Page 63 of Forever Then

She swallows hard, accepting the pen and turning to a blank sheet of paper. “Yeah, okay.”

When she’s finished, she seals it inside an envelope and I take her hand in mine. “Do you want me to put it on the door for you?”

She closes her eyes through a steadying breath, resolutely shaking her head. “No. I can do it.”

Letter in hand, she climbs out of the car, rounds the hood and crosses the street. She has no idea how strong she is. It’s not only that I could never understand what it’s like to grow up in a family that doesn’t share your genetic code; it’s more than that. It’s the quiet girl who doesn’t put herself out there easily, putting herself out there in the most vulnerable way. It’s the quiet determination, the tenacity it took to get herself here. And I’m the lucky bastard who gets to witness it.

Once she’s back in the car, I’m ready to lift some of the burden she’s been carrying. “You did it, Gretch.” I wrap my hand over hers. “Whatever happens now is out of your control.”

“You’re right.” The smallest smile tilts her lips and it’s the best view I’ve seen all morning. Gretchen sprawled across the bed, mussed with sleep, wearing those glasses, laughing hysterically at my humiliation, a very close second.

“How about we go explore that downtown area we passed on the way in before heading back?”

That tilted lip turns to a full-faced smile. “Sounds fun.”

Two overpriced fancy coffees later,we’re strolling through downtown Flagstaff when I spot a small indie bookstore across the road. “Let’s go in there.”

She lights up as she grabs me by the wrist and pulls me through the crosswalk.

A bell chimes above us when we step inside and Gretchen bolts straight to the romance and fiction sections while I peruse the rest of the shoebox-sized shop.

The center of the small space has a long row of antique wooden tables, stacks of books about crystals and astrology atop them in anornate display alongside bowls of different colored crystals and gems. All of it very befitting for the hippie energy of this charming little town.

An array of large coffee table books showcasing the diverse landscapes of Arizona fills the shelves near the register.

I’m casually flipping through the pages of a book highlighting Arizona’s most underrated tourist attractions when I notice Gretchen in the far back corner of the shop, dubbed Collector’s Corner, delicately exploring a small hardback in her hands.

Gretchen notices my approach and quickly tucks the book back on the shelf before meeting me halfway.

“What ’cha looking at?” I ask.

She pops her shoulders. “Just browsing.” Before I can press for more, she adds, “I’m gonna run to the bathroom and then we can go.”

She dashes through the beaded curtain at the back of the shop while I go on a mission of my own. Coming to the shelf she was “just browsing”, I see it right away: a single copy ofLittle Women. The aged binding and the letterpress on the cover that barely has any gold ink left tell me this must be an even earlier edition than what I bought for her all those years ago.

A few minutes later, she meets me at the exit. “Sorry that took so long. It’s a lot of work to pee in a romper. Oooh, what did you get?” She eyes the brown paper bag with white tissue paper peeking from the top that I’m carrying.

“Oh, just a coffee table book about Arizona for my mom. She collects them.”

She pats my cheek as she passes by me on the way out the door. “Such a cute little mama’s boy.”

The front deskattendant back at the resort informs us there are no messages yet from Cheyenne.

Leaving that note, understanding it’s out of her control now, has settled Gretchen. It’s all over her face, her gait, her mood—she’srelaxed. An afternoon by the pool is the perfect way for both of us to shake off the heaviness of the morning.

I tuck the bag from the bookstore in my suitcase and change into my swim trunks while Gretchen changes in the bathroom. Stepping out of the closet, I come face to face with the source of my latest indignity.

The king-sized bed taunts me. It thinks it’s so big, of course two people can share it—I mean, look at all that space. But it’s a lie. I know it, the bed knows it, and now Gretchen knows it.

My mind spins as it plots and plans how I’ll handle another night sharing a bed with my best friend’s sister. It spins and spins until the bathroom door opens, the woman in question emerging wearing a cherry red two-piece bathing suit. The bathing suit a frightening reminder of another two-piece I saw her in six years ago. A sight that changed how I saw her from that point forward.

An open weave cover-up falls over her shoulders, but it doesn’t cover much at all. When she bends over to grab the pool bag, giving me a perfect view of her ass, I have to turn away. I grab a t-shirt and push my head through the top of the fabric in time to find Gretchen’s hungry eyes aimed at my torso.

Caught red-handed, she busies herself with her sunglasses, sliding them onto her face as she asks, “You ready?”

Stifling a smile, I grab her arm as she passes by me on the way to the door. When her chin lifts, face in line with mine, I slide the pool bag off her shoulder. “I got this,” I whisper, throwing in a wink to drive her crazy.

She rolls her eyes.

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