Page 92 of Three Months Yesterday

“All right,” I say. “Tomorrow.”

“Perfect.” Wyatt claps me on the shoulder, a grin stretched across his face. “What are you doing with the rest of your day?”

“No one’s supposed to know I’m back in the city, so I’m headed back to my apartment. You going to do anything fun?”

“Not really.” He shrugs. “I was on my way to check-in to a hotel.”

I think about it for less than thirty seconds before the words are out of my mouth. “Cancel the reservation. You can stay at my place. I don’t like how big it feels anymore when I’m there by myself.”

Wyatt laughs, easy and warm. “I never turn down free accommodations. Thanks, man.”

The next morning is unseasonably warm. I noticed it the second we stepped off the plane in Lancaster. The air was soft against my face, nothing like the January we left behind in the city this morning.

Wyatt and I parted ways at the airport, him with a grin and a “good luck” I chose not to examine too closely.

Walking up the porch steps to Madison’s house, it almost looks like spring. The windows and front door are open, letting in fresh air through the screens and the sound of a piano drifts out to greet me. I recognize the song before I reach the top step and I realize it’s not a song on the radio. That’s Madison playing one of my songs, an old one. It’s a song from my second album, one I wrote sitting on a hotel bed in Nashville when I was nineteen and didn’t know what I was doing.

I smile as I walk across the porch, ready to give her hell for finally looking me up. Only when I reach for the screen door and it opens without issue, my plans change. Instead of teasing her about missing me so much she had to look me up, I’m going to give her hell about leaving the door unlocked—again.

But I barely make it step in the house before I freeze.

My hand stays on the handle, the screen door half-shut behind me, and I forget every word I was about to say. Madison’s voice fills the house, clear and unguarded, and it’s beautiful. Not the kind of beautiful that’s trained or polished or built for the stage. It’s the kind that comes from somewhere real, somewhere she probably doesn’t even know is there. She sings like she’s alone, like no one’s listening, and the honesty of it lands somewhere behind my ribs and stays.

She’s talented. That’s the first clear thought I manage. She could do this for a living if she wanted to. Walk into a recording studio tomorrow and turn heads. The fact that she never has, that she’s spent her adult life running an inn and helping take care of everyone around here instead makes the sound floating through the house feel like something I wasn’t supposed to hear. Something private and rare.

I close the screen door softly behind me and cross the entryway without making a sound. When I reach the living room, I lean against the archway and watch her.

She’s at the piano, her hair loose around her shoulders as she plays the last few bars, letting the final chord fade. Her hand drops from the keys to her stomach and presses flat against the curve. A smile spread across her face, sweet and private—the kind of smile that isn’t meant for anyone.

“I know, you miss him too. He’ll be back soon,” she whispers.

My chest seizes. Tight and full and overwhelming. It’s the kind of feeling that’s too big for the space it’s in. She’s talking to the baby—about me. Telling him I’ll be back soon, like I’m something important to them. I have to press my shoulder harder into the archway to keep from crossing the room right there. I don’t want to scare her.

Standing straight, I clear my throat, soft and deliberate.

She spins on the bench, eyes wide, one hand still on her stomach, and the shock on her face shifts to something I can’t quite read.

I smile, falling back on the plan I started with. “Finally looked me up, did you?”

She stares at me for a beat and then her face breaks into a smile, the real one, the one I’ve been thinking about since the moment I left her. She stands from the piano bench and takes a few steps toward me, closing some of the space between us.

“After we heard your song on the radio, Jackson asked to listen to more while we made muffins yesterday,” she says through a smile. “I couldn’t tell him no after he’d been such a champ running a bunch of errands with me.”

I laugh, the sound coming out rougher than I expect because she’s close, close enough that I can feel her warmth. I close the last bit of distance between us until there’s only inches that separate us. I don’t try to stop myself from reaching up to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear, my fingers trailing along the curve of her jaw.

“You have a beautiful voice,” I say quietly.

She blushes, the color spreading across her cheeks. “Thank you.” She leans into my touch, her cheek pressing softly against my palm. “What are you doing here?”

I study her, taking in the warmth in her eyes, the openness of her face, and the way she’s leaning into me. “This is exactly where I’m supposed to be. I don’t want to be anywhere else.”

She stares at me, the moment stretching between us. Her eyes search mine and I watch as something shifts in her expression, determination and grit taking over.

“Fuck it,” she whispers.

She rises to her toes, her hands fisting the front of my open flannel, and she pulls me down. Her mouth meets mine, and the kiss is searing—insistent—like she’s been holding back and has finally decided to stop. My hand slides from her jaw to the back of her neck, pulling her closer, and she makes a sound against my lips that I feel all the way through me.

I came home. That’s the only thought that sticks. I came home, and she’s here waiting for me. If I had any doubt I made the right decision, it flew out the moment her lips touched mine.