Page 107 of For Eva

“I want to,” he said, flashing me a smile.

He waited for me to walk around the car, then followed me up the brick sidewalk to the porch.

“So, like I was saying, you have my phone numbers and email now,” I babbled on, nerves causing my stomach to churn. “And I have yours, so we’ll stay in touch.”

I turned around, my eyes dropping to where he’d placed his hand on my arm. It felt solid. Strong.

“You promise?” he asked.

A lump of shame formed in my throat.

“Yes,” I managed. “I promise. And I’m sorry, Eric. I’m so sorry for disappearing back then. I won’t…itwon’t…happen again.”

I forced my eyes up to his, the porch lamp causing flickers of light to dance in their deep blue depths.

“Good. Because I’ve missed you, Eva.” His hand trailed down my arm, stopping to grasp mine, and warmth flooded my body. “More than you know.”

“I’ve missed you, too,” I said, my voice so quiet I wasn’t sure he heard me.

He nodded, his eyes holding mine captive, and I watched from somewhere outside my body as he tilted his head and moved closer.

Oh my God, what’s going on, what’s happening? I’m Mom, not Eva. But I want this. Do I want this? It’s just the wine. Or maybe not. Holy shit, do something before—

I gasped and quickly unclasped our hands, throwing my arms around him. A soft sigh escaped his lips as he rested his chinon my head. I blinked slowly, coming back into myself, then released him, pushing my key into the lock.

“Don’t forget to email me when you get back to LA,” I said, patting his arm like he was one of my kids about to head off to summer camp.

Jesus, woman.

My heart squeezed.

Woman.

He nodded and stepped back as I entered the house. His wistful smile spoke a thousand words, but I refused to listen. “I won’t forget, Eva. I promise.”

FIFTY-EIGHT

Eva

January 2009

“What are you doing, Mom?” Miles asked, popping his head through the opening to the attic.

I was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor surrounded by storage tubs, frantically pulling out old photo albums and books that had been packed away since we’d moved to Nashville. I’d been so focused on the task at hand I hadn’t heard him climb up the stairs.

“Nothing.” I slapped a lid on one of the tubs, blushing like a child who’d been caught lying to her parents. “What do you need, buddy?”

“I was in the kitchen getting a Pop-Tart, and it kept ringing.” He handed me my cell phone and grinned. “Can I have a Pop-Tart, by the way?”

“Thanks. And yes, but if you wait, I’ll cook you break—”

Miles had already disappeared down the stairs before I could finish my sentence.

A chunk of hair fell from my ponytail, and I brushed it out of my face, my eyes searching the space for other possibilities.It had to be here somewhere. The shoebox that held the only tangible memories that remained from all those years ago. The one with my tour laminates and pictures. The one in which I’d buried Eric’s last letter.

I sighed and looked down at my cell. Five missed calls and three text notifications, all from Denise. The screen lit up as I was about to call her back.

I held the phone to my ear and chuckled. “Are you dying or something?”

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