The words scraped at something raw in me.
“I know she has feelings,” I muttered, but the truth was, I wasn’t sure I did. “Just…not where I’m concerned.”
There was a long pause.
“Maybe because you’ve both been trying so hard not to disappoint each other, neither of you knows how to just...talk.”
I didn’t know what to say to that.
“Just know that turning the basement into a craft room…it helped.”
I swallowed, unsure what emotion was rising now. Guilt? Defensiveness? Loss?
“Oh,” I said again, because I didn’t trust what might come out if I said anything more.
Ashley let out a breath. “You and Mom—you're not great at communicating. But maybe just try giving her the benefit of the doubt?”
Benefit of the doubt.
Funny. I couldn’t remember Mom ever giving it to me.
“Sure.” I was lying on my back now, staring at the ceiling. “Hey, Ash, I’ve gotta go. We’re heading to the Grand Canyon tomorrow, so I’d better get some sleep.” I forced myself to sound cheerful. “Tell the boys I said hi, and that I’m bringing back presents.”
“I will. And you have fun, okay? But maybe not too much fun?”
“No promises.”
We hung up, and I tossed my phone aside. Ugh. Now I was feeling guilty about Mom again but in an entirely different way than before. But how was it my fault that I couldn’t read Mom’s mind?
Mood thoroughly soured, I finally got around to unpacking, showered, brushed my teeth, and then changed into my PJs. When I was finished, I just flopped on top of the covers and stared at the ceiling again. I was tired, but I wasn’t ready to go to sleep.
Since I didn’t want to look at my phone, I took out the old-fashioned photographs again.
There was this one…I kept coming back to it.
In it, I was laughing, and Noah wasn’t looking at the camera, but at me.
Friends, I reminded myself.
But after…everything, did that even still apply? Did friends look at each other like that?
I was still staring at the photo in my lap when a knock pulled me out of my thoughts.
Soft. Hesitant. And it was—what, eleven o’clock?
I moved to the door barefoot, the carpet cool beneath my feet.
“Who is it?”
A beat. “It’s me.”
That voice. Sexy. Low. Familiar.
Did I say sexy?
I unlatched the door and opened it just a few inches.
Noah stood there, damp curls pushed back from his forehead, a fresh T-shirt clinging to his frame. And those gray sweatpants. The ones I was starting to suspect were my personal kryptonite.
