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I’ve been home six weeks, and I’m too nervous to face the man who probably knows the deepest parts of my soul.
I know it was real.
But a year is a long time.
Has he moved on?
Is he happier without me?
Will my coming back also bring him back in time?
I haven’t reached out because I fear the answers.
“See you later, baby girl.” My mother kisses my cheek.
“Bye, Mama.”
Music spills from every room when I go inside. The smell of fresh paint still lingers in the air. My smile is so wide it’s painful as I stroll down the halls, peeking through the windows to see happy children.
My room is on the ground floor, with a brand new piano in the center, and Fresh Air Blue on the walls.
Running my fingers through my hair—it’s still shoulder length because I don’t need it to hide behind anymore—I sit at the piano and play while I wait.
The bell rings, indicating the end of a lesson and the start of a new one, but I keep playing.
I try to convince myself I’m imagining the tingle along my spine, the familiar awareness that prickles on my skin. But it’s so powerful, I can’t ignore it. Turning, I slowly lift my head, and my fingers slip from the keys.
Home.
Dressed head to toe in a dark tailored suit, white dress shirt, black tie, and the most breath-taking smirk. He still doesn’t have a hair out of place.
All the best memories come flooding back.
It knocks the breath out of me in a whoosh. And with the sight of him—hands in his pockets and muscular shoulders almost filling my doorway—my eyes water whether I want them to or not.
“Hi,” I say, but my voice is trembling, and it sounds more like a choked whisper.
His eyes stay on mine and in a second, every memory washes over me.
Every time he touched me.
Every whisper.
Every kiss.
Every time I screamed his name.
Every time he held me just to keep me together.
He’s only a couple of feet away, but it feels like miles.
A slow curl on the corner of his mouth and I melt all the way to my feet.
I thought the time away would lessen the zing that echoes in my chest from just the sight of him. I thought leaving our vacuum would put things into perspective.
It does, but not in the way I expected.
The pull is still there—the unexplainable need to put one foot in front of the other just to be near him. I stand from the stool to feel closer.
