Page 27 of The Long Way Home
I stay on my side of the bed, facing the wall. The faint hum of traffic drifts through the window, never quite loud enough to drown out my thoughts.
I stare at the cracks in the ceiling. The thin, branching lines I know by heart. I trace them with my eyes, the same way I do on nights like this. Nights where I can’t tell if I’m being dramatic. When my thoughts swirl in my head, and I wonder if wanting more means I’m asking for too much.
Or if I’ve just gotten very good at wanting less.
I pick up my phone and read the message from Rhett one more time.Wanna meet up for coffee sometime this week?
I know saying yes to him is the biggest mistake I’m going to make. He is going to ruin the quiet I’ve been hiding in. He is going to alter my life the same way he did when I met him twelve years ago. And somehow, not a single part of me cares.
Chapter Seven
RHETT
Iget here ten minutes early. Mostly because I don’t trust Atlanta traffic, but also because being late feels like tempting fate. The last thing I want is to give Rachel another reason to be mad at me before she even walks through the door. Lord knows she already has enough reasons.
After I order, I claim a corner table by the window. It’s close enough that I can see the entrance, but far enough from the rest of the room to feel insulated. Part of me is worried this conversation might need walls.
I take one distracted sip of my coffee and set the cup back down. My leg bounces under the table. I’m not sure why I’m so nervous. I shouldn’t be, it’s Sunny for God’s sake. She has seen me in every way there is, but my pulse doesn’t seem to care. It is bracing for impact. Almost as if it knows this isn’t just a conversation, but something that could change the shape of everything.
My phone buzzes against the table.‘Unknown number’flashes on the screen.I watch it ring, my pulse ticking up with every vibration, then let it die on its own. I flip the phone facedown, hoping that might quiet the unease curling in my chest.
It doesn’t. I check the door once more to see if Sunny is near, and when I don’t see her, I turn the phone back over and open my call log. The same number stacked on top of each other stares back at me. Yesterday afternoon. Late last night. Early this morning. And now.
Four calls in five days.
That’s not spam. Spam doesn’t linger. It doesn’t circle back like this, patient and persistent. My thumb hovers over the screen, heat gathering at my fingertips. In a moment of weakness, a thought I’ve trained myself not to entertain slips through. What if it’s her? What if she is finally trying to find me?
It is a stupid, dangerous thought. She has been gone for twenty years, and every lead I’ve chased in the past four years has turned into nothing. Dead ends and disconnected numbers. Silence. Still, the hope hits fast, like it always does, and I hate myself for it. I make a mental note to give the number to John. Let him dig into it. That’s what I pay him for.
I shove the phone into my pocket just as the bell over the café door chimes.
I look up.
Rachel walks in the door two minutes past two. Her scrubs are replaced with jeans and a soft blue top. Her hair is pulled back but loose around her face. And for a second, it is like we are twenty-two again. Only not, because twenty-two-year-old Sunny didn’t hate me.
“Hey,” I say, standing.
“Hey,” she echoes, sliding into the chair.
Something sharp flickers in her eyes. I wait a beat before sitting, watching the way she tucks a strand of hair behindher ear. She smooths her hands down her jeans like she needs something to do with them.
“I see you’re still a black coffee guy.” Her eyes flick to my cup.
I grin as they move to the second cup sitting on the table, and I watch as her brows fold together. “And you ordered for me? A little presumptuous, don’t you think?”
I nudge the cup closer. “Look, if I got it wrong, I’ll grab something else.” I rub my jaw. “But you always went for chai. Extra cinnamon. No whip.”
She blinks, expression unreadable. “Do you remember all of my favorite drinks?”
“Yes.” I couldn’t forget even if I wanted to.
Her fingers curl around the cup, but she doesn’t drink it yet.
“Right,” she says flatly. “Because remembering old things about me is kind of your thing lately.”
There it is. I was waiting for it. That sharp mouth I’ve missed too much over the past few years.
“I’m not trying to cause you problems, Rach.”
