“Sounds good, Mom. Thanks.”
And once again, Merritt was alone.
It was 9 o’clock when an Uber driver named Stan in a Honda Odyssey pulled away from the Pryor house. Whit looked down at himself as he stood on the sleet-wet pavement. Under the light of the old-fashioned streetlight, he felt a bit sad and dumpy in his jeans, dove gray T-shirt, and Carhartt jacket. His body seemed to be covered in a travel-born film of stickiness.
The yellow Victorian before him glowed like a jewel on the somber, wintry street, with each of its windows lit from within. Behind one of them, Whit felt rather than saw, was Merritt.
Merritt leaned against the kitchen counter, which now smelled like lemon and shone like the surface of a lake. The house was sparkling, the trash taken out, the CDs were alphabetized. As Merritt considered whether deep cleaning the oven was worth her time, there came a knock on the door.
Crap, Merritt thought, looking down at herself. She had had time to scrub the sink with baking soda and hot water but hadn’t thought to change out of her sweat-shorts and the long-sleeve Foothills School T-shirt she had on permanent loan from her mom.
Who cared, anyway. She wasn’t trying to impress Whit anymore—only to tell him she’d saved the book. Her main concern should have been whether he would actually be pleased with this news, but as she padded in her sock feet toward the front door, something aching and broad filled her from shoulders to knees.
Whit was behind that door. She had hardly seen him in a month. Sad, sweet, stuck Whit, who was also smart and funny and compassionate. And good. She missed him. Desperately.
Merritt stopped in the entryway and closed her eyes tight.
No, she told herself.No.
She gave her head a shake and, before she could think about it much more, yanked open the door.
The light from inside spilled onto the dark, cold porch where Whit stood, and there was Merritt.
She looked like a fond memory.
She looked like home.
He was standing there, the same old Whit, in the Carhartt jacket she loved, and he looked tired, or rather like someone waking up. At the sight of her, his eyes grew wider and bluer, and for a moment it felt almost like he was having to hold himself back, but she chastised herself, because surely she was just confused by her own deep well of longing. She wanted to go to him, to hold him and smell the cedary, minty smell of his skin. And therewassomething behind his eyes, too, something soft yet determined that had not been there before.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi,” he said, and it came out in a cloud of white.
“It’s freezing, come in.”
“Thanks,” Whit said, and his hesitance sent a pang through her—a sharp shot that cut through the ache.
“Can I take your coat?” she said in the entryway.
“Yes, please.”
“Tea?” she offered.
He smiled, sheepish. “Sure.”
Merritt swiped Kathleen’s copper kettle from the stove andturned toward the sink, but as she extended it toward the faucet, Whit put his hand gently on her forearm.
“Merritt.” His voice was soft and stretched.
When she looked at him, she saw that his eyes were full of something painful.
“Whit...” she started. She hadn’t told him about the book yet. She hadn’t explained what had happened with Shreya and the manuscript—theirmanuscript—and whatever he was going to say next, she felt that she needed to explain those things, because what if that changed everything again, and what if—
“Merritt,” Whit said once more, turning her and gently cupping her cheek in his hand. The rest of the words died in her throat. His face was beautiful to her.
“Merritt, I love you.”
She stood with her mouth slightly open.
