Page 85 of The Long Way Home
I swallow, not being able to think past her words. I can feel her eyes on me. She notices my hesitation.
“I know it’s not the same,” she says softly. “And I know it doesn’t heal what she broke. But I’ll always be here for you. Even if you have to move away again, even if life pulls you in a hundred different directions, you’ll always have me in your corner.”
She shifts slightly against me, pressing a little closer, and I feel the warmth of her presence in a way that makes it hard to breathe normally.
“I—I just think you should know my friendship is unconditional,” she continues.
I take a deep breath, feeling the tension in my shoulders loosen slightly.
“Thanks, Sunny.”
I adjust my arm around her, letting her rest more fully against me. This all feels so natural with her. I realize that for the first time in a long while, I don’t have to brace for someone leaving. I don’t have to calculate how long it will be before they disappear. I can just… be here with her, here with someone who chooses to stay.
And somehow, that small, quiet truth—that someone wants to be here, fully, without conditions—feels like the first piece of healing I’ve had in years.
Not long after, her eyes flutter closed. She is not asleep yet, but the tension drains out of her limbs, and the fight leaves her body. I press my mouth to the crown of her head and stay that way, breathing slowly so she can match me.
I promise myself, right then, that nobody gets to make her feel small again.
I hear her before I see her.
The soft shuffle of bare feet across the hardwood, slow and uncertain, like she isn’t sure where she’s landed or why her skull feels like it’s splitting in two.
When I glance up from the kitchen island, she’s just rounding the corner. She blinks against the morning light, hair a tangled mess, makeup smudged beneath her eyes. She’s still wearingthe oversized hoodie and my boxers, her bare legs goosebumped from the chill in the air.
“Hey, sunshine,” I say, sliding the hot mug across the counter in her direction.
She squints at it, then at me. “It’s too early in the morning for dangerous nicknames, don’t ya think?”
“I’ll choose to ignore the hostility since you haven’t had your chai tea.” She grabs the mug. “Extra cinnamon. No whip.”
She picks it up with both hands, her fingers wrapping around the ceramic. She brings it to her nose, breathes in, then takes a sip.
I watch her closely. The way her shoulders ease with the first taste. The way her whole body subtly unclenches.
She mutters, “Oh my God. You, Rhett Hayes, are a saint.”
“And one more thing,” I reach for the donut box and pop the lid open. “There’s a jelly-filled in here calling your name.”
She gives me a skeptical look. “It’s bold of you to assume I can eat sugar right now.”
“You did cry into my neck and tell me your soul was dehydrated,” I remind her, grabbing a glazed for myself. “This is just replenishment.”
She rounds the corner and lowers herself onto a barstool. With her elbows on the counter, she grabs a jelly donut like she has been starving for one. I knew she wouldn’t be able to resist.
“Did I really say that?” she mumbles into her mug, voice rough.
“Yeah.” I lean on the counter, watching her bite the donut. “Those were the exact words. You also promised to eat frozen waffles, then stared me down when I made them and called them ‘fundamentally repulsive.’ I am still recovering from that one.”
A half smile tugs at her lips. The small movement makes me want to hold onto it. I need to see her like this more than I want to admit. I should feel relieved that she said everything lastnight, that she finally let it out. Instead, I feel hot with anger that it took this long for her to be comfortable enough to let me in. I’m angrier that someone like Ben made her doubt herself, angrier that he treats her like she is nothing. I want to break something. Preferably his face.
She shifts and winces as she sips.
“You feeling okay?” I ask.
She shrugs. “My head’s splitting. My mouth tastes like what I believe is Tequila regret. But otherwise, peachy. Fortunately, I do not remember how tragic I was being. How embarrassed should I be? On a scale of 1-10, come on, give it to me straight, Rhett. I can take it.”
“Like a 2? You were honest,” I say, softer now. “And sad. And completely obliterated.”
