“Twice.”
That nearly dropped me.
“Twice?”
A watery laugh escaped her.
“The first one was ridiculous.”
I smiled before I could stop myself.
“What’d it look like?”
“So much lace.” She wiped quickly beneath her eyes.
Something tightened painfully inside my chest.
We never got any of it.
Sixteen stolen years.
Flick watched the realization hit me in real time.
“I used to picture our house,” she whispered softly.
Jesus.
“Flick…”
“No, let me say it.”
Her fingers curled gently into the front of my shirt.
“I pictured a wraparound porch because you always wanted one.” A shaky smile touched her mouth. “And a yellow kitchen.”
My heart physically hurt.
“You remember that?”
“You told me when you were seventeen.”
I stared at her.
Completely wrecked.
Because she remembered things I forgot I ever said.
Outside, thunder rolled low again.
But now the upstairs felt warm.
Full.
Alive.
Like maybe we were standing in the middle of all the life somebody stole from us.
Then downstairs?—
