“I was,” he shrugs. “Still can’t sleep.”
We both get up, and I catch a glance of him as he puts his shirt back on.
We head downstairs, moving through the quiet house.
He flicks the kitchen light back on, and it’s so bright we both shield our eyes.
He pulls the wine from the cabinet, and with no glasses, we settle for paper cups.
“Classy,” I say.
“We are all class in the Wade household.”
He unscrews the bottle, and pours.
I take the first sip, and I feel like it mainlines straight to my veins since there’s nothing in my stomach. He pops the bag of potato chips and offers me one.
“So…” I glance toward the stairs. “Are we drinking in the kitchen, or…”
“We could drink in bed,” he suggests.
I raise an eyebrow. “That sounds…questionable.”
“Unfortunately, that’s the only place in this house with two comfortable seats right now.”
I smile. “Okay. Let’s be bad.”
We head back upstairs, and I can feel his eyes on me as we climb.
We sit up in bed, on top of the covers, a little closer this time, and clink our cups.
“For the record,” I say, “this feels like a last meal.”
He huffs out a laugh.
“Let’s not call it that.”
“Right. Too dramatic.”
A beat passes.
“I burned all my love letters,” I offer, trying to make conversation.
He turns toward me. “You did?”
“Yeah. Did a ceremonial bonfire. Speaking of dramatic.”
“How’d it feel?”
I think about it.
“Honestly? I felt physically lighter afterward. It was crazy.”
He nods slowly. “I’m proud of you.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. That guy messed up,” he says. “He’ll realize it eventually. It’s his loss.”
