Page 29 of XOXO, Yours

The house goes quiet. My kind of quiet. The kind I've built on purpose, one careful rule at a time.

It’s never felt this empty before.

I lie there and tell myself all the true things. He's twenty-two. He's Oliver's younger brother. Cora is having a Blankenship baby, and a family like that shows up for every birthday party and baptism and Fourth of July from now until the end of time. This had to be one night. It was one night. A very, very good one. Now it's over, and that's the whole point.

Clean. Contained. Nobody gets hurt.

Eventually I give up on sleep and pad into the kitchen for water.

There's a receipt tucked under the jar of paintbrushes by my coffee maker. It's from the taco place: two orders of carne asada and extra guac. I flip it over. He wrote on the back in pencil, with one of my good drawing pencils. The thief.

Your garbage disposal is dying. In case of tacos (or plumbing emergencies), here's my number.

—P

I read it twice. Then I stand there in my dark kitchen in nothing but a T-shirt, grinning at a taco receipt like an idiot.

I should throw it away. That's what you do with one night. You don't keep souvenirs.

I open the junk drawer instead and slide it in under the takeout menus and the spare batteries, where I'll never have to look at it.

Not because I'm going to use it. I'm just not in the habit of throwing away perfectly good phone numbers. Plus I might want to remember that taco place and what I ordered.

When I crawl back into bed, something silky slithers against my foot. His tie, wedged between the mattress and the footboard.

I'll give it to Cora to give back to him. Probably. Eventually.

I drape it over the corner of my headboard and fall asleep before I can think too hard about why.

chapter

nine

Payton

Nine days.

It's been nine days, and I can't text her, because I don't have her number. She has mine. I'm starting to figure out that's how Jules likes everything: she's the one holding the door.

So I've been checking my phone like a teenager. On the tractor. In the feed store. In the shower, which is how I learned my phone isn't as water-resistant as the commercials claim.

Tuesday night I'm at my parents' table with a plate of Mom's chicken-fried steak. Dad's complaining about hay prices, and my phone buzzes against my thigh. Unknown number.

Unknown: You busy?

I'm not a man who believes in signs. That's a lie. I absolutely am.

Me: Nope.

Mom passes me the mashed potatoes. I don't take them.

Unknown: Want to come over?

Me: Yep.

Unknown: You don't even know why.

Me: I have hopes.