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More of this. More of Will. More of the pure delight of just feeling and not thinking.
I reach down for his pants, and this time, he doesn’t wait for me to do it on my own. This time, his patience is hanging by a thread. Buthe’s hanging on to it. For me. He lifts up just long enough to kick his pants all the way off and resettles himself onto me.
“Hope.” It’s a plea and a promise and a question.
“Will.” It’s the only answer I have, but it’s the one he needs.
He lowers his mouth to mine, and then nothing else in the world matters. Not his questions. Not my answers. Not our names. Nothing. My eyes close, and the stars behind my eyes burn a thousand times brighter than the ones in the sky.
32
WILL
I haven’t been able to stop thinking about Hope since she left early this morning with a promise to return.
I shouldn’t have slept with her. It was too soon, too impulsive. I don’t know what I was thinking. I wasn’t thinking, obviously. It was stupid. Stupid and selfish and ... life changing. Which is crazy. Everyone knows sex isn’t life changing. Sex is just sex, regardless of what the actors, writers, producers, and directors make it seem like on the big screen.
But holy hell. Sex with Hope. I’ve replayed it in my mind a thousand times, and the memory doesn’t seem to fade. Each time, it glows brighter.
Which is probably why my first interview for a new manager was a bust and why preparing for my second is next to impossible. The candidate isn’t half-bad. Young, educated, and experienced—but something about her impressive résumé is lacking. I scan the education, experience, and languages spoken again, and it’s only then that I see where the problem is.
She’s a stranger.
She didn’t grow up avoiding the second step on the back staircase because it creaked or playing hide-and-seek in the formal dining room, which was supposed to be off limits to Darren and me.
This is a family inn, and saving this Inn, restoring it to its glory, is a job for someone who sees the echo of their childhood inside these walls.
I think back over these last few weeks, from the wild bluebird debacle to the understaffed retirement party. Running the Inn is exhausting. There’s always a new emergency that needs my attention, always a new disaster that we’re barely skirting.
But some of the guys are starting to look at me like I know what I’m talking about when I speak. In town, people started saying “good morning” when I stop for coffee. And that night sky ... I could live forever in a place where so many stars glow every night.
My phone vibrates, and my heart does a little dance, already imagining Hope’s name on the screen. Some part of me starts picturing what it’ll feel like to tell her I’m going to stay, that she can take all the time she needs, but that I’m here, with her.
The saner part of me is telling the other part to tone it down a notch. We had one night together. I can’t assume Hope wants anything more than that.
Her text is nothing but a waving-hand emoji. My mouth splits into a smile picturing her sending that text, the adorable V her forehead would make as she decided what to send.
I send back a string of waving-hand emojis. We’ve come so far since that first kissy-face emoji.
See you tonight? I promised I’d go to Emma’s soccer game this afternoon.
I type back:Definitely. I have a surprise for you.
Three dots appear. Then disappear. Then appear. Then disappear. Finally, her response comes.Can’t wait.
Could I give up LA, my dream, for Kingsette?
No. I can’t.
But staying in Kingsette with Hope doesn’t feel like giving up a dream. It feels like making space for a new one, because maybe, the truth is, we’re allowed more than one.
Three hours later, the receptionist at the hospital is looking at me with the head tilt Hope told me about. She’s speaking in that measured, apologetic tone Hope complained about too.
All because Darren said no. He doesn’t want to see me.
“I brought him clothes,” I say, holding up the bag of clothes I packed from my mother’s apartment.
The receptionist sets down her tea tumbler to reach for the bag. The infuser is stuffed with petals and broken twigs. “I’ll see that he gets them.”
