? I'd argue now is absolutely the perfect time for jokes."

"I am trying to break up with you, God damn it!"

He turned his head to the side and stole a shallow breath in through his parted lips, jaw clenched so tight the tendons in his neck stood out, corded beneath his golden, mole-splattered skin. So gorgeous she ached.

"You want to break up with me?" He crossed the kitchen, stopping in front of her. "Okay."

An awful sick feeling took up residence in the pit of her stomach, like she'd missed several steps walking downstairs.

Colin gripped her chin and tipped her head back, forcing her to look up at him. "But I need you to look me in the eye and tell me that's what you really want."

What she wanted didn't matter. Wanting was easy. Having was so much more complicated.

She opened her mouth and—a dam within her broke, a noisy sob bursting from between her lips.

Colin swore softly under his breath and drew her close, crushing her against his chest.

"It's okay," he said, rubbing her back. "You're okay."

"It's not okay." She lifted her head, leaning back far enough to drag her fingertips beneath her eyes. Colin's words, the way he looked at her, achingly earnest, cracked her open, all the feelings she'd tried to bury bubbling up and with them more tears. "I love you. Okay? I love you and I didn't mean for it to happen, but it did, and I do and—and I don't know what I'm doing, but I'm scared. I am scared, okay? Is that what you want to hear? I am so scared and I—"

Colin pressed a finger to her lips. "I need you to stop talking."

Her heart shrank inside her chest. She'd really messed up this time. "Colin, I—"

"You are the most infuriating woman I have ever met." His mouth came crashing down on hers, swallowing the desperate, needy sound that clawed its way up her throat.

"I'm sorry," she breathed against his lips. "Please don't go."

"I'm not going anywhere," he promised, thumbs resting on the crests of her cheeks, hands cradling her face, holding her like he always did. Like she was precious. "You're scared? We can be scared together."

She sniffled. "Colin—"

"No, listen to me. You think I'm not scared? Jesus, Truly, I'm terrified. I swear to God, it was like I walked into the studio that first day and I saw you and I just... I know love at first sight is bullshit, but I saw you and I didn't know what was going to happen, but I had this feeling that nothing was ever going to be the same. My life was going to be divided into Before Truly and After Truly and the thought of there being an after still scares me. I'm terrified that one day you're going to tell me to go and you're actually going to mean it. But I'd rather be with you, try with you, than walk away on the off chance that calling it quits now might hurt less than some hypothetical hurt down the road."

She took Colin's hands in hers, clutching them so tight she was surprised his bones, hers, didn't creak. His skin against hers, his palms dry and warm, hands soft save for the rough callus on the side of his left middle finger, grounded her. "My parents—"

"We're not your parents." His eyes swept over her face like he was drinking the sight of her in. "We're going to make mistakes and we're going to have disagreements and sometimes we're even going argue. What we're not going to do is give up. I know you're way too stubborn for that."

Her heart fluttered inside her chest, hummingbird fast. "I'm stubborn? What about you?"

Colin McCrory was, without a shadow of a doubt, one of the most stubborn individuals she had the pleasure of knowing, and she loved, loved, loved him for it.

"Me?" He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I happen to be wildly in love with you. Isn't it obvious? You fucking own me, Truly," he said, voice raw, rough with emotion.

Fresh tears sprang to her eyes. Blinking hard, she fisted both hands in the collar of his shirt and dragged his mouth down to hers in a kiss that curled her toes inside her slippers and made Colin shiver against her.

She drew back just far enough so that she could whisper against his lips. "Say it again? Please."

"I love you." Colin brushed the tip of his nose against hers. "I'm yours, Truly."

She grinned.

Yeah, he was.