“You take as much time as you need,” he told me. “Today for sure. The whole week, if you want. You just tell me when you’re coming back.”
Tomorrow. Because I’m sure one day of sitting like a lump on the couch will be plenty. Plus, I need to work. Not just for my car, but to pay for all those other, annoying bills. Rent on my house. Utilities. Insurance. Student loans. Food. My monthly subscription toTenebris Veil.
Speaking ofTenebris Veil, I thought playing for a couple hours might help with this restless, unsettled feeling I’m having. But it didn’t work. None of my friends from the game were on—which wasn’t surprising, since they all work full-time jobs and it was midmorning.
I knew Jess wouldn’t be online, either. When I finally texted her late last night to apologize for blowing her off, she replied immediately, saying she had to work today but she’d call the second she got home.
After half an hour of trying to amuse myself with crafting and decorating my virtual house and selling wares on the market, I finally gave up and settled on watching TV instead. So for the last two hours, I’ve been half-watching reruns of Anthony Bourdain while trying not to think about how great Alec waslast night and how much I wish he was here right now.
It’s silly, really.
I’ve lived alone for years and always been fine with it.
In truth, I’ve preferred it.
I don’t socialize aside from events sponsored by Blissful Brews or Barks n’ Bliss, the local dog shelter and now-training facility owned and run by Rory, who’s engaged to Alec’s good friend and GMG teammate, Gage. When I’m not working, I’m usually exercising in the little home gym I have set up in my guest bedroom, playingTenebris Veil, cleaning, or sleeping.
It’s not the life I imagined for myself when I was younger, that’s for sure. But it’s predictable. Safe. Living like this, there’s little chance of?—
The doorbell chimes, its unexpected sound making me jump.
I snatch up the remote and mute the TV, then grab my phone to see who’s at the door.
In the seconds it takes for the video doorbell app to load, I run through the list of possibilities.
Frank. Wendy. My next-door neighbor, Paula, who loves baking and sometimes brings over a plate for me. The mailman, Jethro, who likes to hand deliver packages instead of just leaving them on the porch because—in his words—it adds apersonal touch.
But it’s none of those people.
It’s Alec.
My daredevil heart leaps to my throat before making an acrobatic swoop to my stomach.
If I thought Alec was great before, it’s nothing compared to now.
Not after he pulled me from the car, swam me to shore, carried me to safety, and held me in his lap until the ambulance arrived.
Not after he insisted on staying at the hospital until I was released several hours later, driving me home,andchecking my house to make sure it was secure.
Not after giving me his personal phone number—on a piece of paper, because my phone is currently at the bottom of the river—and telling me to call if I needed anything.
Is it bad that I keep thinking about how nice it was to be held by him? Or how strong his arms felt as he gathered me to averymuscly chest?
On the little video feed, Alec waves at the camera with one hand while holding up a large, brown paper bag with the other. As I hit the speaker button, his voice carries through it, saying, “Hey. I don’t know if you’re up for visitors, but I thought I’d stop by to see how you’re doing.”
Self-conscious alarm shoots through me. When I got dressed this morning, I was aiming for comfort, not style. So I’m wearing my baggiest sweats and an ancient hoodie from college that’s so worn, half thelettering on the front is gone. Now it saysU S Aminstead of what it originally said nearly fifteen years ago, which wasU MASS Amherst.
My hair has definitely seen better days, too. I didn’t have the energy or motivation to blow dry it this morning, so I just pulled it back into a messy braid instead. And thanks to the air bag smacking me in the face, my nose is swollen and I have the start of two black eyes.
Do I want Alec to see me likethis?
No. Not particularly. Despite my repeated reminders to myself that Alec and I are casual acquaintances at best, I’d prefer he see me wearing something that actually fits instead of looking like I’m wearing an elephant’s clothing.
And don’t even get me started on my face.
“If you’re not feeling up to visitors,” Alec continues, “I understand. But I brought some soup over. From The Laughing Goat. I thought it might help if you’re feeling chilled.”
My traitorous heart goes all mushy.
