Page 92 of Chasing the Other Woman

I collapse against him, feeling his heart pounding beneath me as I remain connected to him.

"Sam," he says into my hair as his lips press to the crown of my head, and somehow, that feels like the most intimate part of it all.

For a while, neither of us moves.

Eventually, the room settles around us again. The buzzing lamp. The damp clothes on the floor. The ugly carpet. The storm gear stacked near the door like we might have to run at any second.

I reluctantly move, heading to the bathroom and then emerging and throwing on one of Brooks's shirts. It hangs loose on me, soft from years of washing, the collar stretched out. He watches me button it with an expression that makes my fingers clumsy.

“What?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Nothing.”

“Liar.”

“I missed seeing you in my clothes.”

My mouth trembles, so I climb into bed before he can see too much.

He follows, careful, giving me space he never used to think twice about crossing. I solve that by scooting back until my spine meets his chest. His arm comes around me, loose at first.

I take his hand and pull it against my stomach.

Behind me, he exhales.

Outside, someone laughs in the parking lot. A truck door shuts.

“I’m still scared,” I whisper.

"I am, too, but I guess you already knew that."

“This doesn’t fix everything.”

"I never thought that it did."

His thumb moves once over my knuckles.

“But tonight?” I ask.

His mouth touches the back of my head. “Tonight, I’m yours. Just like I will be until the day I die."

My eyes close.

For the first time in years, I don’t feel him gripping me like he can keep the world from taking me if he holds tight enough.

I feel his arm around me, warm and steady.

I choose to stay.

And Brooks lets that be enough.

Epilogue

SAM

SIX MONTHS LATER

I stand beneath a crooked strand of white Christmas lights in The Funnel Cloud, holding Brooks Carlisle’s hands while Petra cries into a bar napkin beside the jukebox.