Page 56 of Seven Percent of Ro Devereux
“Do you still mean it?” I whisper. We’re inches apart; I can see every single one of his eyelashes. “What you said onThe Tonight Show?”
A muscle tenses in Miller’s jaw. And like an idiot, like someone with more faith than I’ve ever had, I bare my own dumb heart right there in the dim galley. “Miller, I love you. I know you said it’s too late, but I love you so much it’s ridi—”
He cuts me off, his mouth landing square on mine. It’s different than that night at the lake—not gentle or hesitant, but starved and sure. It feels brand-new and also, somehow, like we’ve been here before. Like there’s no shock to it at all. Miller’s hand moves into my hair, his thumb along the line of my jaw, and I think:god, thank you. The sheer relief of touching him feels strong enough to knock me to my knees.
When he tips me against the cabinets, I slide a hand under his sweater. His back is warm and smooth, two lines of muscle dipping into the ridge of his spine. I want to reach higher, feel the press of his shoulder blades, but it’s clunky with the cast—plaster and plastic between us.
“I wish I could hold you better,” Miller murmurs, and I shake my head.
“This is perfect.”
“It’s not,” he laughs. “This isn’t how I—”
He catches himself, and I lean back to look at him. His eyes are tight with embarrassment, but he blinks it away. “How I pictured it,” he says, finally, and my entire body floods with heat. “I just. I’ve wanted this for a long time.”
There’s so much I want to tell him, but the vastness of this moment is rising in me like tears, threatening to spill over. I can’t speak through it, so I just pull Miller back into me. Exactly where he should have been all along.
32
We land in Denver at four, and Dad’s waiting in baggage claim. The sight of his face, after the trip we’ve had, almost makes me cry.
“I didn’t know you were coming,” I say when he pulls me into a hug. He smells like coffee and toothpaste.
“Well, you don’t know everything.” His voice goes rough at the end, hitching on the words.
“Miss me a little?” I pull back to look at him, and he swipes at his eyes.
“Nah,” he says gruffly. “You okay?”
“Fine,” I tell him, and he studies my face. I’m not fine: I miss Vera, and I messed up the algorithm, and I’m scared of what happens next. But I’m here. “Promise.”
“And you?” Dad turns to Miller, leaving one hand on my shoulder. “How’s our invalid?”
“Not a fan of the nickname,” Miller says. He put his foot down about the wheelchair once we landed, and now he’s standingbetween Willow and Jazz. When he glances at me I feel it like a flood of warm water in my chest. “Otherwise, I’m good.”
“Good.” Dad lets out a gusting breath, looking between us. We’re a raggedy, worn-down bunch. I’m not sure Jazz has slept at all since we left Denver. My phone died somewhere over the Midwest and I just left it like that, too tired to keep up with the social mentions and the texts and the incessant calls from New York numbers. Miller watched me stick the black-screened brick in my bag and powered his down, too.A little quiet would be good, he said.
“You guys hungry?” Dad asks. “Come to the house, I can cook for everyone.”
“I should get this kid home.” Willow brushes her fingers over Miller’s arm. “He needs rest.”
“I’m okay—” Miller starts, but Felix cuts him off.
“No, she’s right.” He’s got his phone in one hand and purple half-moons under his eyes. Today’s the first time I’ve ever seen him unshaven. “You two need a break. Some sleep.” He runs a hand through his hair, rings flashing, and leaves it messy. “I’ll check in after Christmas about rescheduling all this stuff, okay? Just rest until then.” He swallows, glancing at my dad. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” Miller says, and Felix lifts one shoulder in a defeated shrug, like maybe he thinks it is.
“It’s not,” I echo. When I reach my hand toward him, he squeezes my fingers.
“Just bad luck, babe.” Jazz nudges him with her elbow, then glances between us. “Take care of yourselves, all right? We’ll get a cab to Denver.” As she steers Felix away from us, she raises a hand. “Happy holidays, y’all.”
“He looks like he could use a nap, too,” Dad says, watching them go.
“I think we all could,” Willow says on a yawn. “You guys ready?”
When I look at Miller, he’s already looking at me. I reach for his good hand, and he squeezes his palm flush against mine. “Ready,” I say.
Esther is, for once, there when I need her. After dinner I shower and put on pajamas and climb into bed, my whole body sagging with relief. She hops onto the mattress and curls against my ribs, tucking her chin into her paws. We lie like that for hours: my hand running a rhythm over her silky head, her whiskers twitching every now and then as she looks up to make sure I’m still awake, still petting her. I hear Dad click off the lights and close his bedroom door just after ten. The house is quiet and overwhelmingly familiar after the foreign fear of the last few days.
