I rest my hand on it. Solid. Real. Half finished.
Just like everything else.
Chapter twenty-one
Roe Monroe
The Bench Social Media Group
Stan Gordon: Fox River Falls, now accepting thank-you notes from Chicago for our very own Roe Monroe.
Patti Jensen: Don’t forget who got him there—Benji, Diggs, and Jamie with those pickup drills.
Marge Calloway: I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. He came here to get back on the ice, but I think he’ll stay for something more.
The road into Fox River Falls always sneaks up on me. The turns are too familiar now. The cracked stretch past the mill. The stretch where the trees crowd too close. The corner gas station with the same neon sign that looks like it’s been half lit for years.
I roll down the window even though it’s cold out. I want to smell it . . . that strange mix of river water, woodsmoke, and ice that clings to this place. That reminds me who I was when I first got here—and how far I’ve come from that.
Benji gives me a curious glance, but he has been ever since I was skating aimlessly on the ice and then talking to Dom before the final game. Luckily his wife, Charlotte, picked us up from the airport, and she’s chatty, so I haven’t had to make much conversation.
I do have them drop me at Thatcher’s, though.
My knee aches as I step out of the car. I try not to limp. I’m tired, but not the kind of tired you can fix with a nap. It’s the kind that settles deep, that tells you something’s changing.
I knock once, even though I could just punch in the code. The door opens almost immediately.
Thatcher looks like he’s mid-project—there’s a pencil behind his ear, sawdust in his hair, a soft smudge of stain on his forearm. His shirt’s stretched at the collar, and he’s barefoot, standing in the doorway like he forgot how to breathe.
I drop the duffel.
He doesn’t say a word. Just rakes his eyes over me, confusion swirling in their depths.
I meet him halfway.
The kiss isn’t rushed. It’s not the kind of kiss you give when you’re trying to prove something. It’s steadier than that. Surer. Like neither of us has to fight anymore.
He pulls back and looks at me for a long moment, like pieces of a puzzle that he was looking at all wrong somehow slide into the right place.
Then he takes the lead, kissing me for all he’s worth.
I fall into it, savoring every push and pull of his lips. By the time we’re done, I’m so far in love with him I know there’s no turning back. It’s forever.
When we pull apart, he keeps one hand on the back of my neck.
“You came here when you got back,” he says, sort of somewhere between a statement and a question.
“I couldn’t wait to see you, baby,” I confess. Then, wondering if there’s more to the statement, I add, “I told you I would.”
“That’s a thing people say,” he agrees.
“Me.” I put my hand on his chest. “It’s what I said, Gabe.”
He leans in again—this time just a brush of lips. A promise. Then he steps back and grabs my bag like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Come on. Jamie will never let us forget it if you don’t see him before bedtime.”
***
