Eight Years

Present

This bed is much more comfortable than the one I usually sleep on. This bed is not mine. This bed is like sleeping on a cloud. It's perfect and I never want to leave it.

But I have to, because this bed isn't mine.

It's Jax's. I slept over in Jaxon Maverick's bed!

Throwing the covers off of my fully clothed body, I jump off of the bed and onto my feet on the floor, wipe the sleep from my eyes with the heels of my hands. I can't remember a time I'd slept as well as in this bed. My body is screaming at me to get back there, maybe Jax wouldn't mind if I use his bed for just five more minutes.

The smell of food drifts through the open door, waking up my senses and making my mouth water. Jaxon always made the best breakfast for me, like I was staying at a hotel with room service.

Running my hands through my hair, I make sure that it's not sticking into every possible direction, and wipe my thumbs under my eyes to make sure my mascara isn't all over my face. When I'm sure I don't look like a complete mess, I make my way out of the room and follow the smell of bacon.

My nose takes me into the kitchen, where Jax is standing by a counter, cutting watermelon into small pieces, the radio playing some pop-music in the corner.

Leaning against the doorframe, I watch him as he puts the watermelon into a bowl, followed by sliced banana, apple, kiwi, strawberries and blueberries. Then he turns off the stove, and moves the bacon onto a plate with a spatula.

I clear my throat to inform him that he's not alone. His head jerks up before he peeks over his shoulder to meet my eyes.

"Good morning, Barry."

"Morning, darling."

He always hated it when I called him that, and by the looks of it, he's still not a fan of it. Probably because he knows I'm just mocking the surname he got from his parents when he was born, which he demanded to be changed when high school changed.

But it's only fair, since he made a nickname out of my last name first. Everyone else called me Emmy or Em, but I was always Barry to him.

No one ever called me Emaline, besides my mom.

Jaxon sets the bowl of fruits, the bacon, a jug of juice, and two cups of coffee onto a tray. He then also adds two smaller bowls, two spoons and two empty glasses, before picking the tray up in his hands. "Living room," he tells me before following me there.

I sit down onto the couch, wrapped up into one of his hoodies that he gave me last night, while he puts the food onto the coffee table. "I could've slept on the couch, too," I tell him. He wasn't in the bed with me.

I don't know why, but there was a small part of me that kind of wished he would've been. The same small part that wishes he'd sit closer to me, not three feet away.

He takes one of the coffees, eyeing me over the rim as he drinks it. "I really didn't mind. I think the couch might actually be more comfortable than the bed."

"Bullshit." I fill one of the bowls with fruit and take a spoon. "That bed is the second most comfortable thing I've ever laid on. You have to tell me where you bought it from."

"When you tell me what the first most comfortable thing to lay on is." There's a spark of something, hope maybe, in his eyes as he holds mine, waiting for my answer.

I turn away to look around the room once more, like I didn't already memorize everything last night. The bookshelf on one wall, an armchair standing next to it with a leg rest. The dead plant in one corner, withered because the sunlight can't get to where it's standing. The stainless white carpet on the floor. The light gray curtains. The—

Omg. It can't be.

My fork stops mid-way to my mouth, a slice of kiwi sticking out of it. My mouth is hanging open as I stare at the painting on the wall. How in the hell did I not notice it last night, when I kept looking around this room over and over again?

He still has it?

My hand drops to my lap as I blink once. Am I seeing stuff, or is that actually the painting I made for him in high school, hanging on the wall of his living room after eight years?

"You kept it," I barely whisper, still shocked. I thought he'd throw it away after graduation, that he wouldn't want any kind of reminder of me after I broke his heart. Both of our hearts.

"Well," he says, clears his throat. "When the girl you love paints something for you, you don't just throw it away. You keep it as a reminder of all the good times you had together with her."

I meet his eyes, my heartbeat racing like crazy. Those same butterflies as back then, bat their wings in my belly. They never left.

He kept the painting.