“If you say so.”
“I do say so.”
But even as I say the words, I can feel Jesse’s hand on my throat, can hear his voice saying that kiss still keeps him up at night. And I wonder if maybe, just maybe, I’ve been lying to myself for all these years.
We finish lunch and walk the two blocks to Nora’s apartment, the late afternoon sun warm on our shoulders. Grizzly River is quiet at this time of day. Most people are still at work or tending to their ranches. It’s peaceful in a way that makes me understand why Nora chose to stay.
Her apartment is small but cozy, with exposed brick walls and wide-plank floors that probably date back to when thebuilding was first constructed. She’s decorated it with a mix of vintage finds and modern touches that somehow work together perfectly.
“This is really nice,” I say, running my hand along the back of her couch.
“Thanks. It’s not much, but it’s mine. Want some wine? I have a bottle of that Moscato we had last time I visited you.”
“God, yes. Please.”
She disappears into the kitchen, leaving me to explore. The walls are covered with photos—some of us from high school, some of her family, some of her with various animals she’s helped over the years. There’s one of her with a horse that looks vaguely familiar.
“Is this Thunder?” I call out, pointing to the photo.
“Yep. Took that last month. He’s doing well, by the way. Still ornery as hell, but healthy.”
Thunder was my horse growing up, a cantankerous old gelding who only liked me and Truett. When I left for college, I’d assumed Truett would sell him, but apparently, he’d just moved him to a different pasture.
“I should go see him,” I say when Nora returns with two glasses of wine.
“You should. He’s at the Hendersons’ place now. They board horses for people who can’t keep them on their own land anymore.”
We settle onto her couch, and she tucks her feet under her like she used to do during our marathon movie nights in high school.
“Okay,” she says, “I told you about my boring life. Now I want details about yours. The real details.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Do you miss it?”
So I tell her. There were things I loved, but there were also other things. I talk about my life. About my work friends, who were fun to grab drinks with but never became real friends. About the dates that never went anywhere because I was too busy comparing everyone to a memory I couldn’t quite shake.
“You were homesick,” she says when I finish.
“No, I wasn’t. I was just…adjusting.”
“For years?”
“It takes time to build a life somewhere new.”
“Or you were trying to build a life somewhere that never felt like home.”
I want to argue with her, but the wine and the familiar comfort of her friendship are making it hard to maintain my defenses.
“Maybe,” I admit. “Maybe I was running from something instead of running to something.”
“And now you’re back.”
“Now I’m back.”
“For how long?”
It’s the question I’ve been avoiding, even in my own mind. “I don’t know. Long enough to figure out what comes next, I guess.”
