I glance at him again. No look of pity on his face. He just looks, not sad, but regretful, maybe. That I had to lose her.
“She had low iron and fatigue, and the doctor said it was because she was vegetarian and approaching menopause. And by the time the signs became worse and she got a second opinion,” that old pain aches in my chest as I stare out the window, “it was already stage four.”
I don’t know why I said all of that. I clamp my mouth shut as we drive.
“I’m really sorry, Jordan,” he says in that low voice, and my heart aches again, differently this time.
I tuck my arms over my stomach. “I don’t know why I told you that.”
“I’m glad you did.”
“We used to listen to records together.” Why do I keep telling him things? It’s like he’s casting a spell on me, getting me to show him little pieces of myself. “She loved music and, um, dancing around the kitchen and stuff. Seventies rock, mostly. And I like to think of her like that.”
Not like she was when she was sick. When my dad should have been there and he wasn’t.
“At her best?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
He hums. “She sounds really fun.”
“She was.” She would have loved this dumb little cat in the back seat. “She was really, really fun.”
A beat passes and I can see him glancing between me and the road. “You’re tired. Close your eyes for a bit.”
I’m so warm and comfortable, and my brain feels sluggish. “Maybe for a bit. But I won’t fall asleep.”
CHAPTER 18
JORDAN
The next morning,before I even open my eyes, I know I’m not at home. The bed is way too comfortable, and there’s a lack of noise from the street and clunking noises from the upstairs neighbor. Cool air breezes past me like there’s a window open nearby.
The bar last night, Tate, and the cat in his arms. The way his hands looked on the steering wheel. My stuff in the rain. The eviction notice. Back in Tate’s car.
I fell asleep, and from the bright sunlight streaming into what appears to be a cottage, it’s morning, and I have no clue where I am.
Beside me on the bed, I lock eyes with a little girl, and let out a yelp of surprise.
She gives me an odd look, still holding her book, totally unfazed at my presence, and it clicks.
“Bea?”
She gives me a tiny smile. “Hi.”
She studies me in a familiar way, like her dad. She has dark hair, big eyes like Tate, and is reading a book with an illustration on the cover of a girl in a wheelchair, singing into a microphone on stage.The Chance to Flyby Ali Stroker.
Against her legs, thatcatis curled up in a ball, sleeping.
Is this Tate’s house? It’s so small and cozy. A studio with big windows overlooking a forest, a tidy kitchen and sitting area with asquashy, comfy-looking chair and a wood fireplace. I spot the espresso machine I’ve lusted over for years. Artwork that looks local hangs on the wall, with telltale emerald forests, mountains, and glittering blue water.
I didn’t even ask where he lived. I don’t know where we are, and yet I’m not panicking. I fellasleepin the car as he drove.
I’m usually so guarded around people, especially men, and yet I fell asleep in the car. I don’t even want to know how I got to bed. I’m praying I woke up and went inside myself and just don’t remember it.
“Okay.” I’m not sure what to make of this. “Why are you in my bed, Bea?”
“I’m notinyour bed. I’m reading on top of it. I normally get under the covers, but I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
