Page 117 of All The Ways to Miss You

“I’m sorry too.” My guilty gaze falls. It was cocky of me to plan so far ahead, to be so sure I would get what I wanted.

“My news isn’t great either,” he admits. “But know I wanted the house to be yours.”

My heart seizes at his words, even though I’ve been expecting this. I’ve been mentally preparing for weeks. Still, I can’t bring myself to glance at him. If I do, I may fall apart.

“I’ve received another offer, and the truth is, even though I’ve been putting off selling it, it doesn’t make financial sense anymore. I need to let it go.”

I nod, though I’m still processing. The house will never be mine.

Remaining stoic, I suck in the crisp air and lift my chin. I’ve come to realize things happen for a reason, and there will be other houses. Maybe even one that’s better for me, although I can’t fathom the thought right now.

“I understand,” I murmur, telling him what he needs to hear. “It’s a good thing. Even if I’m not the one to fix it up, I hope another person will. Maybe even a family.”

“That would be nice.” Deep crease lines sprout from the edges of his eyes and the corners of his mouth. “I knew you’d understand, but I hope it won’t change our relationship, because I’m kind of dependent on those chocolates. It’s an addiction.”

He shakes his body, like he needs a sugar fix. I laugh and lean into him, bumping his shoulder with mine.

“And I’d sure miss you something fierce,” he adds.

“I’m afraid you’re stuck with me and my chocolates.” I place my arm around his shoulders and squeeze.

I understand the reason this happened. It wasn’t the house I needed in my life; it was Ozzy. We needed each other.

fifty-seven

For the first time in weeks, I return to my apartment. Everything is just how I left it on the morning of the marathon. A coffeepot sits in the sink, filled with water, along with a mug and spoon. At my feet, I drop a trash bag filled with my dirty clothing.

Needing to warm up, I rub my hands over my arms and turn on the heater in the living room. When it clicks three times and makes a dying groan, I kick it, but it doesn’t help. I sigh and move to my next option, the heater in the bedroom. After some whiny protests, this one works.

I cup my hands together and blow warm air between them. When I sent Aggie for clothes, I should have asked her to turn one heater on low.

I shrug out of my coat and search for a sweater to layer on, but pause at the sight of the cardboard box sitting on my bed—the one left on my doorstep the night before the marathon. I consider its contents and the drawings in my books. With the new information, I connect the items in the box to Evan, not my parents.

Turning the box around, I look closer at the return address on the outside flap. It’s Aggie’s writing, not my mom’s or dad’s. She’s been a part of this more than she’s let on, at least for those few days that she knew. She really is Team Evan.

I’m not mad. How can I be after everything she’s done for me? I know she would never do anything to hurt me. Is that what she sees in Evan too? Someone who wouldn’t hurt me? With our chats the last few weeks, it’s become clear she’s sympathetic to his perspective.

Ready for answers, I lift the box and carry it back downstairs to Evan’s apartment. I steady it in one arm while sliding the key into the lock with the other. Inside, it’s warm.

“Hello?” I call out even though he shouldn’t be here. His apartment looks like he picked up and left right after I did. Our water glasses remain on the coffee table.

I shut the door and return to my room. I stumble over the label, but when I snap on the light and step inside, I don’t experience the same panic as the first time. Maybe it’s sunk in, or maybe it’s something else entirely.

I set the box on the bed and step to the wall. My gaze wanders over a pinboard. There are photos of far-off places, inspirational quotes, dried flowers, movie tickets, and a million other tiny artifacts. I smile when I find a photo of Evan and me. We’re younger. His hair is a little longer, his face thinner, but he’s just as handsome. I pluck it from the board and slide it into the pocket of my jeans.

I examine the other items in the room. The clothes in my closet are a wide range of colors, not just black. I find a lot of running clothes. At least that hasn’t changed.

At the computer, I stop to trace the letters on the keyboard with a fingertip. What will I find on it? Old emails? Old homework? More photos? I may have run away from some of these items in my past, but I’m in a different place than I was even a few weeks ago. Despite my lingering struggles, I’m ready for answers. With some of my memories returning, I’ve been anxious to find proof they’re real.

After I’ve gone through what can be seen on the surface, I sit on the bed to stare at the dressing table filled with costume jewelry and framed photos.

“We paid twenty bucks for it at Goodwill.”

I don’t react to Evan’s voice behind me. Instead, I try to remember that day.

“I hated it,” he says as he steps inside, “but you had to have it. You said it had pretty details and you wanted to give it a second life. So we borrowed a pickup truck, brought it home, and you painted it.”

He stands in front of me now, pointing down. “You accidentally dumped paint on the floor while you were working. If you look closely, you can see teal paint in the crevices of the wood.”