I try to remind myself that she’s Sloane; little, dorky Sloane, but that doesn’t work. I close my eyes and try to picture her as the girl that she used to be, and I just can’t.
All I end up seeing is the beautiful woman, who accidentally calls me pretty. A woman who makes me dinner every night and lunch every day. The woman who waits up to make sure that I make it home, no matter how late it is when I walk in the door. The woman who talks about cars with me, even though she has no idea what half the words I say mean. The woman who has come into my life and made my house feel like a home.
Even before the permanent candle and the sucker jar, her presence lights up the place simply because she’s in it. She’ll leave in September, and I’ll probably never see her again because she would never have a reason to come back here. She isn’t close with any of her family who lives here.
Why does the thought of her leaving sting?
Why does the thought of her laughter not echoing off the nearly empty walls make my heart tug in my chest?
It’s only been a month, I shouldn’t be thinking these kinds of things. If she were gone, I could go back to my routine, the one where I wake up, go to work, come home, and go to bed. I could go back to the way things used to be.
The way things should be. The way thingshaveto be.
I make it home Wednesday night around nine. I’d taken my sweet time filling out paperwork.
It’s not that I didn’t want to be home; it’s more the fact that I didn’t want to risk what could happen if I did. Not that I’m thinking about doing anything.
I open the door, and I’m surprised by what waits for me on the island.
A bouquet of lilies sits on the island, with the note and a little Matchbox car that looks like the one in my garage.
It’s been twelve years since my dad passed. Twelve years, and this is the first time anyone has done something that makes my chest ache. Sure, I had people give their condolences to me at the funeral. The normal pity that one receives when a loved one they were close with dies. But never once has anyone gone out of their way like this.
Briar didn’t even call or say anything, and my dad was a second father to him. Not that I expected him to, but it would have been nice.
I hold the note in my hand for far longer than I should.
Lillies were Mom’s favorite flowers, and Dad always kept them in the house for years after she passed away.
I feel a knot form in my throat as I look at the flowers.
Sloane would have been close to ten when he died. Yet she remembered something so little, almost insignificant.
I pick up the little car and stare at it for a long time. It’s almost an exact replica of the one I’d been working on with Sloane for the last while.
I take a slow breath, letting myself just have a moment before I place the flowers in a vase with some water. I grab the car and the note and go upstairs.
I need a few minutes to myself. I haven’t let myself miss him today. Not like he properly deserves.
I set the car on my nightstand and place the note in the drawer. I shed my clothes and take a hot shower to decompress.
I should stay in my room, have a night to myself. Maybe watch a movie, or read a book. I shouldn’t go to her room. I shouldn’t be opening my door right now and heading down the stairs to make us some hot chocolate. But I am doing exactly that. I’m making us hot chocolate, and I’m adding marshmallows, caramel, and flaky sea salt (not the regular kind, there’s a difference, apparently)because I know that’s how she likes it.
I take the mugs back up the stairs and knock on her door softly. After a few seconds, she answers, her voice soft as she tells me to come in.
I twist the knob and push open the door. She lies on her bed, curled up in a ball, watching something on her computer, dressed in spandex and a hoodie.
This is the Sloane that I remember, but even now as I look at her, I can’t tell myself that this is wrong. I can’t seem to convince myself that I don’t want her.
She closes her laptop and sits up, leaning back against the pillows and headboard. “Sit,” she says, gesturing to her bed. I nod, taking her up on the invitation. I pull one of my legs up, and I watch her for a moment. She pulls both of her knees into her chest, taking a small sip from the drink.
“Mmmm.That’s good, thank you,” she says, and I nod.
We fall into a comfortable silence, neither of us really knowing what to say.
“Thank you,” I say after a few seconds, looking up from my drink that I haven’t even touched yet, finding her eyes.
“You don’t have to thank me,” she whispers, her arms still wrapped around her legs. A piece of hair falls in front of her face, and I have to fight the urge to brush it away, to place my hand on her cheek and kiss her soft-looking lips.
