Ugly Love(15)
Author: Colleen Hoover

The curtains aren’t navy, though. They’re a slate gray, with one solid white line running vertically down the left side of the panel.

“I do like it,” I reply.

He steps in front of me and opens the door to let me walk in first. A saleswoman is making her way toward the front before the door even closes behind us. She asks if she can help us find anything. Miles points to the window. “I want those curtains. Four of them. And the rug.”

The saleswoman smiles and motions for us to follow her. “What width and height do you need?”

Miles pulls his phone out and reads off the measurements to her. She helps him pick out curtain rods and then tells us she’ll be a few minutes. She heads to the back and leaves us alone at the register. I look around, suddenly developing the urge to pick out decorations for my own place. I plan on staying with Corbin for a couple more months, but it wouldn’t hurt to have an idea of what I’ll want for my own place when I do finally move out. I’m hoping it’ll be just as easy to shop when that time comes as it was for Miles today.

“I’ve never seen anyone shop this fast,” I tell him.

“Disappointed?”

I quickly shake my head. If there’s one thing I don’t do well as a girl, it’s shop. I’m actually relieved it only took him a minute.

“You think I should look around longer?” he asks. He’s leaning against the counter now, watching me. I like the way he looks at me—like I’m the most interesting thing in the store.

“If you like what you already picked out, I wouldn’t keep looking. When you know, you know.”

I meet his gaze, and the second I do, my mouth gets dry. He’s concentrating on me, and the serious look on his face makes me feel uncomfortable and nervous and interesting, all at once. He pushes off the counter and takes a step toward me.

“Come here.” His fingers reach down and wrap around mine, and he begins to pull me behind him.

My pulse is being ridiculous. It’s sad, really.

They’re just fingers, Tate. Don’t let them affect you like this.

He continues walking until he reaches a wooden trifold screen, decorated with Asian writing on the outside. It’s the kind of screen people place in the corners of bedrooms. I never understood them. My mother has one, and I doubt she’s ever once stepped behind it to change clothes.

“What are you doing?” I ask him.

He turns and faces me, still holding on to my hand. He grins and steps behind the screen, pulling me with him so we’re both shielded from the rest of the store. I can’t help but laugh, because it feels like we’re in high school, hiding from the teacher.

His finger meets my lips. “Shh,” he whispers, smiling down at me while he stares at my mouth.

I immediately stop laughing but not because I don’t find this amusing anymore. I stop laughing because as soon as his finger is pressed against my lips, I forget how to laugh.

I forget everything.

Right now, the only thing I can focus on is his finger as it slides softly down my mouth and chin. His eyes follow the tip of his finger as it keeps moving, trailing gently down my throat, all the way to my chest, down, down, down to my stomach.

That one finger feels as if it’s touching me with the sensation of a thousand hands. My lungs and their inability to keep up are signs of that.

His eyes are still focused on his finger as it comes to a pause at the top of my jeans, right above the button. His finger isn’t even making contact with my skin, but you wouldn’t know that based on the rapid response of my pulse. His entire hand comes into play now as he lightly traces my stomach over the top of my shirt until his hand meets my waist. Both of his hands grip my h*ps and pull me forward, securing me against him.

His eyes close briefly, and when he opens them again, he’s no longer looking down. He’s looking straight at me.

“I’ve been wanting to kiss you since you walked through my front door today,” he says.

His confession makes me smile. “You have incredible patience.”

His right hand leaves my hip, and he brings it up to the side of my head, touching my hair as softly as possible. He begins to shake his head in slow disagreement. “If I had incredible patience, you wouldn’t be with me right now.”

I latch on to that sentence and immediately try to figure out the meaning behind it, but the second his lips touch mine, I’m no longer interested in the words that left his mouth. I’m only interested in his mouth and how it feels when it invades mine.

His kiss is slow and calm—the complete opposite of my pulse. His right hand moves to the back of my head, and his left hand slips around to my lower back. He explores my mouth patiently, as if he plans on keeping me behind this partition for the rest of the day.

I’m summoning every last bit of willpower I can find in order to keep myself from wrapping my arms and legs around him. I’m trying to find the patience he somehow shows, but it’s hard when his fingers and hands and lips can pull these kinds of physical reactions out of me.

The door to the back room opens, and the click of the saleswoman’s heels can be heard against the floor. He stops kissing me, and my heart cries out. Luckily, the cry can only be felt, not heard.

Rather than pulling away to walk back to the counter, he brings both his hands to my face and holds me still while he looks at me in silence for several seconds. His thumbs brush lightly across my jaw, and he releases a soft breath. His brows furrow, and his eyes close. He presses his forehead to mine, still holding on to my face, and I can feel his internal struggle.

“Tate.”

He says my name so quietly I can feel his regret in the words he hasn’t even spoken yet. “I like …” He opens his eyes and looks at me. “I like kissing you, Tate.”

I don’t know why that sentence seemed hard for him to say, but his voice trailed off toward the end as though he was attempting to stop himself from finishing his words.

As soon as the sentence leaves his mouth, he releases me and quickly steps around the partition as if he’s trying to escape from his own confession.

I like kissing you, Tate.

Despite the regret I think he feels for saying them, I’m pretty sure I’ll be silently repeating those words for the rest of the day.

I spend a good ten minutes mindlessly browsing, running his compliment through my head over and over while I wait for him to finish his transaction. He’s handing over his credit card when I reach the counter.

“We’ll have these delivered within the hour,” the saleswoman says. She hands him back his credit card and begins to take the bags off the counter to place them behind her. He takes one of the bags from her when she begins to lift it. “I’ll take this one,” he says.

