Her shoulder slump as she says, “Wow, nothing like a soggy Fourth of July weekend. We get storms like this but they’re usually short lived.”
Sadie walks to the front windows in my living room, peering out. The roads glisten as lightning strikes, water still rushing over parts of it. When she turns, worry knits into her features. I’m sure she’s thinking about the rec center next door. But out of all the things we can’t control, weather is at the top of that list.
“Don’t worry. We’ll take care of it together.” I tip my head toward the general direction of the place I know is pulling at her.
Sadie doesn’t say anything but I can tell she’s still thinking about it.
She changes the subject. “Doesn’t look like I’ll be leaving any time soon.” She comes back to her sandwich, taking a bite.
“What a shame,” I joke, catching her eyes with mine. “You’ll have to stay here tonight.”
As if on cue, she yawns. I gather the dishes, put them in the sink, and reach for her hand.
“Come on,” I say and try not to smile too big when she puts her hand in mine.
I lead the way up the stairs to my room. She follows without saying a word. The only sound is the rain and wind pummeling the house. If it weren’t for that, I’m almost certain she could’ve heard the heartbeat that pounds in my chest, echoing throughout my body.
I keep my grip loose, like I’m giving her an out, even though my chest tightens at the thought of her taking it. At the top of the stairs, I hesitate—only for a second—because this all seems too easy.
But she’s still there. Still warm. Still choosing this.
I open my door and step aside, gruff and careful, like I’m handling something breakable. And for the first time in a long while, the quiet doesn’t feel empty—it feels full of something I might actually want to keep.
twenty-six
Sadie
Mybonesareexhaustedand my muscles feel like they’re about to give up but I can’t stop smiling anyway. Colson holds my hand until we’re in his room. Even in the dark, it’s there—soft and unguarded—as I step inside and turn on my phone’s flashlight. The beam sweeps over pale walls, clean lines, wide windows which let in light from the lightning. The space feels open, airy which is so unlike the man hovering in the doorway like he’s bracing for impact.
I let the light wander. “This place is… bright,” I say, smiling so he knows it’s a compliment. “Even with the power out. Those yellow cabinets downstairs? They’re kind of perfect.” I tilt my head at him. “You don’t strike me as a yellow cabinet kind of guy.”
He huffs and drops onto the edge of the bed. Putting a hand to his chest, he says, “Who? Me. Are you sure?” The question is flat and rhetorical.
I follow him, tucking my legs beneath me, the mattress dipping as I settle in. He shifts, fidgeting with the blanket, tugging at the edge like it’s suddenly not right.
Colson takes a deep breath, one I can feel in my own chest.
He looks outside, gazing through one of the wide windows when he continues, “It’s not really mine. The place...” he says after a boom of thunder. “This was my mom’s place. Her summer house.”
“Oh,” I reply, warmth blooming despite the dark. “So is she—here? Or coming up later?” I can’t help but let the excitement run into my words. The thought of meeting Colson’s mom has me almost kicking my feet.
His hands still. Then he scrubs one over his thigh, his gaze fixed on the floor. “No,” he answers quietly. “She died last fall.”
The words land softly but firmly. I turn the flashlight off without thinking, the room going fully dark again, and reach for his hand instead. Suddenly the brightness makes sense—the yellow, the open space, the light that lingers even when everything else goes out.
Poor Colson.That’s all I can think. How the man isn’t so much grumpy as he is sitting in his grief.
I shift closer and wrap my arms around him, careful at first, like I’m not sure he’ll want it. Colson does. He exhales and folds into me, one arm coming tight around my back, the other lifting to thread slowly through my hair. The touch isn’t rushed but it feels like he needs it, pulling me closer to him.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask, my mouth close to his ear, resting on his shoulder.
He squeezes me tighter but I push back, wanting to see his face.
“The diagnosis came out of nowhere. She made an appointment because she was ridiculously tired. She couldn’t sleep enough. But she was an active person. Always running to this club, doing this thing, meeting this person. Flying to my away games.” His voice shakes when he shares that last part.
After a moment, he continues, “I thought she was burnt out. It turns out that stage four pancreatic cancer will also do that to you.” His thumb brushes the same spot near my temple again and again.
My heart feels like it’s about to crack open.
