“I love my brother and sister, but you’re my person. Forever. You can’t get rid of me.” She holds me in a fierce hug that betrays just how much strength lives in her small body. “Regret is a hard way to live. When you look back on your life, is that what you want to remember?”
Her head tilts, examining me before tapping my phone. “Good night, love. Maybe you should read those texts you pretend I don’t know about.”
I grip the edge of the counter and stare at her retreating figure. I try to recall all the reasons. The obstacles. The pain. But James’s lopsided smile is the first thing that comes to mind. And I pick up my phone to read through a year's worth of his daily thoughts.
Twenty-Seven
Windhowlsagainstthewindows; the soft crackle of dying embers in the fireplace is punctuated by the steady click-clack of my heels against the wood grain as I pace the kitchen. Every message is another crack.
Skating Stud:Coffee shop was out of oat milk. I can’t stop adding it. Who knew it was so much better than black coffee?
Skating Stud:Sometimes I think buildings are easier to understand than people.
Skating Stud:Ran over a covered bridge this morning. Do you still think certain pressures can make things stronger?
Skating Stud:It’s been raining for days. Just finished The Paris Apartment. Have you read it?
Skating Stud:Mom called. She mentioned you were visiting the shelter. Said you’ve been running a lot. I hope you’re taking care of yourself.
Hundreds of messages like this. Never asking for forgiveness or explaining away what happened that morning. Just little thoughts reminding me he’s still trying to show up. To prove he’s still there. Waiting.
I hop up onto the counter, my legs dangling, and fill the quiet kitchen with a song I listen to when I can’t outrun the longing. When the hurt creeps out, no matter how deep I try to bury it, when I want to stop pretending.
The last message came this morning.
Skating Stud:Another night with no sleep. Just watched the moon. Wondered if you saw it too.
The opening beat pulses through the speakers, low and sultry, and I shut my eyes, letting myself feel it all. His words echo:“I wanted it to be you. Begging me. Pleading me. Needing me as much as I need you.”Rihanna’s voice follows—unyielding, unapologetic—about wanting and being wanted, about a woman who knows her worth and refuses to apologize for her desires.
Then the side door blows open. James steps inside, like an apparition in the desert.
He’s in a suit, tie loose. His hair is tousled from repeatedly running his hands through it. A few gray strands show at his temples, new lines near his eyes. His jaw is dusted with week-old stubble.
He says nothing. Neither do I.
The memories hover as ghosts in the room, pressing in around us, but I meet his stare. His gaze burns a path along my skin, cataloging the changes in me, taking in every detail. A sharp intake of breath escapes my lips under his scrutiny. His pupils darken, a primal reaction he can’t hide.
“Want a drink?” I ask, my voice lower, huskier than normal.
“Sure.” He sets his bag down with a quiet thud, never looking away.
My heels land with a sharp tap as I move to pour him a glass, giving myself a minute to think, to breathe, to process. I wasn’t ready for this. I wasn’t prepared to see him alone, with only the hush of the house and no distractions or interruptions.
A year ago, I told him no. Said this was too much.
Is that the truth, though? When you've spent a lifetime of lying and suppressing, separating what you really want from what you believe is possible, how do you even know?
Our fingers brush as I hand him the glass. That charge, the energy that has always burned white-hot and electric between us, zings at that smallest touch. His nostrils flare, but I snatch my hand away and climb back onto the counter.
The smoldering voice sings of need barely veiled. It settles over us, a whispered confession neither of us is ready to say aloud. Three years of yearning and wanting. Never touching.
James doesn’t speak. He moves, closing the space until he’s in front of me. In that pause, so much passes across his face: hurt, uncertainty, desire. They war for dominance.
But I feel the pull of him like gravity, a force greater than my resistance, stronger than the walls I’ve built—and part my legs, a silent invitation for him to close the remaining space. He steps between them without hesitation. The heat radiating from his body is tangible, pressing against me, surrounding me.
My hem rides higher with every inch he claims.
Without tights, there would be little left to the imagination.
