Page 157 of The Storm

He glances at me. “Just a friend?”

I narrow my eyes. “Why?”

“Just catching up. It’s been a while since we actually talked without ending up pissed off at each other.”

I stop and turn to face him. “And that’s your topic of choice? Dylan?”

“Not him specifically. Your life in general. It’s been six years, Blue.”

“I know.” Irritation is already brewing somewhere deep inside me at the way he says that. Like he thinks he needs to remind me. Like I haven’t felt all those years second by painful second while he manages to sound so nonchalant about it.

“You were in San Francisco.”

“Yup.” I don’t ask him how he knows. Probably the same way I’ve gathered bits and pieces about his life over the years. Bridget or Dia. Only the most superficial information, though. No specifics, no thanks.

“Why San Francisco?”

I shrug and avoid looking at him. I want to lie, but the truth comes out anyway. “I wanted to get away, and San Francisco seemed like it was far enough at the time.”

“Was it?” he asks.

“Turns out nowhere is far enough.”

We stand in the middle of the street, eyes locked, the past and all the unsaid words whirling around us, but for now we’re in the eye of the storm, so we ignore it all.

I let myself get caught in his dark gaze, and in the same breath I let myself pretend for a moment that I have the right to get lost in those eyes.

For a moment, I pretend this is my life. A stupid, dumb, impossibly idiotic moment where I let myself imagine that this is how our life turned out. That it’s him and me together. This is the evening walk we take withourdog onourstreet before we go back toourhome.

I imagine this is an ordinary day ofourlife together. That there’s nothing special about this evening because this is what we do every day. That the back of his hand brushing mine isn’tsomething impossible but just a moment before he links our fingers. A reflex, like breathing is a reflex.

I imagine a set of keys in his pocket that unlockourfront door. That I left the kitchen light on inourkitchen for us to come back to.

I imagine settling in onourcouch and eating leftovers. Him playing withourdog, his laughter drifting downourhallway.

I imagine standing side by side inourbathroom brushing our teeth.

I imagine making love to him inourbed.

I imagine belonging with him so completely that either of us leaving would sound ridiculous. It would never cross either of our minds.

And it hurts. Those images thread together, but when I try to reach for them, I can’t. They start drifting away from me, and I run after them. But I’m not fast enough.

And then I blink, and I’m back in the present. On a cold street with somebody else’s boyfriend and somebody else’s dog, pretending that pieces of someone else’s life belong to me.

“Blue,” Nick says.

I look away.

“We should head back,” I say, clutching the strap of Nova’s harness.

It almost feels like he’s going to argue, but then he nods. We’ve only just turned around when the skies open up above us. Nick looks down at Nova, scoops her up in his arms, and wraps his jacket around her. My pulse kicks violently at the sight.

“My place,” he calls over the white noise of the rain all around us. “It’s closest.”

He grabs my hand, and we make a run for it. It’s only a few blocks, but by the time we make it inside, we’re both sopping wet. It’s the second time today for me, but unlike this morningwhen it only made me more cranky, this time I look up and meet Nick’s gaze, and we grin at each other.

His hair is plastered to his forehead, and his shirt molds to his torso. I can see the outline of his pecs through the wet fabric, the darker shadows of his nipples, and my throat goes very dry very fast.