“May I?” he asks and squats down, holding out a finger to the grumpy old cat.
“If he lets you,” I say. “He doesn’t like many people.”
It feels easier to focus on Captain than Miles right now. Captain isn’t a surprise. Captain isn’t making my insides turn into a circus.
The cat sees the outstretched finger, and his nose scrunches as he sniffs. He leans out, keeping his body in the house and just poking his head toward Miles. To my complete and utter surprise, Captain sniffs his finger and then rubs his face along it. He lets Miles scratch the top of his head, and to add insult to surprise, he starts purring so loud that I can hear it.
“Traitor,” I whisper to the cat.
“A very handsome boy,” Miles says, and as I pick up Captain—so he doesn’t think about making a run for it—I return myattention to Miles. We stand there for a long few seconds, just looking at each other.
It doesn’t feel real. My brain is trying to catch up with my eyes.
“May I come in?”
“Why are you here, Miles?”
I’m not mad, but I can’t get around my shock.
He tilts his head to the side, taking me in. “You left something in Cabo,” he says.
“You?” I ask, anticipating his joke.
His face softens, a smile cracking open his face. “Worse,” he says, digging in his pocket and producing a small pink shell.
I fight a smile as he hands over the shell. I cradle it in my hands, admiring the pretty pinkness of it before tucking it in my pocket.
“I’m here foryou, Abby. And I have a whole speech prepared and I’m willing to do it standing on your porch, but I think it’s a conversation better had not across a doorway.”
I’m here for you, Abby.
My heart skips another beat.
“Come in,” I say, turning to go up the stairs. He follows me inside, shutting the door behind him.
I release Captain into the house, and he runs away to his room, presumably to hide, likely having reached his social quota for the day. When I turn back around, Miles has wandered into the living room, taking in all my decor and knick-knacks.
“Did you get this in Cabo?” He points to the sea turtle plushie sitting on my bookshelf.
I nod. My throat feels too clogged for words. Miles is here, in my apartment.
“I like your place. I know I’m just seeing the living room, but it’s so you. All the art, the furniture,” he says, pointing to things as he names them. For the second time today, a man iscommenting on my living space, but for the first time, I don’t feel judged. It feels like Miles means it. He seems to like the placebecauseit feels like me, not in spite of it.
I warm at his words. Miles feels like the first day after winter, when you don’t need a heavy coat. Todd came through here like a blizzard, icing this place down, and Miles is here with his heat and his fire, changing the seasons for me.
“Is your job done? The house in Mexico?”
I follow him with my eyes as he wanders into my kitchen, taking in the newer cabinets and stainless-steel appliances. I would prefer a place with more charm, but a girl in need of an apartment will take what she can get.
“It’s not,” he says. “I’m just here until Sunday night.”
He leans against the stove, facing me finally, and the weight of his attention makes my head spin a little.
“And where are you staying?” I ask as I move into the kitchen too, leaning against the sink. He’s within arm’s reach. It wouldn’t take but two steps for me to be in his arms, but I wait. Because the ball is in his court and he needs to start the game.
“I have a hotel booked.”
“So you’re just here for the weekend? You go back Sunday?”
