Page 31 of The Long Way Home
“Mostly. Still got a few boxes in the truck. Figured I’d deal with it this weekend.”
“Living alone?”
“For now,” I answer. “It’s a small place. Quiet. I think you’d like it.”
“What part of town?” she asks, lifting her cup.
“North Metro. Not far from the station.”
Her brow lifts. “That’s a good area, Rhett.”
“Yeah. Close to everything, but still feels like a neighborhood.”
She taps her fingernail against her cup, hesitating just a beat. “Are you—uh, planning on sticking around?”
I don’t blame her for asking.
“Well, Sunny, I didn’t buy my house and move all my crap in to move again. So yeah, I’m staying.”
She smiles faintly but doesn’t respond. I watch her for a second, remembering how she used to talk with her hands, quick and expressive. It was captivating to watch. It was almost as if her thoughts were moving faster than her mouth. She is quieter now. I don’t know if it’s because of me or if this is who she’s become. I hope it’s not the second one.
We keep talking about nothing and everything at the same time. I can’t help but let it fill me with nostalgia. We bounce from work stories to mutual friends. We even make it to the dumb shows we used to watch when we were broke college kids sharing takeout and passing time. Slowly but surely, the hard shell she once had starts to fade.
I can’t stop my gaze from dipping to her lips as she takes a slow sip of her latte, the steam curling around her face. It has the right idea, trying to stay close to her. My chest pulls tight, that familiar ache pressing in. The wanting of something I have no business reaching for. It is too easy to picture leaning across the table, and taking my time tasting the warmth of coffee on her mouth.
I blink hard and drag my eyes back up. Force the thought down where it belongs.
“Wait,” she says, brushing her hair behind one ear. “Did you ever replace that old couch you used to have?”
“I mean, I did eventually have to. The thing was like a decade old,” I say, smirking. “But I only replaced it a year ago, becausethe leg broke when my buddy Micah sat on it drunk and ate it trying to reach for a slice of pizza.”
Rachel snorts, then claps a hand over her mouth like the sound shouldn’t have come out of her mouth. But I’m pretty sure I’d pay her to hear it again.
“That couch was already a death trap when I knew you, but still I loved that couch.”
“It was a good couch.” I let out a sigh, reminiscing on the past. “A lot of good memories with it. Hell, you practically lived on it during finals week.”
She grins over her cup, meeting my eyes again. Maybe she won’t be mad at me forever for leaving.
I glance at my watch. Two hours have gone by like nothing. I should let her go—back to her life, away from me—even though every part of me wants to stay right here. If I want her back in my life, I know I can’t rush this. I know I’m going to have to be patient. For her, I will be. What’s a couple more months after years of waiting?
I stand and grab my now-empty coffee. “I should probably head back and deal with those boxes before they officially become furniture.”
She laughs, and what she says next surprises the hell out of me. “Need any help?”
I blink. “With the boxes?”
She shrugs, a small smile tugging at her mouth. “I’ve got a couple hours before I need to be anywhere.”
I’d be an idiot to say no.
“Yeah, alright. I hope you’re ready to judge my questionable furniture choices.”
She follows me out, tossing her cup in the bin. “Nothing can be worse than that old couch.”
When I don’t answer, she squints at me. “Rhett. Please tell me it’s not worse than the couch.”
I grin, already reaching for the door. “Guess you’ll see.”
