Packing takes longer than I’d thought. Why, why did I bring so much? Three bags down, two to go. I grab the last of my T-shirts from the drawer and turn to place them in the open suitcase on the bed. But I freeze when I hear the hoarse, fraught voice from the doorway.
“You’re leavin’?”
Did I actually think I’d be able to pack and leave town without facing him? Without having this conversation? Stupid Sofia.
I don’t look at him—if I do, I’ll disintegrate into a blubbery mass. I need time—distance.
“I have to go home. I’m so behind, a lot of work to catch up on . . .”
He moves in front of me. I stare at his chest, as it rises and falls beneath the soft cotton T-shirt. He takes the clothes from my hands. “You’re not goin’ anywhere, until you talk to me.”
I close my eyes, feeling my pulse throb frantically in my neck.
“What happened, Sofia?”
Against my will, my gaze rises, meeting his. It swims with concern, overflows with confusion . . . with affection and caring.
But it’s not enough.
“What happened? I fell in love with you.” The words come out in a whisper—everything I feel for him a sharp, rigid thorn lodged in my throat. And the pain that he doesn’t feel the same is a noose cinching tighter and tighter. “I love everything about you. I love watching you in court—the way you speak, the way you move. I love how you scrape your lip when you’re trying to think of what to say. I love your voice, I love your hands and the way they touch me. I love . . . the way you look at your daughter, I love how you say my name.” My voice shatters at the end, and my eyes close, releasing a flood.
“No, baby, don’t cry,” he begs.
His hands rise to my face, but I step back, afraid the contact will completely break me. The words rush out. “I know that isn’t what this is for you. And I tried to ignore it, to push it away. But it just hurt so much to see you with. . .”
His head is bowed from my pain. “Sofia, I’m sorry . . . just let me . . .”
I shake my head and squeeze my eyes closed again. “Don’t be sorry—it’s not your fault. I have to just . . . get over it. I will. I can’t . . . I can’t be with you anymore that way, Stanton. I know you’ll be hurting from Jenny . . . But—”
“That’s not what I meant! Slow down, please. Listen to me.”
But if I stop to listen, I’ll never get it all out. He’ll never understand. And I meant what I said—I don’t want to lose him.
“We’ll be friends again. This won’t come between us. We can go back—”
I never finish the words. His mouth covers mine, cutting them off, swallowing them whole. He grasps my face, pulling me to him—touching me like he never has before. With desperation, like he’ll die if he has to let me go.
His desire for me is a palpable, throbbing ache between us—and I submerge myself in it, willing to drown. His fingertips are hot on my skin, scorching enough to scar. And I hope they do. I yearn for remembrance. Proof that I was here, that this is what we felt. That even for a moment . . . we were real.
He turns us and we fall to the bed, the feel of his strength, his rigid length pressing down on me, a welcome weight. I writhe beneath him and Stanton tears at my clothes like they’re the enemy.
It’s not a smart thing to do; it’ll hurt in the morning. But I won’t say no. This . . . this I get to have.
The pant of his breath, the scrape of his teeth, the sound of his moans, the pressure of his wet, perfect kisses. These are the moments—the memories—I’ll hold on to and cherish.
Because they’ll be the last.
22
Stanton
Everyone always talks about how quiet and peaceful the country is. But that’s not totally accurate. The cacophony begins at dusk—grasshoppers, mosquitoes, crickets, and scurrying vermin, louder than you’d ever think possible. And at dawn, there’s the baying of animals, the machine-gun clicking of cicadas, the thumping of hooves, and the deafening sonata of chirping birds.
It’s the birds that pull me from sleep—the deep slumber of a man who’s at peace with a choice he’s made.
Even before my eyes crack open, I know she’s gone.
I feel it in the empty space beside me, the missing scent of shampoo and gardenia and Sofia. I bolt upright, squinting, and look around.
Luggage? Gone.
Jeans on the desk? Nowhere in sight.
Red dress from the floor? Vanished.
Fuck.
How the hell could I fall asleep without talking to her first? Without telling her—
“Sonofabitch!”
I jump into a pair of jeans and run shirtless and barefoot down the stairs. I jog into the house—hoping.
But when I get there, the only person in the kitchen is Brent, sipping a cup of coffee and eating one of my mother’s blueberry muffins.
“Where is she?” I growl—pissed at myself, but all too willing to take it out on him.
He swallows the mouthful of muffin, regarding me with distant, assessing eyes. “She called the hotel about four this morning. Asked for a ride to the airport. Jake wouldn’t let her go alone and changed his ticket to fly back with her.”
My chest goes hollow. I’ve fucked up so badly.
But then I remember— “Sofia doesn’t fly.”
