We both lie there, trying to catch our breath. She blinks, her gaze back on me. Then she smiles.
I shake my head. “You’re something else.”
“Something good?” she echoes the question she asked on our first night together.
Back then, I said, “We’ll see,” but now there’s no question. “The best.”
I close my eyes, picturing her curled up in my bed, Grace tucked against her side. Me beside them.
“How many more days?” she whispers around a yawn.
“Five. I’ll be back in Chicago on the twenty-sixth.”
She tucks one hand under her cheek. “That’s forever.”
“I know.”
“Hockey players travel a lot.”
“We do.” I pause. “Country music stars, too.”
“Yeah,” she finally says, voice quiet. Then murmurs words I don’t quite catch that sound like, “we’ll make it work.”
When I ask her to repeat herself, she waves me off, rubbing at her eyes.
A beat passes, then she blinks at me, only slightly more awake. “How’s it being back on your old stomping grounds?”
“Weird.” I shift the phone. “I played here for four years. Used to know every corner of that building.”
“Does it still feel like home?”
“No.” The word comes out easily. “Hasn’t in a long time.”
Her eyes close, but she murmurs, “That’s good, right?”
“Yeah. It is.”
More silence. Only her breathing fills the line—even puffs getting slower.
“Summer?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“You falling asleep on me?”
“Little bit.” She yawns again. “Sorry. Keep talking.”
I’m not ready to hang up, so I ramble on about nothing. The games. Our upcoming schedule. How I want to take her skating on the pond again. How she should do another open mic night. I ask her if she knows when she’ll record with Cash, but there’s no response.
Her breathing is deep and steady, eyes closed.
“Starling?”
No answer.
I should hang up. Let her sleep.
Instead, I listen. To her breathing. To Grace’s steady purr. To the sound of home playing through my phone from a thousand miles away.
