Page 113 of Valentine Nook
Summer is over. Fall is coming. The change of seasons is a stark realization that it’s getting closer to the day I’ll be leaving this little cottage behind.
I know what leaving is like. I’m good at leaving.I’m used to being in one place, working my ass off all hours of the day and night, then saying goodbye.
But it’s never felt like this.
This is different.
Emptiness builds in my chest because I don’t want Valentine Nook to become one more memory. Somewhere along the way, it stopped being a place I escaped to and started to feel more like a home. A beginning.
I’ve found a community I’ve never really had before, where people stop and talk to me—not because I’m famous—because they want to tell me about a new litter of puppies their dog had, give me a jar of honey they just harvested or fresh eggs from their chickens. Or the one I love most—an invite for afternoon tea.
I’m not ready to go. I want to keep it, and I need to figure out how.
I want to see the village in every season. I want to shoot the shit with Eddie at the end of my day. I want to go to London with Lando every month.
When I head back upstairs, it’s with one trudge at a time, and I slip under the comforter without Lando ever knowing I was gone.
For the next hour, I watch raindrops smash against the windows. The white noise-esque ambiance both hypnotizes and feels strangely comforting as I lie there trying to map out a plan for the next few months before I have to return to work.
How do I stay? Would Lando want me to stay? Is what we have purely because there’s an end date to it? We’ve built a bubble that could easily burst with the slightest bit of extra pressure, and I’m not sure what that pressure looks like.
My brain aches with questions that have no answers, and in the end, the pull of watching Lando becomes too strong.
I’m obsessed with the way his entire face smooths out whenhe sleeps. The weight of responsibilities he carries during the day is gone. His brow relaxes, his jaw softens, and even his beautiful mouth appears too sweet to whisper the filth he knows I love to hear.
If I could draw, I’d sketch him every day, but sadly, I wasn’t blessed with that talent.
“I know you’re staring at me.” His gruff voice breaks through my thoughts, and I have to bite down my grin.
“You don’t know shit.”
“Oh, you think?” he replies, his eyes still shut.
“Yeah.”
Quick as a flash, his fingers shoot out and dig into my ribs, tickling them against my sides until I’m laughing so hard I wheeze.
“Stop.Stahhp.”
“Admit you were staring.”
I’m laughing so hard I can’t speak, and when his fingers move again, I gasp out the words, “Fine, I was staring at you.”
“I knew it.”
The torture immediately stops, and I’m tugged into his side. His eyes open, and over my shoulder, he spies the coffee mug.
“How long have you been awake?”
“A little while. The rain woke me.”
He peers to the window, only now noticing the apocalypse outside. “Hmmm. Guess summer’s officially over.”
My chest tightens at that statement, and the urge to cry becomes overwhelming to the point I need to turn away.
Lando shuffles the pillow underneath his head, punches it a few times for extra fluffiness, and slides his arm underneath. I’m instantly distracted by the flex of his bicep, and the tears dry up.
“What’s that brain of yours thinking about?”
