Page 83 of Just a Distraction

I knock my head back in laughter. “You should be the creative writer, Rose. Your

imagination is astounding.”

She places both hands on the table and leans toward me, giving me the stink

eye. “The middle name, Milo?”

I take one of her hands in mine and tease out a kiss along her knuckles. “I must

admit, I’ve been a little Fort Knox about it.”

She inhales and pulls her hand away, her gaze exploring my face. “Knox!

Milo Knox Tate!”

I lean back, grinning. “The woman’s a genius.” I push my arms out wide.

“That’s hardly fair, though. It’s not a K sound. The K is silent. You play so dirty,

Milo Knox Tate.”

“Hey! Take it up with the parents.”

“Maybe I will.” And there’s something about her gaze that I believe—that I

want to believe. I’m daring to believe that somehow, we can continue to be in each other’s lives. I’ll meet her mom, and she’ll meet my parents. Things simply cannot end completely come September.

“You know what?” She scrapes her chair back, walks around it to my side, and slides onto my lap. She wraps her arms around my neck and kisses me, long and sweet. “This summer, I want you to write and do your job at Tate. But as for the remaining hours, I deem this the Summer of Rose and Milo.”

“With a heavy dose of Callum, please.” I say in between kisses. The dog trots over and nudges his nose against my side, begging for a pat.

“And don’t forget a dash of Thorin.”

“It’s settled then,” she says. “This is the Summer of Rose and Milo.”

Chapter 32

Milo

September

As a man who has to somehow pretend to be okay with today’s events, I wish I’d taken some acting classes. Apparently, we’re actually doing this—we’re actually saying goodbye—and I can’t muster anything but mild shock and not-at-all-mild grief.

The Summer of Rose and Milo has come to an end—the dizzying mix of work, writing, and everything Rose a tumble of both pleasure and pain in my mind. How is it already September?

I’ve tried to convince her to continue what we have. But we’re not. And I’m not okay.

We celebrated Rose’s birthday with both of our families yesterday, my heart a cold stone in my throat, feeling theinevitability of the loss of her so tangibly I was searching madly for breath over and over.

It’s a bottleneck of humanity in her apartment right now. My brothers and I have been the muscle in this operation, taking boxes down to the moving truck parked out front. My Aunt Stella offered to provide food for the moving party, so we’re trying to pack up the kitchen around large foil pans of homemade lasagna, rolls, and salads.

“Rose!” Eden shouts, her back to me but the sound piercing my ears anyway. “Where’s the paper for the glassware?” She’s removing cups and plates from the cupboards and piling them next to a box.

Rose rushes in, dirt smudged across the front of her tank top, with Callum at her heels. He turned two a few weeks ago and he’s been clinging to her the past few days, feeling the uncertainty and stress in the air.

When he sees me, he reaches for me. I pick him up and he rubs my ear lobe, snuggling into me. He’s gotten so big, it’s not exactly easy to carry him around, but right now? I do not care. I’m going to savor this as long as I can.

My throat stings. Why are we doing this again? Why are things ending?

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