But I nod anyway. "Okay. I love you."
"I love you, too."
She goes back to her room, and I return to packing.
But I can't shake the feeling that something's wrong. That she's pulling away, and I don't know why.
I finish packing and zip my suitcase, then sit on the edge of my bed staring at it.
Three weeks.
How am I even going to function without her? I suppose that’s the real test, right? Can we function without each other? I know we spend all our free time together. But it’s not like we don’t have our own lives.
The fact that I’m freaking out about not getting to hold her while I sleep could be a sign.
Leaving her behind for three weeks is going to be brutal, but if we can’t survive three weeks, we’re not going to survive months.
But I’m not gone yet.
I grab my keys.
"Where are you going?" Ashton asks when I pass him in the hallway.
"Shopping. I'll be back in an hour."
I drive to Target first. I walk through the aisles, grabbing things I know she likes. Vanilla candles—the expensive ones she never buys for herself. Bath bombs in lavender and eucalyptus. A face mask set. The good chocolate—dark with sea salt.
Then I hit up the fancy coffee shop and buy a gift card. She's always complaining about how expensive their lattes are, but she gets them anyway because it’s her little splurge.
I add fuzzy socks because her feet are always cold. A new notebook with cats on the cover because she's weird about stationery. Some of those expensive gel pens she hoards.
At the checkout, the cashier smiles at me. "Someone's lucky."
"I'm the lucky one," I say.
On the way home, I stop at Los Mariachis and order her usual—chicken enchiladas with extra sour cream, chips and queso, and a side of their homemade salsa that she's obsessed with.
When I get back to the house, I arrange everything in a basket I found shoved in the back of my closet from some secret Santa or something.
I tuck a note inside:For when finals kick your ass. You've got this. I love you.
I knock on her door. "Sutton?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm coming in, and I'm bringing food."
I push the door open. She's at her desk, surrounded by textbooks and notes, her laptop open to what looks like a practice exam.
"Declan, I can't right now. I love you, but?—"
"Thirty minutes," I interrupt. "That's all I'm asking. Thirty minutes to eat and take a break."
She looks like she wants to argue. But then she sees the Los Mariachis bag, and her expression softens.
"You didn’t."
"I did. Your usual, with extra sour cream."