Brent’s gaze warms just a little—with pity. “Then I guess she really wanted to get out of Dodge—because she flew today.”
“You’re leavin’?”
Did I actually think I’d be able to pack and leave town without facing him? Without having this conversation? Stupid Sofia.
I don’t look at him—if I do, I’ll disintegrate into a blubbery mass. I need time—distance.
“I have to go home. I’m so behind, a lot of work to catch up on . . .”
He moves in front of me. I stare at his chest, as it rises and falls beneath the soft cotton T-shirt. He takes the clothes from my hands. “You’re not goin’ anywhere, until you talk to me.”
I close my eyes, feeling my pulse throb frantically in my neck.
“What happened, Sofia?”
Against my will, my gaze rises, meeting his. It swims with concern, overflows with confusion . . . with affection and caring.
But it’s not enough.
“What happened? I fell in love with you.” The words come out in a whisper—everything I feel for him a sharp, rigid thorn lodged in my throat. And the pain that he doesn’t feel the same is a noose cinching tighter and tighter. “I love everything about you. I love watching you in court—the way you speak, the way you move. I love how you scrape your lip when you’re trying to think of what to say. I love your voice, I love your hands and the way they touch me. I love . . . the way you look at your daughter, I love how you say my name.” My voice shatters at the end, and my eyes close, releasing a flood.
“No, baby, don’t cry,” he begs.
His hands rise to my face, but I step back, afraid the contact will completely break me. The words rush out. “I know that isn’t what this is for you. And I tried to ignore it, to push it away. But it just hurt so much to see you with. . .”
His head is bowed from my pain. “Sofia, I’m sorry . . . just let me . . .”
I shake my head and squeeze my eyes closed again. “Don’t be sorry—it’s not your fault. I have to just . . . get over it. I will. I can’t . . . I can’t be with you anymore that way, Stanton. I know you’ll be hurting from Jenny . . . But—”
“That’s not what I meant! Slow down, please. Listen to me.”
But if I stop to listen, I’ll never get it all out. He’ll never understand. And I meant what I said—I don’t want to lose him.
“We’ll be friends again. This won’t come between us. We can go back—”
I never finish the words. His mouth covers mine, cutting them off, swallowing them whole. He grasps my face, pulling me to him—touching me like he never has before. With desperation, like he’ll die if he has to let me go.
His desire for me is a palpable, throbbing ache between us—and I submerge myself in it, willing to drown. His fingertips are hot on my skin, scorching enough to scar. And I hope they do. I yearn for remembrance. Proof that I was here, that this is what we felt. That even for a moment . . . we were real.
He turns us and we fall to the bed, the feel of his strength, his rigid length pressing down on me, a welcome weight. I writhe beneath him and Stanton tears at my clothes like they’re the enemy.
It’s not a smart thing to do; it’ll hurt in the morning. But I won’t say no. This . . . this I get to have.
The pant of his breath, the scrape of his teeth, the sound of his moans, the pressure of his wet, perfect kisses. These are the moments—the memories—I’ll hold on to and cherish.
Because they’ll be the last.
22
Stanton
Everyone always talks about how quiet and peaceful the country is. But that’s not totally accurate. The cacophony begins at dusk—grasshoppers, mosquitoes, crickets, and scurrying vermin, louder than you’d ever think possible. And at dawn, there’s the baying of animals, the machine-gun clicking of cicadas, the thumping of hooves, and the deafening sonata of chirping birds.
It’s the birds that pull me from sleep—the deep slumber of a man who’s at peace with a choice he’s made.
Even before my eyes crack open, I know she’s gone.
I feel it in the empty space beside me, the missing scent of shampoo and gardenia and Sofia. I bolt upright, squinting, and look around.
Luggage? Gone.
Jeans on the desk? Nowhere in sight.
Red dress from the floor? Vanished.
Fuck.
How the hell could I fall asleep without talking to her first? Without telling her—
“Sonofabitch!”
I jump into a pair of jeans and run shirtless and barefoot down the stairs. I jog into the house—hoping.
But when I get there, the only person in the kitchen is Brent, sipping a cup of coffee and eating one of my mother’s blueberry muffins.
“Where is she?” I growl—pissed at myself, but all too willing to take it out on him.
He swallows the mouthful of muffin, regarding me with distant, assessing eyes. “She called the hotel about four this morning. Asked for a ride to the airport. Jake wouldn’t let her go alone and changed his ticket to fly back with her.”
My chest goes hollow. I’ve fucked up so badly.
But then I remember— “Sofia doesn’t fly.”
Brent’s gaze warms just a little—with pity. “Then I guess she really wanted to get out of Dodge—because she flew today.”
