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“Brod, what is this? What are these?”
I leaned into the door, just wearing the towel I’d tied around my waist after our post-sex shower that also featured some indulgent enjoyment of each other’s bodies.
“What do they look like, baby?”
She scrambled to right the shoe box that had evidently come soaring out of the closet when she yanked the sheets down. I should’ve thought it through from the start, but honestly couldn’t even bring myself to feel embarrassed. She knew what she meant to me now. This wasn’t news anymore.
El’s throat worked as she ran her fingers across the mess of postcards and she settled down on her bare ass, crossing her legs. Chuckling, I snatched up the blanket that lived at the foot of my bed and crossed the space. Kneeling beside her, I gingerly wrapped her up in it. She didn’t say a thing, just pinched it in her fingers around her throat, the furrow in her brow not giving way as she scoured through one after the other, gently setting them back in the shoe box.
“You…you kept my letters.”
“Yeah,” I grunted, the word heavier than it ought to be in my mouth. Like a stone where water should be. The next one was fresh—unbent, the ink not yet faded—and I knew what she’d see when she turned it over in her fingers. The Bellagio looked back at her, and when she turned to me with parted lips, her eyes were more than a little glossy. “You kept all my postcards.”
“Even our new one. Well, except for the Leaning Tower of Pizza, but that’s because your brother spilled a beer on it, and I couldn’t exactly salvage it at that point.”
She giggled, shaking her head as she added, “I still say a stack of pizzas is way cooler than a crumbling ode to ancient architecture.”
“I guess if I had to lose that one, I’m glad it was from Chicago.”
“Dear Broderick,” she cleared her throat, eyes flicking to me expectantly before continuing to read. “We’re in Austin this week. It’s hotter than Hades’ seventh circle, but the street tacos are decent, and we’re hitting the downtown music circuit, so that should be fun. Wish you were here.” She arched a speculative brow. “Not exactly something to write home about. Dear Broderick, turns out Manhattan isn’t really any better than any other overcrowded, overpriced, over-hyped city. But the plays are wonderful, and the food is spectacular. Met a musician that would put Miles Davis to shame, and I know you’d never admit that to me, so I won’t ask you to, but go give him a listen. And your secret is safe with me. He’s better, isn’t he?” Smirking, she looked up to me like I owed her an answer.
I leaned back into the bed, studying her, studying me. “He was good, but no Miles.”
“Bullshit.”
“Nah. You oversold him. Or maybe it was the live performance.”
“God, the food there was impeccable.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Even your snobby ass would be impressed.”
“I thought you liked my ass.”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t bite-able. Just a lil’ pretentious.”
“Come here, you have something on your face,” I teased, lunging forward as I licked my thumb. She squealed and rolled backward, but I pursued, settling my body over hers and planting an obnoxious, over the top kiss on her cheek. Laughing as she dramatically wiped at her face, I kissed the tip of her nose. “Oh hey, I remember that one.” I snagged one stray that had gone flying away from the pile. “Dear Broderick?—”
She snatched it from my fingers, holding it up above her face, revealing an idyllic tropical beach with a lawn chair on the front. Frankly, good for her, because now I could return my attention to kissing down her jaw and neck.
“Dear Broderick, it finally happened. I found the man of my dreams—oh my gosh, I remember this. I was so sloshed that night—Never mind that he’s seventy-three and happily married to his high school sweetheart, Ronald makes the best jerk chicken in the Caribbean and can recite the entire rugby team roster. His wife, Ester, is also very kind, but her jerk chicken just didn’t kidnap my heart like Ronald’s did. Wish you were here.”
“That one made me laugh. You would pick a man based on culinary prowess.”
“Yes, well, food is my love language.” She shook her head, looking down at the stack of images and faded written notes. “I cannot believe you kept all these.”
“Yes, you can,” I countered flatly. “It was always gonna end up being me and you, El.”
Those gray-blues looked like I’d just ignited them. Like a molten core churned beneath the steely surface as she studied me. “Why did it take you so long, then?”
“You know why,” I choked out, throat thick. Guilt had consumed so much of my life. Guilt for wanting her when I shouldn’t. For harboring that truth away from her brothers. Guilt for being entirely uninterested in all of my mother’s blind dates, despite knowing Sarah wasn’t a healthy alternative. Hell, even now, finally having what I always wanted, guilt was my companion for not immediately telling Rhy and James the truth of it.
“And why is this different?”
“Because some losses are survivable. Others are not. Watching you drift away was the slowest kind of death. But seeing you slip through my fingers in Vegas, when I had you right there… that was an accelerant.”
Pensive, Elora studied me, and it took every ounce of my spine to hold her inquisitive gaze. “Are you saying I moved into the latter category?”
