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Rascal smiles, and Atty slings an arm around my shoulder. “That’s the only Shiloh I’ve ever known. Welcome back.”
It’s dark by the time I get to the house that somehow feels like it holds a lifetime of memories for such a short time I was here. I park the Jeep on the side of the road because I’m not sure if this will be a prolonged or quick trip.
All of the lights are out in the front except for one downstairs that looks like the dining room lamp. I pause with my hand poised to knock, a sense of dread holding me back.
What if he doesn’t want to see me?
What if he’s finally started healing, and I rip the wound right back open?
What if knocking wakes the kids?
I honestly didn’t think this through.
Impulsive as ever.
So, instead I stand there with my hands in my pockets awkwardly shifting my feet as if I’m contemplating getting back in the car and going home.
I had a long time to think about what I want and what parts of me I’m willing to compromise to get it. Six hours to look at all the ugly shit inside and come up with some way to meld it into something I can handle.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and even though I know it won’t be who I want, I’m still a little disappointed to see Atty’s name on the screen.
Funny what can change in a couple of weeks.
Atty: Fight for him like you fought for me.
I don’t know if I can give him what he needs, if my half-hearted promises can mean anything. I don’t know if I have it in me to let someone truly see the disaster in my mind, but it feels like if I don’t try now, then I’ll never get another chance.
That will be the end.
I switch over the conversation and hit send before I can second guess it.
Me: Come outside.
Silence for several minutes. No reply back. A tiny little ‘read’ pops up beneath it. Another minute of nothing.
Maybe he’s ignoring me and I’m freezing my ass off for nothing.
The door swings open just as I pocket the phone, and there he is. His hair is shaved down, and he’s dressed in only a red and black pair of pajama bottoms.
“What are you…?”
I take one step into the house, and when he doesn’t back away, only looks down at me with his bare chest rising and falling like he’s losing his breath, I take another.
What are you going to say?
Nothing.
I lace my fingers behind his head, his hands fall to my waist like it’s second nature, and I press up until our lips meet.
Until his rigid posture relaxes.
Until one hand leaves my waist and cups the back of my head, tilting it for a deeper kiss.
And then I break off before I can get carried away, but I keep him close. Because I only get one go at this.
One go to do this right.
“I’ve wanted that,” I say, lips brushing his as I speak, “over and over, infinitely, since we kissed at the party.”
