A light laugh crawls up my chest and out my lips. “That was nice of you.”
His blue eyes are intent on me. “I don’t know about nice. I have a lot of time to make up for.”
“No, it was nice,” I argue.
“You brought him his usual?” he asks while sliding his arm around me.
The hairs on my arm reach out for him and my lips quiver as he leans in and then slowly straightens back up with one of the coffees in his hand, stepping back slightly and allowing oxygen to refill my lungs. He looks at the coffee cup. “Americano with a splash of cream?”
“It’s Joe’s,” I murmur.
He takes a sip and nods. “Want to split the scone?”
“Deal,” I say.
He begins to walk toward the door, scooping up my coffee and the bag with the scone in it on his way out of his old bedroom.
This old bedroom where I used to try to get him to understand that poetry isn’t just something you hear, but something you feel. Where I read chapters out loud because he said he understood it better when I read it than when he did.
Sunlight filters through the blinds, glistening on a silver frame on the nightstand. I tilt my head. I’ve been in here a few times since Milo left—dusting and vacuuming, trying to help Joe—and that frame was never here.
I walk to it, gently picking up the small frame.
I’ve never seen this photo.
It’s Milo and me.
He’s carrying me on his back, and my arms are stretched out wide as I smile up to the clear sky above. Milo’s not looking at the camera either. He’s looking up at me, his eyes wide and a lingering laugh traced upon his face.
“You coming, Bookworm?” Milo’s voice crawls into the room from the kitchen.
My old nickname.
I swallow hard and put the frame back down.
“Coming!” I shout back.
I walk to the kitchen, where Milo’s already put the scone on a small plate. He’s standing by the table, staring at my drink.
“What is this?” he asks.
“My coffee,” I answer.
“This isn’t an iced vanilla latte with a pump of caramel.”
I shake my head. “Nope.”
He reads the words off my cup. “It’s a raspberry-white-chocolate mocha.”
“It is.”
“Interesting.”
“Lacey says it’s really good,” I say as I step toward him, swiping my drink out of his hand and taking a sip, leaving a red imprint on the lid.
He’s staring at me with that charming grin—the one that used to make my stomach somersault. It’s attempting a tuck and roll right now.
“What?” I say.
