Page 70 of All The Ways to Miss You

I frown and drop my things on the nearest chair. “The deal’s fallen through.”

He pulls me to him, his hands splaying across my back, and mine across his. In his embrace, I’m fortified and secure. I’m not alone. With Evan beside me, I can conquer anything, even this small setback. Though I don’t understand why, I feel it as strongly as the quickening beat of my heart.

“I know you don’t like to lose, but there will be other commissions. Besides, no one else will want that ugly haunted house, anyway,” he jokes.

With my face snuggled into his chest, I laugh, even though I’d like nothing more than a good cry. “Let’s hope.”

“Come on, I’ll make you breakfast.”

He kisses my forehead and drags me to the kitchen. I lean on the counter as he opens the refrigerator, digging for ingredients.

“Damn, I’m out of milk.”

“I have some.”

“Stay right there.” He taps the counter twice and swipes my keys before running off. From inside the apartment, I hear him scale the stairs. I stop listening when he hits the second landing, because my interest has fallen on the ajar second bedroom door, the same locked door I’ve tried to open several times before now.

I stand and cross the room. I push the door open wide with my fingertip, then flick on the light and step inside.

Standing in the middle, I turn in a circle. This room is different from the rest of the apartment. Instead of a mature bachelor pad, this looks like it belongs to a student.

It’s as if Evan took his room from college and placed it right here, except it wouldn’t be his room; the color scheme and scattered items are too feminine. Pretty watercolor images are hung in black frames. Vintage posters of bands cover one wall. And there’s an art deco dressing table with perfumes, jewelry, and framed photos. Not to mention the pile of dirty clothing in a hamper—a woman’s bra sits on top.

Confused, I inspect the nearest photograph, looking for the girl Evan has never forgotten. I search for the face in the photo hanging in his hallway. When I find her—as expected—my heart plummets. Anxiety swirls, making my stomach queasy. My hand clenches the frame, lifting it. Is this her room?

I don’t want to, but for confirmation, I lift another photo and stare. This one I have to grip with two hands, so tightly the blood flees from my fingers, turning them pale. This photo’s of an embracing couple, dressed for a fancy dinner. They’re happy, smiling, and clearly in love, but this isn’t the same girl. Not even close.

“Cait?”

Evan’s voice breaks through my confusion, and I blink. He’s standing at the door with a milk jug in his grip, watching me.

Mental gymnastics doesn’t even describe what’s happening in my brain as I struggle to understand. But there’s one thought, one question, that’s absolutely clear, and I need to hear the answer from him to confirm I haven’t gone certifiably insane.

My lips tremble when I ask, “You knew me—before?”

before

eight years earlier

Evan

thirty-one

When I answer a knock on my door, Cait London stands on the other side. One look at the Northwalton University sophomore and I know I’m renting my extra room to her, if only to gawk at her every day. No question about it.

I take all of her in—long legs, curves accentuated by jean shorts, a plum-colored tank, creamy shoulders, and long, silky brown hair gathered into a tight ponytail. And then there’s her smile. It stopped me in my tracks over a month ago when first I saw her with Steph Conners at Mr. Moon’s Coffee House. Since then, I’ve been secretly crushing on her.

Her smile slips into a frown.

“What?” I stiffen, but I already know what. I’ve been blatantly giving her body the once-over.

“Please tell me you’re not Evan Wade.” She shifts her stance.

“The one and only.” I square my shoulders.

Cait rolls her eyes, spins, and marches in the other direction.

“Hold up.” I jump forward with a raised arm.