Page 35 of Return To You

Ugh. I’ve never understood him. Never will.

And now he’s ruining The Harvest Hug for me. I’ll never be able to order it and not think of him. “Selfish,” I mutter under my breath.

On Thursday their training goes on forever. My cup is waiting for me on the bleachers, and I down it, quick little sips, then stand to exit and wait near the lockers.

Ethan slides up to me. “Where’you going?”

“I’m gonna wait inside.”

“Why?”

Because I can’t keep my eyes off you. Because I’m imprinting so much of the way your body moves, the way your voice sounds, even the way your scent carries in wafts when you walk past me, I can’t sleep at night anymore. Because I need to stop the torture. “It’s getting cold.”

And before I know it, I’m wrapped in the jacket he was wearing, and he leans into me to tuck the hat he was wearing snug over my head, and this time, this time, I do think I’m going to faint because now his scent in all around me.

And I remember his scent.

I thought I was making it up but no, I wasn’t.

His scent is unique, and it’s been with me since I can remember having feelings for him that were beyond friendship.

And I definitely remember the smell that defined the best night of my life. It was his. His, mixed with sex, and nature all around us. I lock my hands around the mug he’s brought me again. It’s empty now, only a tether I use to avoid, literally, fainting.

And I feel my body relax, warm up, and melt into everything that is Ethan. Even if he’s not really here, holding me in his arms, enclosing me in his being.

It’s as close to him as I’ll ever get now.

And it’s divine.

And it won’t last.

And so I savor it for the minutes that I can.

nine

Grace

Idon’t know how I get home, but I do. Just one more day of this and it’ll be over. What’s one more day? It’ll be fine. I’ll be fine.

I really need to dial back into the reality of my life. Pay my bills, clean my house. Come up with a plan for the spa. Feed my cat. Where is Damian? I can hear him, but he’s not rubbing himself in loops around my legs. His cries get louder as I go down the hallway and into my bedroom.

He’s meowing furiously again from behind my closet door.

“You’re a silly, silly cat, and you’re paying for your silliness.” I push the door in until it creaks open enough for Damian to come out. He looks at me, reproach in his eyes.

“What? Just stop going in there. How do you even get the door open?” I swear, I checked this morning, and the door was closed. Tight.

I struggle to push the door wide open. With a weird thump, it suddenly gives in, and I automatically look up, to the box.

The box, where my eyes always go each time I come in (twice a day at least) and at night, before I go to sleep. Because this stupid door stays stuck, so now I leave it open at night to avoid wasting time in the morning trying to get to my clothes.

This time I grab the old box and bring it to my bed. It started as a shoe box, and at some point I had to move its contents to the box that held my first cowboy boots. Damian jumps on the bed, sniffs through the box, and sits back like the sphinx, looking at me through squinted eyes.

He knows the ritual. He’s giving me two and half minutes to go down memory lane, and then he’s done. Then I’ll have to put the box away.

“It’s different this time, okay? I need a little more time. He’s here, you see. It doesn’t mean anything, but it’s important to me. It means these things, here, they’re not dead. Not really. Now do you believe me?”

Damian purrs, stands, and walks on the lid of the box.

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