Page 55 of P.S. I Miss You

And now I know …

Nick is in love with her too.

NICK: CAN YOU LEAVE THE BACK DOOR UNLOCKED AROUND 2 PM? MELROSE HAS MY KEY. OBVS.

ME: YEP.

NICK: THANKS, DUDE!!

I put my phone on “do not disturb” and darken the screen.

I need to shut the world out.

WE BUMP INTO EACH other by the front door Thursday morning, after I finish an early jog. I’m not sure why, but I woke up at 5 AM this morning wide awake and couldn’t get back to sleep.

“Hi.” I dab my sweaty forehead on the back of my hand. I’m sure I look hot. Literally, not figuratively.

“Hey.” He reaches for his dusty work boots that rest on a wool rug by the front door. His white ALCOTT ELECTRIC t-shirt is blinding almost, contrasting against his bronzed skin. It must be new. “So thanks for taking care of Tucker last night.”

“Is everything okay? With him, I mean?”

He bites the inside of his mouth for a second before nodding. “Yeah. He’s a tough kid. He’ll get through it.”

“Probably helps he has you.”

I expect Sutter to roll his eyes or tell me to stop glorifying him, something self-deprecating, but he stands there staring, lost in thought almost, like he’s thinking hard about something.

If only he could read my thoughts—then he’d know how badly I wish I could kiss him. I don’t even care that I’m slicked in sweat and smell like the outdoors. I want to feel the heat of his mouth. His fingers in my hair. All of him consuming all of me.

I want him to look at me the way he did before—like I was some kind of wonderful.

Sutter glances at the door. I know he has to go.

“What are you doing tonight?” I ask.

“Not sure yet.”

“Maybe … we could hang out?”

Sutter walks to the door, placing his hand on the knob as he lingers. “Yeah. Maybe. We’ll see.”

There’s an ache in my chest. An actual ache. My stomach knots as I watch him swing the door open.

“Why are you doing this?” I ask.

He turns to face me. “Melrose.”

“I know you felt it too, Sutter.” My eyes burn, but I refuse to let him see me cry.

“I have to go.” He shuts the door and trots down the front porch steps, climbing into his truck a few seconds later.

I’d like to think he’s going to let my words sink in on his drive to work, but knowing him, he’ll probably drown it out with his favorite classic rock station.

He’s good at shutting out the world when things get too intense. I just never thought he’d shut me out—not after how far we’d come since the day we first met.

At the end of the day, I suppose I have to accept the fact that I don’t mean what I thought I meant to him.

But it won’t make me miss him any less when I’m gone.

I couldn’t stay home today.

Tucker vegged out on the sofa next to a stack of books he found God knows where, and I packed up Murphy and hightailed it to Gram’s house. Later this afternoon, I met up with Aerin and Maritza for a late lunch, and then I drove to Abbot-Kinney in Santa Monica and did some window shopping before settling into a corner table at a coffee house for a little soul searching.

Speaking of that … I haven’t heard from Nick since Wednesday morning.

Grabbing my phone, I shoot him a quick text, asking what he’s up to. If he’s still on the East Coast, it’s almost dinner time, so hopefully he’s up.

His little “existential crisis” episode was unnerving. He’s always been the calm one. The one who had his emotions under control and knew exactly what he wanted out of life. Somehow our roles have reversed.

I finish my almond milk latte and head back to my car. With traffic, it takes nearly an hour and a half to get home. The 405 is mostly stop and go for a while, and every time we stop, I think about seeing Sutter tonight after what I said earlier, and then I have to make a conscious effort to stop tapping my fingers or bouncing my knee.

I’m not good at being anxious. I can cry on command, but Lord help me if I can pull myself together.

I’m dying to know if he thought about me today, about what I said to him in the foyer. I basically confessed that I felt something between us, and then he … left.

Maybe he was running late for work, but I like to think that the conversation made him that uncomfortable that he had to get the hell out of there, and the reason it made him that uncomfortable was because he felt something too.

By the time Murphy and I pull in the driveway to the little bungalow, I kill the engine and scoop my dog under my arm, heading in.

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