Page 90 of The Echo of Regret

“It used to be,” I reply, remembering what it was like back then. “But after I left for art school, she said she had more time on her hands and wanted more of a challenge. And she’s killing it.”

“Sounds like someone else I know,” Bishop says, narrowing his eyes playfully in my direction.

I just roll my eyes, but I can’t help the spark of joy I feel at his compliment.

We finish our first slices just as the record finishes, and Bishop makes quick work of plating more pizza while I flip the record over to the other side. Then we launch back into an easy conversation about friends from high school, from people still in town like Bellamy and Rush and Emily and Nicole to those who have moved away. We talk about art school and baseball. My ceramics class and the end of Fall Ball.

It feels easy. Simple. Wonderful.

Like all the conversations we had when we were younger, but with a new kind of honesty. The kind you can only find after you’ve been through something hard, together.

“Thanks again for picking up dinner,” I say as Bishop rinses a plate in the sink. “I wish you hadn’t eaten so many slices so there could be more for leftovers tomorrow.”

“Who says you get to keep the leftovers?” he asks.

“Who says you won’t be here to eat them with me?” I volley back.

Bishop glances at me, chuckling, then moves to set the plate in the dishwasher. But the movement is awkward and it slips from his hand, hitting the side before shattering on the ground.

“Fuck,” he whispers, crouching down quickly to grab the handful of pieces. “I’m sorry.”

I shake my head. “It’s not a big deal. Let me get the vacuum.”

We clean up the broken shards of the ceramic plate then do an extra vacuum over the entire kitchen floor to make sure we didn’t miss anything.

“Sorry again,” he says once everything’s picked up and we’re sure there are no little pieces left on the floor. “Most things aren’t an issue, but every once in a while…” He trails off, massaging his left wrist and fingers with his other hand.

I shake my head and take his hand in mine. “Not a big deal,” I promise, not wanting him to linger too long on it. “Now, let’s get a glass of wine and go sit on the back porch.”

Bishop grins. “It’s pretty cold and rainy out there. I know you’d rather be in here, snuggled up next to the fire.”

I shrug my shoulder as I retrieve two wine glasses. “But you love the cold.” Then I smirk at him. “Besides, I’m sure you’ll keep me warm.”

A few minutes later, we’re standing together on the covered back porch, listening to the rain as it falls behind our house, though we can’t see it because it’s well past sunset and the moon is only barely breaking through the dense covering of trees. I’m standing against the railing, and Bishop is behind me, my back to his front, his arm around my waist while the other holds his glass steady where it sits.

“I’m glad you’re here tonight,” I say, tilting back against his chest, enjoying how it feels as he presses a kiss to the top of my head.

“Me, too,” he replies, nestling his chin into the crook of my neck. “I love being wherever you are.”

We stay like that for a while, just enjoying the quiet together, listening to the sounds of nature and the rain falling softly. When I finish my glass of wine, I set it on a small table next to the bench tucked against the wall, then slip back to where I was snuggled against Bishop’s front, but this time, facing him. I wrap my arms around his waist and press my face into his chest, breathing him in.

His hands rub at my back, a gentle rhythm, warming me even as we stand out in the cold. There’s a pressure in my chest, a desire to tell him a few small words I’m not sure I’m ready to say, no matter how clearly I feel it.

Pulling back, I look up into his face, into those beautiful eyes that always hold me captive. I open my mouth, wanting to tell him how I feel, but something inside me freezes. Bishop looks back at me, surely wondering what I was going to say, but I come up empty.

Except the feeling, the knowledge that I love him, that I’ve always loved him…it builds within me. On instinct, I drag one of his arms away from where it’s wrapped around me and bring his hand against my chest, where my heart thuds, unsteady in so many ways but beating strong for him. Then I raise his hand and press a kiss to the inside of his wrist, hoping he understands where my heart is at, where my mind is at, even if my words don’t follow.

Bishop watches me for a long moment before he dips down and presses his lips to mine. The taste of him—wine mixed with something that is purely Bishop—explodes on my tongue, and I moan, slipping my hands up his chest and then wrapping them around his neck.

God, I love this man.

We kiss like that for long moments, for forever, until my lips become swollen, until a warm pulsing begins to wind its way through my center. Bishop’s hands track down my back and over my ass, gripping me roughly, and I mirror the motion, bringing my hands down and grabbing the meatiness of his backside. His ass fills my palms, and when he leans back, he’s grinning at me.

“Since when do you like to grab my ass?” he asks, his voice husky but amused.

“Since when do you complain?” I reply, slipping my hands into his jeans and under his boxer briefs, grabbing him again.

He bites his lip then shifts his hips, the hardness in the front of his jeans just as eager for attention as the firmness in the back.

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