Dad’s words echo in my mind.
I sit on the couch where she usually sits and stare across the room. My phone buzzes with work messages. I answer a few, ignore more. No texts or calls from Hope.
My thoughts circle one idea I don’t want acknowledge. She doesn’t need me.
Knowing this doesn’t make it easier.
I decide to straighten things up, wipe an already-clean counter, open the fridge and close it again. None of my efforts do anything to quell my spinning mind.
Hope returns three hours later. I hear the lock turn and my entire body relaxes before I even see her.
“How was it?” I try to keep my voice level.
She drops her bag and leans back against the door for a second. “Good. Busy. A little overwhelming.”
She pushes off and moves into the room, brushing close enough for me to notice, not close enough to read into.
“I’m glad.” I nod.
We stand there for a second, both waiting for the next part of the conversation to show up.
It doesn’t.
Eventually, we end up on the couch with Chinese takeout between us. She eats more tonight than she has in a few days, which I register but don’t comment on.
God, I want to kiss her. It takes every ounce of willpower not to reach for her, but my hands stay to themselves. I can’t bear another rejection. Too humiliating.
She glances at me a few times like she’s about to say something, then looks away again. “You’re being weird.”
“I’m trying not to be.”
“It’s not working.”
I don’t argue. She isn’t wrong.
“I miss you,” she admits after a minute. Quiet enough I almost think I imagined it.
I turn my head. “I’m here.”
“I know.” She stays where she is, surveying me as if she’s trying to figure out where I fit now.
I don’t have an answer for her so I keep quiet.
Once we finish eating, I take the containers to the sink, rinse them out, set them aside. When I turn back, she’s stretched along the back of the couch, eyes on me. I walk over and sit down at the opposite end, leaving space.
I don’t know what she’s comfortable with.
“Alek. You don’t have to sit so far away.” She blows out a frustrated breath.
I try not to sound pathetic and fail. “I wasn’t sure.”
She shifts, closing part of the distance. Not all of it. Enough.
I move closer too until our shoulders brush against each other.
My hand stays on my knee. I don’t reach for her hand. She doesn’t reach for mine either. The quiet settles heavier this time, but not necessarily uncomfortable.
More aware. More deliberate.