He turns and faces me. “Ready?”

We make our way outside, and it somehow feels as if it dropped twenty degrees since we were last out here. That may just be because he made things seem a lot warmer inside.

We reach the corner, and I begin to head back in the direction of the apartment complex, but I notice he’s stopped walking. I turn around, and he’s pulling something out of the bag he’s holding. He tears away a tag, and a blanket unfolds.

No, he didn’t.

He holds the blanket out to the old man still there bundled up on the sidewalk. The man looks up at him and takes the blanket. Neither of them says a word.

Miles walks to a nearby trash can and tosses the empty bag into it, then heads back toward me while staring down at the ground. He doesn’t even make eye contact with me when we both begin walking in the direction of the apartment complex.

I want to tell him thank you, but I don’t. If I tell him thank you, it would seem like I assume he did that for me.

I know he didn’t do it for me.

He did it for the man who was cold.

Miles asked me to go home as soon as we returned. He said he didn’t want me to see his apartment until he had everything decorated, which was good, because I had a lot of homework to catch up on anyway. I didn’t really have time carved out of my schedule to hang up curtains, so I appreciated that he didn’t expect my help.

He seemed a little bit excited about hanging up new curtains. As excited as Miles can seem, anyway.

It’s been several hours now. I have to be at work in less than three hours, and as soon as I begin to wonder if he’s even going to ask me to come back over, I receive a text from him.

Miles: Have you eaten yet?

Me: Yes.

I’m suddenly disappointed that I already ate dinner. But I got tired of waiting for him, and he never said anything about dinner plans.

Me: Corbin made meat loaf last night before he left. You want me to bring you a plate?

Miles: I’d love that. Starving. Come look now.

I make him a plate and wrap it in foil before heading across the hall. He’s opening the door before I even knock. He takes the plate out of my hands. “Wait here,” he says. He steps inside his apartment and returns seconds later without the plate. “Ready?”

I have no idea how I know he’s excited, because he’s not smiling. I can hear it in his voice, though. There’s a subtle change, and it makes me smile, knowing something as simple as hanging up some curtains makes him feel good. I don’t know why, but it seems as if there isn’t a lot in his life that makes him feel good, so I like that this does.

He opens the door all the way, and I take a few steps into the apartment. The curtains are up, and even though it’s a small change, it feels huge. Knowing he’s lived here for four years and he’s just now putting up curtains gives the whole apartment a different feel.

“You made a good choice,” I tell him, admiring how well the curtains match what little I know about his personality.

I look down at the rug, and he can see the confusion as it crosses my face.

“I know it’s supposed to go under the table,” he says, looking down at it. “It will. Eventually.”

It’s positioned in an odd spot. It’s not in the center of the room or even in front of the couch. I’m confused about why he placed it where he did if he knows where it would look the best.

“I left it there because I was hoping we could christen it first.”

I look back up at him and see the adorably hopeful expression on his face. It makes me smile. “I like that idea,” I say, looking back down at the rug.

A long silence passes between us. I’m not sure if he wants to christen the rug right this minute or if he wants to eat first. I’m fine with either. As long as his plan fits within my three-hour time frame.

We’re both still staring at the rug when he speaks again. “I’ll eat later,” he says, answering the question that was silently running through my head.

He pulls off his shirt, and I kick off my shoes, and the rest of our clothes eventually end up together, next to the rug.

Chapter sixteen

MILES

Six years earlier

Everything is better now that I have Rachel.

Falling asleep is better, knowing Rachel is falling asleep right

across the hall.

Waking up every morning is so much better, knowing Rachel

is waking up right across the hall.

Going to school is better, now that we go together.

“Let’s skip today,” I tell Rachel when we pull into the parking

lot of the school.

I’m sure skipping school is even better with Rachel.

“What if we get caught?”

She doesn’t sound like she really cares if we get caught.

“I hope we get caught,” I tell her. “That means we’d be

grounded. Together. In the same house.”

My words make Rachel smile. She leans across the seat and

slides her hand around my neck. I love it when she does that.

“Being grounded with you sounds really fun. Let’s do it.” She

leans forward and gives me a simple, quick peck on the lips.

Simple kisses are better when they’re from Rachel.

“You make everything better,” I tell her. “My life. It’s better

with you in it.”

My words make Rachel smile again. Rachel doesn’t know this,

but every word I speak is voiced for that sole reason. To make

her smile.

I pull out of the parking lot and tell Rachel we’re going to the

beach. She says she wants her bathing suit, so we go to the

house first and get our bathing suits. We also pack a lunch and

a blanket.

We go to the beach.

Rachel wants to sunbathe while she reads.

I want to watch Rachel sunbathe while she reads.

She’s lying on her stomach, propped up on her elbows. I lay my

head on my arms and watch her.

My eyes follow the smooth curves of her shoulders … the

sway in her back … the way her knees are bent and her legs

are up in the air with her feet crossed at the ankles.

Rachel is happy.

I make Rachel happy.

I make Rachel’s life better.

Her life is better with me in it.

“Rachel,” I whisper.

She places her bookmark inside the book and closes it, but she

doesn’t look at me.

“I want you to know something.”

She nods, but she closes her eyes as though she wants to focus

on my voice and nothing else.

“When my mom died, I stopped believing in God.”

She lays her head on her arms and keeps her eyes shut.

“I didn’t think God would make someone go through that

much physical pain. I didn’t think God would make someone

suffer like she suffered. I didn’t think God was capable of

making someone go through something so ugly.”

A tear falls from Rachel’s closed eyes.

“But then I met you, and every single day since then, I’ve

wondered how someone could be so beautiful if there wasn’t