“I will be,” I promise him.
He kisses my shoulder. “Take a shower. I’m gonna go check the traffic.”
He helps me up and leaves me to it.
I brush my teeth and rinse out my mouth before getting into the shower. The nausea has moved to the background but hasn’t disappeared. It’s not the fastest shower I’ve ever taken—there’s a lot of letting the water fall on my head and staring down at the way it drips from my hair, but I make it through.
I stand in my closet for several minutes afterward, trying to decide what I want to wear. Just in case. Do I want to look casual? Sexy? Unbothered? Like marriage material? It’s something along the lines of all of the above, and I’m not sure what that looks like.
Finally, I reach for my favorite jeans and a navy cotton shirt that isn’t too snug but looks good across my shoulders and down my arms. I slip on some gray socks, run my hands through my damp hair and realize how thirsty I am.
Deacon is on the couch, typing on his notes app, which he uses as a journal. Sometimes I wake up to one of his entries in a shared online document. It’s usually about me—the ones he shares, and it’s his way of telling me all the in between things—the ones he has trouble expressing when we’re face to face. It’s deepened my understanding of him a lot, and the fact that he’s willing to share his raw, unfiltered thoughts with me at all is a big reason I’m in love with him. He might not be in love with me, but he really, really likes me, and I always seem to make it to the top of his priority list.
I drop myself on the couch, so close to him I’m nearly on his lap, and rest my head on his shoulder.
“How are you feeling?” he asks.
“Better. Sort of. How’s the traffic?”
“Non-existent. I keep forgetting it’s a holiday.”
My dry mouth reasserts itself, and I groan. “I’m thirsty.”
“Let me get you some water.”
I hang on to him, not letting him get up. “What do you think is gonna happen?”.
“I think he’s gonna come home.”
“But he doesn’t live here anymore.”
“Maybe not right now. But you’ll show him where he belongs, right?”
“I don’t know if he’s gonna take my word for it.”
“I’ll back you up.”
“What if?—?”
I don’t get to finish the sentence because the elevator doors slide open to reveal the missing piece of my heart.
47
EVAN
My mom was pissed at me for leaving early, but from the moment Deacon dropped me off at her house, this was the only place I wanted to be. The elevator doors close behind me, and I take a moment to let the scene settle in. Isaac snuggled up to Deacon on the couch, his leg draped over one of Deacon’s thighs.
I glance between Deacon’s tiny frown and Isaac’s wide eyes staring at me in shock.They wanted you here, I tell myself, shaking off the quick pinch of jealousy and the much more intense rush of insecurity. Once again, it hits me how good they look together. How connected.
“Am I interrupting?” I ask.
“No.” Isaac scrambles to get off Deacon while Deacon gives him an assist. His first few steps toward me are quick, but like he thinks he’s gonna scare me off, he slows his steps until he stops several feet away from me.
We’re staring at each other, and I could count about a dozen emotions as they flash through his eyes. Confusion, relief, anxiety, concern, lust…love.
“I thought I was coming to get you,” Deacon says from the couch.
Without looking away from Isaac, I say, “I couldn’t wait.”
