Needed to clear my head —R.
The note slips from my fingers.
“Shit.” I sink onto a stool, hiding my face in my hands. “What have I done?”
Guilt crashes over me. I’d promised him I wouldn’t write specifically about him anymore, wouldn’t risk whatever strange magic that had brought him here. But I’d done it anyway, treating him like a character I could manipulate instead of a person with his own free will.
No wonder he left.
“I really fucked up this time, Goonie,” I sigh, absentmindedly scratching behind his ears.
I drag myself back upstairs to where my laptop sits on my nightstand. Opening it, I pull up the document and stare at the words I wrote.
They’re such simple words, but they manipulated him.
I think of all the pages I’ve written about everything we’ve done since he appeared—detailed descriptions of our thoughts, our feelings, our reactions.
Suddenly, I know that there’s only one way to fix this.
“Shit.”
With trembling fingers, I Control-A all the text—every word I’ve written about Ryder and about our dates since he appeared—and hover my finger over the delete key.
What if deleting everything about him, about us, makes him disappear altogether? What if this severs whatever magical connection that brought him here in the first place?
But I know I can’t keep controlling him, intentionally or unintentionally.
He deserves better.
With a deep breath, I hit DELETE. The document goes blank, the cursor blinking at me accusingly from the empty page.
Closing my laptop with a sigh, I climb back into bed.
But I can’t sleep. The thought of Ryder out there somewhere, feeling manipulated and betrayed, keeps me wide awake.
I figure I might as well be productive, so I throw myself into cleaning—scrubbing the kitchen counters with more force than necessary, organizing the pantry, and doing three loads of laundry. Physical activity has always helped keep my mind from spiraling into worst-case scenarios. Too bad it never helped with my writer’s block though.
By the time I’ve folded the last of Ryder’s T-shirts, the sky has lightened from pitch black to a deep indigo. I carry the basket to his room, hesitating when I get to the door.
When I push the door open, the scent of sandalwood and leather envelops me immediately. I set the basket on the bed and start putting his clothes away in the dresser.
When I step into the closet, my heart stutters. All his things are still here—his boots lined up on the floor, his collection of Henley’s. Relief washes over me in a wave so powerful it nearly brings me to my knees.
If his things are still here, it means he should still be here. He has to be.
With a renewed sense of hope, I head to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee and watch as the first golden rays of sun start peeking through the windows. The rich aroma fills the air as I pull eggs and bacon from the fridge, determined to have breakfast ready when he returns.
Just as I start cracking eggs into a bowl, I hear the distinctive rumble of a motorcycle coming up the driveway. My heart leaps into my throat, and I nearly drop the egg.
I hear the engine cut off. Then a few moments later, the sound of his boots hit the porch right before the front door opens.
With my favorite pink spatula clutched in my hand, I turn around.
Hair mussed from his helmet, his stubble is darker than usual and he looks tired.
My heart leaps. He’s still here. Still real.
Afraid if speaking too loudly might somehow break whatever spell that’s keeping him here, I whisper, “You’re back.”
