I whisper: “Not yet.”
We stand in that intersection—rain, neon, echoes. Lines drawn in dust now crossed in steel and bone.
CHAPTER 28
AMY
Rain drenches my apartment block as I step off the curb. I never expect him. Never believe he’ll return from the dead. The neon glow from storefronts slants across the street, turning wet asphalt into mirrors of distant light and longing. The air smells of ozone and damp concrete and something I can't name—hope, maybe.
I pace a few steps, heart hammering, knowing every blink might erase him, might relegate his image to memory once more. I glance left. I glance right. And then there he is—standing under the awning across the street, coat soaked, jaw set. The rain falls harder, curtains between us.
He doesn’t move. He looks cautious. Like he’s just as surprised he’s alive. I stiffen. My hands go cold. He watches me, expression unreadable in the flickering neon.
For a moment, I am frozen. Then I push forward.
He sees me crossing the street. Wet shoes slap pavement. Rain splashes around our ankles. Cars whirr by. The world hums and drips.
He doesn’t step forward until I’m halfway. Then he does, one step. Then another.
I stop just short of the entrance. My doorway’s behind me. The lights spill golden, warm, over the rain pooled at the threshold. I lift my hand. The motion trembles.
“Come in,” I say. Not a question.
He nods and passes me, rain sheening his shoulders. The lobby smells of stale carpets and hallway lights and distant walls that have heard too many secrets. I hit the foyer light switch. He steps into the glow, drips onto the rug.
Inside, the corridor hums low. He stands on the threshold, towel in hand now—damp, crumpled. I mentally berate myself for not having something more suitable ready. He looks awkward. Vulnerable. Human.
I move ahead. “Let me get you dry clothes.” I don’t glance toward the kid’s room. I don’t mention it. I don’t dare.
He watches me disappear down the hall, then I hear footsteps behind me. I turn into the hallway just as he passes the open closet. His coat drips onto the tile. I pull towels from shelves. The smell of cotton and soap hits me.
I hold one out to him. He takes it stiffly, not speaking. I retrieve a dry shirt from the drawer—mine, but clean. I toss it to him. “Wear this until you find your own.”
He gives me a clipped smile. “Thanks.”
I motion toward the living room. “Sit.” My voice trembles a little. I’m not proud of it. But I need steadiness now. I lead him there. Light casts long shadows. The air carries unease and longing.
He lowers himself onto the couch. The sofa sighs. He puts the towel down, wrings it. Water drips through his fingers. Every drop echoes in my ears.
I stand across from him, gloved in silence. I breathe. I taste rain, steel, pages of the data slate still chilling in my bag.
“You kept going.”
My throat constricts. I nod. “Someone had to.”
He watches me. Pain and distance swirl around his eyes. I feel the weight of three years between us press like gravity.
The room is quiet except for drips. Then he rises, moves nearer. He rubs his arms—not from cold, though he needs that, he needs warmth. He looks at my hands. “You’ve held it all alone.”
I flinch. But I don’t step back. I gesticulate toward the hallway. “There’s food in the kitchen. Coffee’s fresh.” I glance toward the slice of countertop. “Or tea. Whatever you want.”
He nods. “Coffee.”
I shift, leave him briefly, return with mugs. Brewed strong. I set one before him. Steam curls. The smell wakes me. He exhales, rubs his hands together.
We watch the vapor swirl between us. I sip. He watches the cup, as though it’s an artifact. Then he glances up. “You look good.”
I stiffen. My heart thuds. I want to slap him. I want to kiss him. I want to collapse. I say, “You look like you’ve died and come back.”
