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And because I was late, the universe seemed to be conspiring to make me even more late. All three legs of my flight had been delayed. The last was the airline’s fault, the second, the fault of the weather, but the first… well, that was all me, so it was kind of a dominoeffect.
Once I’d finally touched down in Vancouver—thirteen hours late—it seemed to take an unusually long time for my bags to come down the carousel, and by the time I’d gathered my things, piled them onto a baggage cart and steered my way to the exit doors, I’d been traveling for over twenty-four hours. More than enough time to ponder how pissed off my brother was going tobe.
I was weary and uncomfortably hot, sweating in my leather boots and faux fur jacket. I’d worn a thin T-shirt layered over a tank top and knit leggings with the jacket and boots, not sure what to expect with the weather. Vancouver was having a weirdly cold winter but the snow and ice was now gone, replaced with a faint, drizzling rain. The air that greeted me was cool and fresh but not cold as I walked through the sliding glass doors. And everything felt…familiar.
Much more familiar than I thought itwould.
I took a breath and tipped my face up to the cloud-bruised sky. I glimpsed the peaks of snow-dusted mountains in the distance. And I felt an overwhelming sense of…joy.
Aside from the fact that I didn’t actually want to be here, that I was carrying the burden of a gut-gnawing sense of dread—the kind that came with knowing you were about to come face-to-face with things you’d never really figured outhowto face—it felt good to behome.
Home.
I grinned as the wisps of rain hit myface…
Then I sawhim.
Him.
Several feet to my left, there was a cue for the taxis, which I’d planned to get myself into. I’d get my ass to the ferry where I’d meet my old friend, Roni, my “date” for the wedding. On the ferry over to Vancouver Island, she and I would catch up and I’d generally get my shit together for what promised to be the most difficult weekend of my life. In the winding, four-and-a-half hour drive across the island, I’d run through the various tidbits of conversation I’d prepared in my head to get me through this; inconsequential, impersonal stuff like the latest celeb gossip, fashion trends from the front lines, and if I was really desperate, the weather. Canadians were always game to discuss the weather; it was kind of a way of life. Of course, I’d throw in a few decent jokes,too.
My old friends were always good for alaugh.
At the end of the road, maybe Roni would flirt with the boat guy and he’d let us grab a super-quick drink (or two) at the last bar we could find before heading out. On the private boat to the very posh and very remote resort up the coast where the wedding was taking place, I’d give myself the little pep talk I’d also worked out, in preparation for coming face-to-face with the man I’d painstakingly avoided for the last six-and-a-halfyears.
Basically, my entire adultlife.
Along the way, Roni would provide distraction, entertainment and comic relief, as she always did. And when I saw him,him, she’d be by my side, drawing attention and generally providing a loud and lovelybuffer.
And everything would work out just fine, right? Because no way seeing him could possibly go as badly as I feared itmight.
Right.
That was theplan.
Instead, I was alone. I’d taken all of two steps into my hometown. I was weary and jet-lagged. I’d had not one drink. And my little pep talk? Completely out thewindow.
Because a dozen feet to my right, he was standing at the curb in the rain, staring at me… and my world fellapart.
“Brody,” Ibreathed.
Then I more or less went into shock. Because he wasrightthere. In jeans and a black leather jacket, his dark eyebrows furled as he stared me down, rain droplets dripping from his soft brown hair and his full lips… the smoldering, overcast sky casting shadows in his eyes… looking just like he used to look, only…better.
“You’re late,” he said, his voice flat. He took a few steps toward me, then stopped, his gaze flicking down to my breasts. “Is that myshirt?”
I glanceddown.
It was an old Led Zeppelin tour T-shirt. It saidUnited States of America 1977and had a rockin’ angel on it, a naked dude with outstretched wings. It wasn’t the kind of T-shirt you paid too much money for in some hipster boutique because it looked old and distressed. Itwasold. It was large on me to begin with and was now so stretched out I tied it above one hip to make it fit. The neck fell off one shoulder. It was worn to hell and had a fewholes.
And yes, it washis.
I’d picked it up off his bedroom floor one sketchy morning when I was eighteen, and never gave it back. He’d never asked for it back. And even if he wanted it back after I’d worn the hell out of it, I wasn’t giving itback.
It was a piece of him. The only piece Ihad.
“No,” I lied, pulling my jacket shut. Butterflies skittered in my stomach as he reached past me, scooping my bags off thecart.
“Had a shirt just like that. Disappeared around the time youdid.”
