She turns back, one hand on the door frame. “Yeah?”
I should be wise here. Say something that doesn't reveal how much I wanted her to come home tonight. How the house felt empty without her in it. How much I fucking missed her and how good it feels to have her with me again.
“I'm glad you're home,” I say.
Her expression softens. “Me too.”
And then she pads over to me. Gets down on her knees, bends forward, and kisses my cheek.
It’s a good thing I’m too shocked to move, or else I would have wrapped my arms around her and crushed her to me.
But by the time I’ve recovered, she’s slipped away.
I won't sleep tonight, I know that already. I'll be pacing my room til sunrise, fueled by whiskey and remembrance of things past. I'll think about all my shitty life choices that took me away from everything that matters, everything that’s real.
I'll think about two years of silence where there used to be music.
I’ll think about everything I've broken that I can't fix.
But I'll think about Sadie most of all, swimming beneath the stars and smelling like summer, looking at me like she understands more about the mysterious contents of my heart than I do.
Chapter 16
Hell of a Hangover
WALKER
The next morning, I’m up before Sadie and Jonah, as always. I make coffee. Stand at the kitchen window with my mug and watch the light move across the fields, the way it turns the sweetgrass silver before it turns it gold.
I had about four hours of sleep. Maybe less. The rest of the night I spent exactly how I knew I would. Pacing, mostly. Sitting on the edge of my bed with my head in my hands.
I heard her door close around two. Heard her moving around softly in there.
I lay in the dark and listened to her settle.
Talked myself out of going to her door.
Just barely.
Good thing, too, because Dad dropped Jonah off early this morning. He had to meet the vet about one of the mares having an urgent medical situation. Jonah was still sleepy enough toclimb into his bed here, flop onto his tummy, and fall promptly back asleep.
By the time Sadie comes downstairs I've been awake for hours and I've got nothing to show for it except a full pot of coffee. She appears in the kitchen doorway in a flimsy floral cotton robe, hair loose and still slightly damp from a shower, feet bare on the hardwood. Her face is clean and soft and she's got a little crease on her cheek from her pillow.
She hasn't seen me yet. She's squinting slightly in the morning light, making her way toward the coffee on autopilot, and she looks so easy in this kitchen. So at home.
Like she's always been here.
Like she's supposed to be here, always.
She reaches for a mug, pours herself a coffee, turns around, and finds me at the island.
She stills as we look at each other.
“Morning,” she says finally.
“Morning.”
In a perfect world, one where she’s not leaving, she’d be coming downstairs like this after spending all night in my bed. In a perfect world, I’d be wrapping my arms around her and kissing her and pressing a mug of fresh coffee into her hands while we talk about what we’re going to do today.
