Page 79 of Falling Like Stars

“It’s so early,” I protest, but I’m already sinking under, wrapped in his arms. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to poke around your place, eat your food, and rifle through your personal belongings.”

“Okay,” I murmur. “Sounds good.”

He chuckles, a soft rumble against my cheek and then I sink into a warm, safe sleep where there are no dreams.

When I wake, the sun is up, and Zach is making coffee. He’s in the jeans and T-shirt from yesterday, his dark hair askew. I watch him move his tall frame around my kitchen area, pulling mugs down from the cupboard and generally looking about as sexy as a man can get.

And I told him I loved him.

Not quite, but almost. And he not-quite-but-almost said it back. I sit up and pull my knees to my chest, wondering if he regrets it. Wondering if I’m strong enough to be good for him the way he’s good for me.

“Good morning.” My throat sounds like I gargled rocks, and I probably look like I’ve been punched repeatedly in the face. But Zach’s smile when he sees me reflects none of that, and I realize how thoughts—especially self-deprecating ones—can be so insidiously automatic and how we listen for no other reason except they’re there.

“Good morning,” he says. “How do you take it?”

“Black, splash of cream, please.”

Zach brings me a mug—a cheap blue one from IKEA—and kisses my forehead. He’s poured one for himself and peruses my small living area, peering at photos on the wall by the door.

“Is this you and your dad at the cabin?”

I nod. “One of the last ones before he died.”

Zach studies the photo of me, age twelve, leaning into my dad, who was tall, and sturdy. Like an oak tree that was felled too soon.

“He looks like a kind man,” Zach says.

“He was. The kindest.”

“What’s your favorite memory of him?”

I sit back. “Most people don’t ask me stuff like that. As if it might hurt too much to be reminded that he’s gone. But you can’t remind me of my own dad. And I love talking about him. I just never get the chance.”

Zach sits on the edge of the bed. “Tell me.”

Good lord, this man. Dad would have loved him.

“Every October, he’d take me to Julian. Ever been?”

“Never heard of it.”

“It’s this really pretty place in eastern San Diego County. Lots of trees and fallen leaves in the autumn. My mother didn’t like the drive, so my dad took me for cider and cherries, and we’d pick a pumpkin to bring back for Halloween.”

I smile at the memory that aches, but it’s a sweet ache.

“One year, we were walking in the woods, and we passed this couple sitting on a log. Dad and I rounded a hilly bend, and he suddenly lets out this huge roar. Then he hustles me back around the bend and says loudly, ‘Did you hear that bear? Sounded like a big one!’”

“I didn’t realize there were bears in San Diego County,” Zach says, chuckling.

“Neither did I,” I say. “My nine-year-old-self is completely mortified, but the couple on the log got up and all but ran away. Dad thought it was the funniest thing ever. He was quite proud of himself for that one.”

“Your dad sounds like he would’ve been good friends with my dad.” Zach smiles, then glances down into his mug. “Speaking of, I’m going to St. Louis to visit my family. I’m long overdue.”

“When?”

“Soon. Tomorrow, maybe,” he says. “I was wondering if you’d like to come with me.”

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