“What are you doing here, Chloe?”
Her smile falls at the coldness in my voice, and for a second, I feel bad. But I shouldn’t feel anything other than anger. I should be so damn mad at her that I shake.
I’m not, and I don’t.
All I feel is…well, truthfully, want. It’s all I ever feel when it comes to her. From the second I saw her walking across campus, I wanted her. I didn’t know her name, but I wanted to. There was something special about her even then that I couldn’t deny.
Imagine my surprise when I walked into my creative writing course and there she was. She was sitting next to the same girl she’d walked across the quad with, organizing her pensjust sobefore the professor came in. It felt like fucking fate, and in some way, it still does.
It took me an entire week to work up the courage to finally talk to her, and when I did, I asked to borrow a pen. She wrinkled her brows in annoyance, then handed me one before turning back to the teacher, dismissing me. All it did was make me want to talk to her more.
So I did. I kept bothering her every class after until it became my thing. I don’t know how, but I could tell she wasn’t as exasperated by me as she pretended to be, and even though we’re where we are right now, I’m glad I took a chance and kept at it. Even if all those years we had together were it, it was worth it.
Please don’t let them be it, though.
I grip the door tighter, trying to fight off the urge to reach for her and feel her against me like I did last night. Her perfectly plump lips part, and I wait anxiously for her answer. Is she here to say we’re done? Or will she tell me she missed me and made a mistake? Say she’s sorry? Will she beg us to go back to what we were? And would I?
It doesn’t matter, because she snaps her mouth closed again. I sigh, cross my arms over my chest, rest against the doorjamb, and try hard to ignore how gorgeous she looks. The light green sweater makes her brown eyes pop, and the jeans she’s wearing are doing wonders for her full figure, which has always driven me wild.
“All right. Let’s try a different question,” I say. “How did you know where to find me?”
“Mail.”
My brows draw tightly together. “What?”
“Um.” She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, and for a second, I think she’s nervous. But that can’t be the case. What does she have to be nervous about? She’s the one who walked away from me. “Your birthday card. It had your address on it, and I assumed you hadn’t moved since you sent it, so I took a chance. The guard downstairs seemed very surprised to learn you were married, and I had to flash him my ID so he’d let me up.”
I make a mental note to talk to him later to tell him she’s always welcome here, but right now I’m focused on something else…
She got my card?
I sent it on a whim. I was at the grocery store, and they had a display for St. Patrick’s Day cards. I stopped, telling myself I could just look at them and that was it, but then I was buying one, signing it, and dropping it in the mail to the last place I knew she was staying. She never responded, and I assumed it either got lost or went to an old address. I guess I was wrong.
I clench my teeth at the sting of her not responding. “Well, here I am.”
“Here you are,” she echoes, then swallows roughly.
We stare at one another for several moments, and against my better judgment, I move to the side, letting her in. She hesitates for a beat before brushing past, careful not to touch me, and I don’t know if I’m relieved by that or disappointed.
I close the door behind her, resting against it as I watch her walk slowly around the apartment, taking it all in. It’s nothing compared to the home she would have made for us, but it’s the first thing I’ve ever put together on my own, and I’m proud of that.
She stops at the same picture Lawson pointed to before, the one of us at our wedding. It was a small affair, and pretty much everyone believed we were foolish for getting married so young, especially her parents. It didn’t matter to us, though. We knew what we wanted, and at the time, it was each other.
Standing here with her now, watching her take the photo in, I can’t tell if she still feels the same way, and I hate it. I used to read her so well. It’s weird not being able to now. When she finally turns back to me, there’s a soft smile on her lips, and I take a breath, pushing off the door.
“Do you want something to drink?”
“Um, sure.”
I nod, moving to the kitchen and pulling a Diet Coke from the fridge. I crack it open for her, just like I always used to do, before handing it her way. Our fingers brush together as she wraps her hand around the can, and I pretend the small touch doesn’t send electric jolts through me.
Either she doesn’t feel it, or she’s pretending just like I am, because she chugs half the can in one go. She lets out a small burp, her eyes widening in surprise as she claps her hand over her mouth.
A laugh chokes out of me, because for a moment, everything feels just like it used to. Even after all our time together, she was never comfortable being anything less than prim and proper in front of me. It never mattered to me—I would have taken her any way she came—but it was always cute when she’d slip up, then freak out.
“Sorry,” she mutters, dropping her hand, her cheeks stained red. “I, uh, I didn’t realize you’d started drinking Diet Coke.”
I don’t. I can’t stand the stuff, but it’s always been her favorite, so I’ve kept up the tradition of buying it. Sometimes I’ll have one just to remember what she used to taste like.
