Page 39 of The Meaning Of You

But the one thing Madigan hadn’t shown me was his studio, suggesting we do that another time. A part of me hoped that would be in person. Another part wanted to run. Because there was a sense of mystery and intimacy in the way he talked about his workspace, like it was a piece of him. It had me wondering just how many people got to see inside and what it meant that he wanted to showme.

The call had also helped me clear the emotional cesspit I’d been drowning in and set me back on the road to healing. The troubling thoughts of that night hadn’t returned. Like a choice had been made. I was going to survive this and that was that. Madigan had helped me see that.

But the image of him standing in his kitchen in a pair of checked briefs and nothing else was an entirely different problem altogether.Thatparticular image had been seared into my brain and was proving challenging to shift, popping up when I least expected it and generally fucking with my head.

Davis would be amused, of course. Never prone to jealousy, he’d be the first to tell me to get over myself. That he was dead. That he’d been gone not just for a couple of months, but for all intents and purposes, since the accident itself.

But it wasn’t that easy. I hadn’t looked at another man in that way in... forever. It simply hadn’t interested me. Even when I’d lost Davis to his trauma, or maybe even because of that, I didn’t even think of going there. It was wrong on so many levels.

And then Madigan Church walked into my life, and for the first time in forever, I’d felt that spark again. Felt it and ignored it.

As it needed to be.

Because Davis was still alive, still breathing.

But now?

Now, I didn’t know. I didn’t understand the attraction.

Madigan Church confused me. It was just another complicated set of feelings to deal with on top of everything else.

I didn’t know what it meant.

I didn’t know whathemeant.

And I wasn’t ready to find out.

So I’d let a month pass without speaking to him again, at least not directly. I sent his calls to voicemail and texted just enough to keep him from appearing at my door. It was rude and even dismissive, especially after what he’d done for me at New Year, I knew that. Just like I knew Madigan would be confused and maybe even a little hurt at the treatment.

That part didn’t sit well, but the distance was keeping me sane as I tried to understand what was going on.

I didn’t need another complication in my life.

I didn’t need Madigan Church.

I . . . didn’t.

Maybe he’d be pissed enough to back away.

And I’d let him.

It would be for the best.

Even if I couldn’t seem to do it myself.

Because every time I thought about telling him that I needed more space, an aching chill ran up my spine and I couldn’t do it.

I had to hope that he would.

As for the rest of my life? The break-in remained unsolved. The police had no luck finding any unexplained fingerprints and the theft was put down to teenagers after Christmas presents. I’d apparently been lucky.

Go me.

Madigan’s name flashed on my phone screen like I’d conjured him with my thoughts. I stared at it for a moment, then let it go to voicemail and ignored the message ping when it came. I’d text him later.

I pushed the phone aside, took a long swallow of coffee, and eyed the large envelope in front of me on the dining room table. I knew what it contained. I’d opened it the day the lawyer had handed it to me, then shoved it into my desk drawer until I felt capable of dealing with all Davis’s instructions regarding his writing and publishing business.

I traced a finger over my name, which had been scrawled in Davis’s heartbreakingly familiar hand, along with the wordsAuthor Shitwritten underneath. It made me smile.I knew exactly why he hadn’t given it to me directly. Even with the best intentions and my penchant for tidiness, I was crap at remembering where I’d put things and Davis had to come to my rescue more than once.

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