Page 62 of Forever Then

I’m tired of overthinking it. I don’t want to think at all.

Slowly, I close the small gap between us and lightly press my lips to his. His fingertips hitch along my cheekbones.

A single kiss tasting of salty tears andthenandnowandbest friendandmy person. It’s not enough and I want so much more, but I pull back.

The tormented look, the anguished lines of his jaw, his brows, the pain that radiates off him in waves—it wrecks me. My heart sputters to a stop.

Terrified that I’ve ruined everything, I open my mouth to speak, but he beats me to it. “Don’t you dare apologize to me.” He drops his chin, the words landing on his chest as he presses his forehead into mine. “I’ll keep waiting until you’re ready. Just…don’t apologize, okay? My heart won’t survive it.”

I nod because what else is there to say except every single thing—all the things and all the words. My words and his words, fightingto the finish. Past hurts on display like exposed nerves, a full-on assault in the form of explanations, defenses and apologies. Unspoken thoughts and feelings bubbling to the surface, finally getting the air they’ve craved for too many years.

No.Myheart won’t survive that.

But I’m also not sorry that I kissed him.

Chapter Twenty-Five

I FIND YOUR ABS MODERATELY REPULSIVE

Connor

She kissed me.

She kissed me and it took every ounce of willpower I had not to fist my hand in her hair and tug her closer, press in deeper. But I knew it didn’t mean what I wanted it to mean. A sign of something good to come, maybe. Or it would become the last time I’d ever kiss her. It was hope and dread all wrapped up in the smallest, softest meeting of lips.

The apology was on the tip of her tongue and I couldn’t bear to hear her say she regrets it.

Twenty minutes later, after a quick run to the nearest store for supplies, we’re parked back in front of the house. The floorboard littered with a dozen crumpled pieces of paper, Gretchen’s anxiety gets the best of her every time she begins again, overthinking every word, every sentence.

Over it, she shoves the notepad and pen in my chest. “Can you just write it?”

I take the supplies from her unsteady hands. “What’s her name?”

“Cheyenne Ortega.”

After a few silent minutes, I pass the notepad back to her. “How’s this?”

Dear Cheyenne,

My name is Gretchen Fisher.

We’ve never met, but I’ve recently discovered that you are my biological mother. My parents, Paul and Kelly Fisher, adopted me at birth 22 years ago and I’ve grown up in Bloomington, Illinois.

My apologies for showing up unannounced. I respect your family’s privacy, so I do not want to intrude.

That said, I would love to meet you. If you’re interested in meeting me, that is.

I plan to return tomorrow at noon. However, if you do not wish for me to do so, you can leave a message for me at the front desk of my hotel in Sedona (contact info is enclosed), no questions asked.

I hope to meet you soon, but I will completely understand if you decide you don’t want the same.

Sincerely,

Gretchen

She reads the letter several times over before nodding her head.

“Okay. Now, here. I want you to copy that note, word for word, in your own handwriting.” It may not matter who writes it, but this note has the potential to become a cherished memento for Cheyenne and she deserves to have it in her daughter’s handwriting. She may not realize it yet, but Gretchen will want that too.

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