Page 155 of Maybe You

“Don’t let me let you go,” he rasps into my ear.

I close my eyes.

Grit my teeth.

“Sutt,” I breathe out. With hope. So much hope. I’m all hope.

“Please,” he says. “Please. I don’t know how to handle this. I’m fucking scared to death. So, please. Please, don’t let me let you go,” he chokes out. His fingertips dig into my shoulder blades. His lips move against the shell of my ear.

“Okay,” I whisper. “It’s okay.” I hug him tighter. Kiss his cheek and his ear and his eye and the dark blond strands of his hair. Kiss him everywhere I can reach.

“We’ll figure it out,” I say fiercely, hugging him tighter. “I promise.”

THIRTY-TWO

I blink my eyes open the next morning.

It takes me a few seconds to orient myself, and once I do, there’s a moment when I’m not sure how I got here.

Sutton’s bedroom.

Sutton’s bed.

I look to the side.

No Sutton.

But there are sounds coming from the kitchen.

I hesitate for a moment before I roll myself off the bed.

I don’t know what to expect. Truly. Zero idea. But I walk out there anyway. My bare feet pad on the hardwood floor when I make my way to the living room. Sutton is standing in front of the stove with his back to me.

The counters… Well, the counters are covered with food. Pastries, mostly, by the looks of it.

I blink.

“Uh…” I say slowly. “Just how hungry are you?”

He turns around and looks at the counters. The look of concentration slowly morphs into something akin to puzzlement, and his brow furrows.

“I wasn’t sure what you wanted for breakfast,” he finally says.

I step closer.

“So you figured you’d make one of… everything?”

I take in the cinnamon rolls and waffles and scones and muffins and eggs and bacon and pancakes and toast and French toast and?—

I take my eyes off the food and look at him.

“How long have you been up?”

His gaze moves over the counters once more, and he winces.

“A few hours?”

“Okay,” I say, and then, “Okay. So you stress cook, apparently. See? I didn’t know that.”

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