It’s speeding up, racing to be close to her, to this woman who’s in a vastly different place than I am.
We are not the right-place, right-time couple.
We are out of alignment.
I find the will to break the kiss, take another bite of food, and enjoy the moment.
That’s all this is, and that’s okay. We can have this moment. Hell, maybe we can have a few moments—a few nights, even.
“I think that’s one of the reasons you’re so focused on family now. Because you’re keenly aware of what you missed,” she continues, seeing inside me, getting me.
“That’s completely true. But that’s not the only reason I’m focused on family.”
She tilts her head, curiosity etching her features. “What’s the other reason?”
I draw a breath. I haven’t told her this yet. Odd because I sometimes feel like January and I talk about everything, but there is so much still to tell. “There’s another reason I came back to town.”
Her brow furrows. “There is? Oh, I can’t believe I didn’t ask. I assumed you came back to be near your parents. There’s something else?”
I don’t beat around the bush—I know that won’t make it easier. “My dad is going blind.” I explain about the condition he has and the pending surgery, looming quickly.
Her voice breaks once again. “I’m so sorry, Liam. How is he doing?”
“It’s hard for him. But I think he’s doing as well as he possibly can, and he has a lot of people here who love him.”
She reaches for my hand. Squeezes it. “That includes you. That includes Ethan.”
I turn my hand over, threading our fingers together, grateful for the contact. “It does. It definitely does.”
“When did you find out?”
“About six months ago. That’s when I started making plans to come back here.”
“That’s why family is so important to you. Not only because you’re close to yours, but also because what’s happening to your dad made you realize where you needed to be and what you wanted in life.”
There’s a weight to her words, almost as if she’s underscoring that this is where I am in my life, and she’s in a different spot. I want more. She does not.
We are all on our own paths, and rarely do those intersect with the paths of the ones we want.
My eyes travel over the gorgeous, kind, funny woman in my home, and land on her arms. Her sparrows. That seems like a safer topic than family—than the line that divides us.
I run a finger along the black birds painted on her skin. “Why’d you have these done?”
She draws a deep breath. “When I was feeling weighed down with Vince and my life, trying to figure out what I wanted, I hunted out images online that spoke to me. These jumped out. They felt like freedom. To make my own choices. To fly if I need to. To stay if I need to.”
“You have that freedom. You always have that freedom. No one can take that away from you.”
I can’t fault that she wants different things than I do. If I had a fifteen-year-old, I don’t know that I’d want to go back either. But I also don’t want to talk about the things that stand between us. And so I slide back to the start of this conversation as I serve up another spoonful of the fruit salad. “So, you asked what I care about.”
A grin spreads across her face. She likes this shift too. “Yes, tell me more.”
I take a bite of a peach, moaning in pleasure. “Peaches. I care about peaches.”
“Me too.”
“I care about my bike, about taking care of my body, being fit, and yet still being able to eat ice cream. I care about my friends, about finding new friends here and keeping in touch with old friends in New York. I care about cookies and cake and brownies and sunshine and tea.” I hold up a hand. “Correction: I care deeply about tea. I care about it so much that sometimes I think about marrying tea because I don’t know how I’d wake up in the morning without it.”
She points an accusing finger at me. “I thought you were a morning person. Now I learn you need tea?”
“I am a morning person powered by English breakfast.”
“So if I came over some morning and stole all your English breakfast tea, you wouldn’t even make it out of bed?”
I slide a hand along her thigh, under her skirt. “You’re not that cruel.”
“You’re right. I’m not. I’d never do that to you. Just like I hope you’d never steal my coffee.”
We’re so close our noses are nearly touching, and I have no choice but to kiss her again. When I break the kiss, I say, “I promise, January, I’ll never take your coffee away.”
She presses her palms together, as if her prayers have been answered. “Thank God. I can’t live without it. I think it’s something that happens when you turn thirty-five. You decide you want to marry things like aspirin and ibuprofen and coffee. I like being over thirty-five though.”
