“But even if you didn’t want this,” she says, squaring her shoulders, “I would still want it for myself.”
Proud sparks set off in my chest. A slow smile pulls at the corners of my lips, and I lean closer until they’re touching the curve of her ear. “That’s my girl.”
I hear her inhale, feel it as her chest scrapes against mine. All my senses are heightened. I feel high, like if I closed my eyes and touched her, I wouldn’t be able to tell if she was real or one of the characters in the stories I’ve learned about the stars. Of gods and goddesses placing pieces of themselves in the sky.
She doesn’t feel real right now. She feels like a mirage. She feelsethereal.
I want to devour her.
“Jack?” she breathes, hands coming up to my biceps. Her touch sends electric shots all through me.
I fist my hands in the loose fabric at her hips, head dipping to rest in the curve of her shoulder. “Just trying to keep myself together, make sure this is all real.”
“It’s real,” she promises, running her hands up the slope of my shoulders. Her nails scratch against my scalp. “But I don’t want you to keep yourself together.”
Her words unlock something in me, a restless energy pulsing beneath my skin. I nod against her, then turn, dragging my lips up the slope of her neck, not kissing, but tracing. All the places that have haunted me for months. The spot where her hair always falls from her braid. The hollow of her throat where she sprays her perfume, where the scent of her is the strongest. The place on her chest where her collar meets skin, where I can feel each rough inhale.
When I make my way back to her ear, I whisper, “I don’t want you to keep yourself together, either.”
In the morning, I make Stevie breakfast. She stands in the kitchen, her bottom lip caught between her teeth, holding back her smile, as she watches and tries not to intervene. But I’ve learned a few things from her, and I manage to make biscuits that only end up slightly burnt, homemade gravy that turns out delicious, fried eggs, and fresh-squeezed orange juice.
She watches me turning the oranges on a stainless steel juicer. “Why is that thing even here?”
“No idea. I found it in one of the cupboards. I think someone must have left it.”
“Well,” she says, leaning a hip on the counter. “I’m very impressed.”
She’s wearing one of my flannels pulled over a tank top with the thinnest straps I’ve ever seen. I threw the flannel at her this morning, and told her if she wanted to eat, she was going to have to stop distracting me.
Her laugh was musical. I know what it feels like when pressed into my shoulder, how it will turn into a gasp when I sink my teeth into hers. We kissed and touched on my sofa, pressed together until our lips hurt and our skin was buzzing. We talked until her lids grew heavy, her words slurring together as she swore she was wide awake. When she finally passed out, her head tucked into the crook of my shoulder, I carried her to my bed, and tucked her beneath the sheets, watching the way the moonlight played over her skin.
If she hadn’t been there when I woke up, I would have thought it was all a dream.
But when she rolled over and smiled at me, her eyes still heavy with sleep, I knew I couldn’t have imaginedthis.
When we sit down at the table, I keep sneaking glances at her as we eat, still unable to believe she’s really here. That she left Fontana Ridge and drove across the country to find me.
“What do you want to do today?” I ask. “I could take you into town, let you browse the bookshop. It’s surprisingly large for how small the town is. Or we could go on a hike. There’s so many good ones around here. Or ride horses on one of the trails. Or I could take you to meet Evan. He’s going to be thrilled. Or—”
Stevie cuts me off with a hand on my forearm. Her smile is soft as she shakes her head, her loose hair tumbling over her shoulders, knocking off one of the sleeves of my flannel. “We can do anything. There’s no rush.” Her smile grows into something bigger, brighter. Incandescent. “We’ve got all the time in the world.”
Thesunriseshiningthroughthe windows of the Airstream wakes me up. It’s dappled, pinpricking through the ever-present clouds. I climb out of the bed, and tiptoe from the bedroom, pausing to snatch a blanket off the back of the sofa before letting myself out the door.
Through the trees, a rocky, jagged coastline stretches out, waves crashing on the rocks, sending salty mist up into the sky. The air eventastessalty here on the Oregon Coast, and it’s always a little damp, making my hair frizz, even in my braid.
I love it.
I come out here every morning and sit on a rock surrounded by trees, facing the Pacific Ocean, and watch the sun rise over the blue horizon. As much as I yearned to travel, I never thought I’d find a sunrise prettier than the ones that crest over the Smoky Mountains. When Jack and I rang in the New Year in Larkspur, I thought the same thing. Nothing could compare to sunrise over the Rockies. Then, after scrolling Amy’s job listings and finding one here, in a small, coastal Oregon town, I was proven wrongagain. I’ve spent every morning of the last nine weeks this way, and I plan to spend every one of the next four doing the same.
Ten minutes later, the Airstream door swings open, and I turn, smiling as I see a sleepy Jack climbing down the stairs. I never sit out here for long, but I never want to wake him either. He’s carrying two mugs of coffee, the steam billowing in the chilly morning air. His jacket hood is pulled over his hair, hiding his bed head, unzipped to reveal the airbrush T-shirt we made in Gatlinburg. It’s one of my favorite discoveries of the last few months. Back at the cabin, we never really saw each other before we were made up in the morning, ready for the day, but now I get to see him undone.
He settles down next to me on the rock, pressing a kiss to my temple, and hands me a cup of coffee. It’s in one of the mugs he got in Fontana Ridge, his coffee in the other. It makes me smile when we use them, feeling like I have a little bit of home with me, even this far away. I hadn’t known when I suggested he buy it that I would be the one using it, longing for a little slice of Fontana Ridge.
“Morning,” he says, voice rough. This is another thing I’ve discovered, how he sounds when he first wakes up, like gravel crunching beneath my tires.
I flash him a smile. “Morning.”
He pulls out his phone, and the sunrise reflects off the screen. “I got an email from Amy with placement options.”
