Purple—lilac, easy.
Brown—easy to go with wet fart, but I’m thinking like maybe more of a campfire smoke vibe?
It may have been five coffees—but I’ve needed them not just to stay awake, but to keep my heart alive, which settled quickly into a slow, melancholy thump the minute we got home without Cole.
I couldn’t sleep last night. I tossed and turned in my bed, unlocking my phone and staring at the unsaved phone number that texted me twice a few hours earlier.
I wanted to say something before I left. But I didn’t. Can I call you later?
Sure. I’d love to hear his voice. But also no, because I will blurt out an “I love you” and an “I miss you” the minute I hear his rasp.
Got in safe. Hope the car ride home wasn’t too awkward.
Oh no, it was. On account of my mom deciding to drop aCole’s your soulmate and you might ruin everythingbomb on me.
Could I have ignored her like a sane person would and continue with my life?
Why, yes. I could have done that.
But seeing as I’m now ten hours into this twelve-hour drive, that was obviously not the path I took—choosing instead at three a.m. to wake my parents up and loudly declare, “I’m driving back to campus to kidnap Cole, or something, I don’t know. I’ll see you next week.”
I was met with a groggy “Okay” from my dad and a “There’s a ball gag in my closet if you need it” by my mother.
Which is reason seven hundred and twenty-two why I should add “go to therapy” to my New Year’s resolutions.
I’m not sure what I’m going to do when I get to our apartments, beyond changing out of my pajamas and brushing my hair before I try to go see him. But I guess that’s something that coffee number six can figure out.
It takes several knocks on Cole’s apartment door before I hear footstep gathering closer on the other side. Goosebumps rise on my bare legs in the chill December air, even though this hallway is fully closed to the elements and partially heated. I stand there, feeling a cosmic pull towardssomethingbeyond the door—towards him.
For a heart that was pumping so slow last night, now it’s hammering in my chest. Yes because I had copious amounts of coffee, but it also feels like it’s beating back to life—the relentless tug in my abdomen even softens, like the tension in the thread is being relieved.
The door swings open and Cole, wide-eyed and dangerous, stares back at me.
He’s soaking wet. Water droplets fall from his dark hair, down his sharp-angled jaw, past his collarbones, and over his bare chest, his lower half covered with a towel. “Natalie?” he rasps. “What—what are you doing here?”
Coming home,my heart whispers, as if it’s having a conversation with his.
“So quick question—” I push past him, not waiting for him to welcome me in. I try to work up the courage to enact a plan that one hour ago seemed genius, but now that we’re here, I’m losing steam. I plant myself near the breakfast bar I’ve leanedon countless of times and turn to him, undoing the belt of my trench coat. “Do you think this will be appropriate to wear to your hockey tournament?” I open my coat, revealing a Pine Valley sweater that I bought at the local Endgame, the store that has literally everything, including local collegiate wear.
Props to me, I only left with this sweater, iron-on letters, and two scented candles I didn’t know I needed.
His jaw tightens. His eyes slowly rake down the entire length of my body. Inch by torturous inch. The lower he directs his stare, the more hunger and something I can’t quite name darken his gaze.
“Because I don’t want you mad about my outfit choice when I go to your game this time.” I give a little half-spin, peeking over my shoulder where I ironed “Sinclair” onto the back and flash him a cheeky smile. “What do you think? I’m worried I might be too cold with these out.” I flash him my bare legs.
“Too hot,” he rasps. His voice is dry, like a man who hasn’t talked in years. “You’re too hot.”
“Really? I don’t feel too hot.” I fan myself and do my best sexy girl impression. Right now, I don’t feel like I’m faking it though—because Cole, still in his towel, is looking at me like I really am the moon.
“Trust me—you’re—you’re—” he stutters. “Fuck. Me.”
He sweeps a hand through his wet hair. “Natalie, I can’t,” he whispers, like he’s in pain.
The connection between us pulls too tight. I feel faint whispers of it torturing him. Too tense. Too strong.
“I love you.” The words tumble out before I can stop them. “Cole—I’m…” I exhale, steadying myself. This isn’t just a crush or a confession. It’s me admitting that I believe in the magic of soulmates when the only evidence I have is the way Cole looks at me and the stories my mom whispered to me at my bedside.
“I’m quite possibly, and rather hopelessly, yours,” I finally manage.
