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Adam’s gaze dropped to her knee and she tugged at the hem of her dress. “Stare much?”
He leaned close and whispered, “Did they have a shorter dress?”
She already regretted the purchase. Now, she fidgeted uncomfortable. “Don’t be a jerk.”
He glanced at her cleavage. “I can see all of you.”
“Adam, I could wear this to church.”
His eyes gave the material a once over, from thigh to chest. He sat back and stared over the driver’s shoulder. She crossed her arms and glared out the window.
Fine. The dress was a little short and the straps could have been a little thicker. But it was August. This was what women wore.
She scoffed and shifted, irritated they were trapped in a car and she couldn’t get away from him. Her foot tapped on the floor and his hand settled over her bare knee, stilling the movement.
She gave him a sidelong glance and he met it with his own. She should have just stayed in what she’d been wearing. But how would she have explained that to everyone at Jimbo’s?
She scoffed again.
When they reached her apartment complex, he paid the cab and it drove away. They could take her car back, she figured, until she faced the exterior door and realized she didn’t have her keys.
“Crap.”
“Language.”
“I don’t have my keys.” His fault.
He nudged her aside and held his hand, fingers wide, a few inches from the knob. The lock clicked.
“Did you just...”
He flashed a smile and held the door for her.
“You can move things with your mind?”
“Small things. Nothing too exciting.”
She blinked. He just Jedi mind tricked a door open. It was freaking epic. That would be the first thing she’d make him teach her after she changed.
When they reached her apartment, he did the hand lock trick again. “That’s awesome.”
He followed her inside and she paused at the strange sense that nothing had changed yet she somehow expected everything to feel different. An empty coffee mug sat on the counter the way she left it. Her books still lay open on the table. And no one had been by to fold the laundry she’d been putting off.
“What’s the matter?”
She frowned at his question, unable to explain how utterly insignificant her unchanged home made her feel. “No one’s been here.”
“Were you expecting someone?”
She hadn’t been expecting to come home to caution tape and sirens, but a note taped to the door might have been nice. She found her phone by the bed. Four missed calls and six texts. That was it.
Disliking the sense that she was mostly invisible to everyone but Adam, she tucked the phone into her purse and placed it by the door. She scanned the apartment.
Boxes of memories stared back at her, each one a painful piece of her past she’d successfully avoided for eighteen months. She flinched when he placed his hands on her arms, surprising her from behind.
“You’re sad.”
She stared at one box in particular. “I’ve lived here for a year and a half and I never unpacked.” It wasn’t a home, just a pit stop for her to catch her breath.
She regarded the apartment with strange detachment. But the boxes...
She couldn’t bear to open them, nor could she bear to get rid of them. Her mother’s life was packed inside. Memories and photos. Keepsakes and recipe cards. Burned birthday candles she’d so lovingly lit that should have held wishes but only held sadness now.
His lips pressed to the back of her shoulder. “We can bring them with us.”
She shook her head. Why, so she could lug them around for her next life—a life that would be unrecognizable to the one she knew now and the one she had before?
Pain tightened in her chest. The tape, holding the flaps of the boxes closed, had been pulled so many times it no longer stuck to the cardboard. Every time she’d opened those boxes, she lost hours to sitting in tears. She didn’t want to do that now, in front of him.
If her mother were alive, what would she say about him? Would she believe any of this? Would she think him a good man? Would she trust him?
Annalise smiled. Her mother would have loved him.
Her fingers pressed over his, still resting on her arms. If she had to choose between him and these boxes, she’d choose him because he was real. The boxes were just symbols of memories, triggers she didn’t need, to remember her mom. But there was one thing she wanted.
She went to the large box in the corner. “You’re allowed to use batteries, right?”
He hesitated. “In some cases.”
This would have to be one of those cases. “Good.”
She pulled back the tape with a rip and lifted the old boom box out. Any music saved to her cloud would be useless on a farm without electricity or Wi-Fi. But CD’s would still work. Thankfully, she’d kept her mother’s.
