Hearing him repeat it now, soft and slow like a memory dusted off, made something ache deep inside me.
I blamed it on nostalgia, on long days and longer years, on not having seen him since before everything fell apart.
I curled up on the couch at Madison’s house with a cup of chamomile tea. Madison came in quietly, rubbing her back.
“So,” she said, smirking. “You went for a walk and bumped into temptation?”
I groaned. “I didn’t go looking for him.”
“But you found him.”
“He owns the bar now.”
“Of course he does. Greyson always was the town’s golden boy.”
“He’s... different,” I admitted.
Madison sat beside me. “Are you okay?”
I hesitated. “It was good to see him.But it’s also weird. It feels like I never left and don’t belong all at once.”
“You belong wherever you decide to be,” Madison said, her voice fierce. “And for the record, wanting something sweet againis okay. Even if it comes with baggage.”
I looked down at my tea. “He called me honey bee.”
Madison grinned. “Still got it.”
I shook my head, laughing softly.
Madison gave me a tight smile. “I’m trying to picture what life’s going to look like in a few months. Just me… and her.”
I moved to scoot beside her, both of us facing each other. “You’re not alone.”
“You’re here for now.”
I paused. “I’m here. Period.”
That got a soft look from her, the kind I’d only seen a handful of times, the kind that said she believed in me even when I didn’t.
She adjusted herself on the couch and winced. “My spine feels like it’s about to break in half.”
“Want me to bring you ice cream or your heating pad?”
She gave me a smirk. “Or both.”
We laughed, and for a moment, it was easy. Comfortable. Real.
“You know, I used to think we’d end up in New York. You would be publishing bestsellers and I would be running a glamorous PR firm.”
I smiled. “You in your power suits. Me in a cardigan and coffee-stained jeans.”
“Exactly.”
There was a beat of silence. Then she looked up at me, her voice gentler. “You didn’t call for a while after you left. And I didn’t ask why. I figured when you were ready, you’d come back.”
“I wasn’t ready,” I admitted. “For anything. Not to write. Not to face what happened. Not even to be myself.”
She reached out and grabbed my hand, her grip strong despite the swelling in her fingers. “But you came back.”
