He nods and leans over, bumping his shoulder with mine. When he doesn’t move away, the heat of his body seeps into mine. “Tell her that too. You don’t have to sweep everything under the rug to work through it.”
When I look over at him, this close, I notice the purple smudges beneath his eyes. “You look tired. Long couple of shifts?”
He nods and stretches out his legs in front of us, crossing one leg over the other. It reminds me of how he looked that first night in the hospital, and for a second I can’t believe I’ve ended up here, with that same man in my home. How important he’s become to me since then.
“Halloween night is always crazy at any hospital, and then the past couple of days have just been unusually busy.” He rolls his head against the couch suction, turning to face me. “My recruiter emailed me some placement options for after my contact ends.”
My stomach twists, the thought of him leaving hitting me all over again. “Any of them interest you?”
I’m proud of the way my voice sounds steadier than I feel.
His eyes oscillate between mine for a long moment before he says, “There’s one in Montana. I’m thinking about taking it.”
My brows lift, and I lean back a little farther so I can see more of him. “Really?”
“Maybe. I don’t know.” He drags the heel of his boot over a piece of peeling laminate, watching it lift beneath his sole. “It’s in Billings, still two hours from home, but it’s the closest I’d be in years. I could go visit my brother if I wanted.”
I watch him carefully, allowing my gaze to trace the contours of his face. The hollows beneath his cheekbones, the stubble a few shades darker than his hair. His eyelashes, thick and so pale on the ends they’re almost invisible. The curve of his nose and the bow of his lips. A profile that has become so familiar to me in such a short amount of time.
“Is that what you want?”
He looks back at me, eyes lake water blue. “I don’t know.” His throat bobs with a swallow. “Maybe. Evan called and invited me to Thanksgiving. He always does, but I’m thinking about actually taking him up on it this year.”
Thanksgiving is in only a couple of weeks, and although I realistically knew he’d be leaving before then, it suddenly seems so close.
“You should go,” I tell him. “If you think you’re ready.”
“I can’t imagine it without her there,” he says, toeing the linoleum once more. “But maybe it’s time.”
“Maybe, but if not, that’s okay too.”
His eyes fix on mine, searching. “You’re too good, Stevie Lynch.”
I don’t feel good. I feel selfish, because if I could keep him here for Thanksgiving, for all the holidays and all the mundane days in between, I would.
Igotomymom first, when Jack’s eyelids get too heavy and he finally drives himself back to the cabin to sleep. He makes me promise to come over this evening, and I relent, knowing I’m not strong enough to resist him.
I don’t call before I show up at my parent’s house, and when I arrive, I’m surprised to find them both there and my grandma gone, until I remember Mom mentioning signing her up for a bingo night at church once a week. So it’s just us in the house, like it always used to be.
They’re sitting at the kitchen table, drinking mugs of decaf like they do every night after dinner. When they see me, their heads turn in tandem, matching looks of sadness on their faces.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey, Stevie girl,” Dad says, getting up to give me a hug. I catch a wince on his face when he stands, but for once, I don’t comment on it. He will let us know if he needs help.
“Hi,” Mom says, looking up at me from beneath her lashes.. Her voice is soft, hesitant.
A part of me withers at the sound of it, thinking I should have come sooner this week, talked things through. But another part of me feels proud I kept my distance long enough to gather my thoughts and work through my emotions.
“Want to sit?” Dad asks. “I can get you a cup of coffee.”
I nod and settle into my old chair at the table, watching as Dad moves around the counter, unsteadily, gripping it as he passes. I catch myself worrying my lip as I watch him, but hold my tongue. Mom’s eyes are on me when I finally return my attention to her. Her expression is forlorn as she trails a finger around the rim of her mug.
“How have you been?” she asks.
“I don’t know,” I tell her honestly as my dad returns to the table, coffee mug in hand. It’s one I made in an elective pottery class in high school, the handle off-center and wonky, but when I brought it home, you’d think I had been a child prodigy.
He slides the mug across the table to me and lowers himself into his chair slowly. His eyes, so similar to my own, latch onto mine. “Your mom told me about the conversation you had.”
