Some lucky son of a gun made a beautiful family and—from the looks of things—was doing a pretty poor job taking care of it.
I couldn’t help but imagine what she looked like with a rounded belly, what labor was like, and if motherhood was everything she dreamed of. Wasn’t my place to ask. There were more pressing issues at hand anyway.
Typically, I considered myself pretty good at reading people, but I couldn’t read Miranda. After the meeting, she seemed agitated with me. But after she got sick on the side of the road, she acted afraid. Withdrawn. Skittish, even.
Allowing myself to wonder what she’d been through sentmy brain into a spiral. Made me feel ready for a ten mile jog, not sleep.
After we emptied her stuff out of the truck, I noticed the Schrute Farms sweatshirt. She’d been wearing that thing since before I met her. Still looked as cute as ever in it. The sweatshirt fell mid-thigh and the sleeves bunched at her wrists. She could even tuck her knees into it without stretching the belly.
Watching Miranda tie the sweatshirt around her slim waist ten years later caused desire to hit me out of left field. A longing for our simpler, happier times filled me until I struggled to breathe.
She forgot it; left it draped over the back of the couch once her and Kacey retired to their suite. Because I’m an idiot, I did something stupid I’d never be able to come back from. Something that launched the moments flashing through my brain into full body experiences that filled me with craving. A craving for my old best friend. For everything we used to be. For everything we shared.
I smelled it. Knowing full well the fabric would smell like her.
Did it ever.
It was nostalgia and novelty meshed together, creating an intoxicating aroma. The citrusy smell was new. But the earthy-sweet scent was agonizingly familiar, flooding my head with countless memories of us.
I replaced it on the couch, only to come back fifteen minutes later and take it to bed with me.
As I laid beneath the spinning fan in my old bedroom, I took one more deep breath of her and promised myself it would be the last.
Traitorous,traitorousbrain.
Jules accused me last week of not being over Miranda. I’d rolled my eyes, flat outdenying it.
Yet here I was, lying in bed, tormenting myself with desires that would only hurt again. As much as I wanted the lake house now, letting Miranda back into my life would be a mistake.
What am I doing?
My skin turned clammy under the spin of the fan and my mouth was dry. I slid out of bed, slipped on my sweatpants, and headed for some ice in the kitchen. As I was rounding the wall to the dining area, I heard the tinkle of a glass.
Miranda.
How many times had we made each other glasses of ice water at night?
I let out a loud whisper before stepping into the kitchen. Hopefully minimizing the inevitable startle. “Hey, Miranda?”
She gasped softly.
I came into view and her shoulders slacked. “Dang, you scared me.”
“Sorry. I needed some ice water, too.”
“Old habits die hard, huh?”
“Yep.” I filled a glass with ice then asked, “You couldn’t sleep?”
“Not a wink.”
“Me either.”
“Too much to think through.”
“Same.”
She paused, setting her glass on the granite counter. Her voice was low, sad. “Jack, I realized as I was getting into bed you did so much for us and I never even stopped to give my proper condolences. I’m sorry—about Nathaniel.”
