Aubrey nods. “OK.”
My truck thunders to life, and when I pull away, I see Aubrey hasn’t gone inside yet. Her head’s tipped back, her hands cover her eyes. Is shecrying?
I nearly stop the truck, but something tells me not to. Whatever Aubrey’s feeling, she needs to feel it byherself.
* * *
Claire asksfor me the next night. And the night after that. Then the nexttwo.
The first two nights Aubrey leaves me alone to say good-night, but on the third night she sits on the end of Claire’s bed while I read toher.
On the fourth night, Aubrey tells Claire a bedtime story about a girl named Natalie who lives inAfrica.
When Claire falls asleep, Aubrey walks me out to mytruck.
“Where did you get that bedtimestory?”
She smiles shyly and taps herhead.
“Seriously? That came from your imagination?” I lean a shoulder against the closed door of mytruck.
She looks down and says nothing. Does my open admiration make her uncomfortable? I start to ask, but she grabs me and pulls me in for a hug. It takes me by surprise and lasts maybe three seconds. She pulls back but I can still feel the heat of her against my chest, as if I’ve been seared by hertouch.
“Aubrey, I—” I stop. I can't tell her that the three seconds she just spent in my arms felt more right than anything I've ever felt. I can't scare her away. Not now. Not when I'm so close to convincing her to move in. “Nevermind.”
Relief floods her face. “So, um,” she rocks back on her heels and presses her lips tightly together. “Thanks for coming over again tonight. To say good-night to Claire, I mean. Drive safe.” She turns back and hurries up thesidewalk.
I climb into my truck for the fifth night in a row and pull away, my thoughts focused on Aubrey. What is she guarding inside that heart of hers? It must be extraordinary. Tonight, I caught a glimpse of it, and it felt like looking into the sun—blindingly bright in the moment with dazzling pulses of light tofollow.
One of thebenefits to working with my best friend is that I get to see her all the time. Sometimes, this positive becomes a negative. It’s hard to hide from people who know yourheart.
“Broker meeting should be interesting.” Britt says when we get in my car at eleven. We’re headed to a lunch meeting with an influential broker, the kind of person who can send us a lot ofbusiness.
“Um-hmm.” I input the address of the restaurant into my phone’s GPS and start driving. It’s twenty-five minutes away, someplace in north Scottsdale with a view of a golfcourse.
“What’s going on with you?” Britt rifles through her purse. She pulls out her travel make-up bag and flips open the visormirror.
“Isaac asked us to move in.” I glance at her. She’s staring at me, lip gloss wand poised in mid-air.
“Are youkidding?”
“Do you think I’mkidding?”
“No.” She touches-up her make-up in silence. I merge onto the freeway andwait.
She finishes and replaces the little teal pouch in her purse. “You should doit.”
I groan. I knew that was going to be her response, butstill.
“How about you tell me why you don’t want to,” she suggested, “and I’ll compose valid arguments for each of yourpoints.”
“That sounds fun,” Ideadpan.
“I’m waiting.” Her voice isserious.
“We don’t know each other well enough, I don’t want any drama, and I don’t know if my dad can live alone.” I say it all in one stream of air, then suck in a bigbreath.
Britt turns to face me and sticks out her hand, three fingers pointing up. “First point”—she grabs ahold of one finger—“how well does anybody really know anybody before they live together? And besides, you know him better than you think.” She folds down a finger and grabs the second one, on the other side of her middle finger. “I’m skipping to your third point because I need to know more about your second one. As for your dad, he’s an adult. He can live alone. Helikesbeing alone. And you know that’s a fact because he’s hunting alone right now. Again. Like he has a hundred other times. Allalonein the wilderness. Do you get mypoint?”
