Page 14 of Freefall

She gets to work cutting larger pieces of printer paper into small rectangles before stapling them together. Then she starts to write.

“Can you draw a pumpkin for the illustration?” she asks. “And maybe a ghost?” She thinks for a moment. “Oh, and a witch!”

“Sure,” I say with a laugh, choosing some colors from the array of crayons on the table. I pick a medium-green one for the pumpkin's vines.

“Don’t worry, I’ll help with the illustration once I’m done with my manuscript.”

I attempt to hide my smile, wondering if she has some sort of photographic memory. I taught her that word last week, and we never talked about it again. Yet, somehow she remembered. My short-term memory is abysmal. I can barely remember what I had for dinner last night. Meeting a broody boy in the parking lot of a therapy office nine years ago, however? I remember every single detail.

The inky darkness of his hair, the stormy blue of his eyes, the soft trace of freckles along the bridge of his nose.

The way he pretended to smoke that cigarette. I knew instantly he had a story. Everyone does, but I had this overwhelming need to know his. Or at least tell him mine.

I probably should have gone to my appointment. I know that now. I’ve since started therapy, and it’s actually been pretty life-changing. I know it’s not for everyone, but it’s helped me. Still, I can’t bring myself to regret not walking into that office that day. Instead, I got into a stranger’s car and drove to a random diner twenty minutes away. That choice changed my entire life, and despite all the tears and heartache, I would make it again every single time.

It gave me unfiltered joy.

It taught me how to love.

It gave me her.

“Mommy!” Daisy calls out. It sounds like it’s not the first time she’s tried to get my attention. My gaze flicks to where she’s sitting cross-legged on the couch, a purple pencil tucked tightly in her fist. “There’s someone at the door.”

Before I can respond, there’s a knock, then another. The knocks grow louder and more urgent.

What the hell?

“Stay here,” I tell Daisy before making my way to the front door.

It’s not until I get to the threshold that I realize I’m still holding the crayon. I peek through the peephole, and at the same time, a wave of relief and blind panic rolls through me.

There’s no more hiding now. This is it.

The click of the lock disengaging echoes throughout the room, but it’s not as loud as the heartbeat pounding in my ears.

As soon as I open the door, he fills the entire frame.

Inky hair. Stormy blue eyes. Barely there freckles.

He’s breathing fast and hard, his gray T-shirt clinging to his heaving chest.

For a while, we stand there staring at each other. We take each other in. Even though we spent the better part of an hour together only two days ago, it feels like we're seeing each other for the first time.

Finally, when I think we might be frozen here forever, he steps forward until he’s close—so close that I can smell the cedar of his cologne. His eyes have never matched his careful, controlled persona, but somehow they’re wilder than usual as he leans in.

Is he…

He’s not going to…

But before he does anything, he freezes, those reckless blue eyes catching on something behind me. I don’t have to turn to know what he’s looking at, but in case there were any doubts, her little voice carries through the air like a secret whispered in the dark.

“Mommy?”

6

NATE

I had a plan. I was going to walk up to her door and ask her the question that has been ping-ponging around in my head since I saw her get out of that Jeep two days ago.