Page 31 of The Coach

I glance down at the postcard. It’s a photo of Riverbend’s main street, probably from the ’60s. Ivy’s number is scrawled in the corner in looping handwriting, with a small doodle of a smiley face beside it.

“This is perfect,” I say, tucking the card into my wallet. “Thanks.”

She grins, shaking her head. “I figured you wouldn’t accept anything boring like a scrap of paper. Or me typing it directly into your phone. That’d be so lame.”

“Oh yeah, it would.”

I lean across the table, brushing her hair back as I kiss her softly. Her lips part slightly, and for a moment, it’s just her—the scent of her, the taste of her, the way her hands curl around my shirt. When I pull back, her eyes are wide, her cheeks flushed again.

“I’m going to see you again, Ivy,” I say, my voice steady. “It’s not a matter ofif. It’s just a question ofwhen.”

Her lips twitch, but she bites the corner of her mouth, trying to suppress her smile. “So…when, then?”

I hesitate, my mind already running through the packed schedule waiting for me. “I’ve got a busy May,” I admit. “But I’ll figure it out.”

She exhales a laugh, shaking her head. “This is crazy. Right?”

I nod, but there’s a grin on my face now. “Completely.”

She drops me off at the station just before five. The platform is nearly empty, the late-afternoon sun casting long shadows across the tracks. She parks the car and gets out with me, and we stand together as the train pulls in, its brakes hissing and groaning.

I don’t want to leave. Not yet. Am I crazy for thinking this is anything more than a stolen day in a quiet town with a woman who’s made me feel more in twenty-four hours than most people do in years?

“Thanks for the ride,” I say, leaning against the car for a moment longer than necessary.

“Thanks for everything,” she replies, her voice softer now. The smile on her face is huge. Her hands fidget at her sides before she steps closer, pulling me into a kiss. It’s deeper this time, slower, and when we finally pull apart, I can see the question in her eyes. She wants to know when we’ll see each other again. I don’t have the answer yet. But I know it’s soon.

I glance back one last time as the doors slide closed, and Ivy waves, her smile equal parts hopeful and resigned.

The train ride back to Chicago feels longer than it should.

I lean my head against the window, watching the countryside blur past as I replay the weekend over and over in my head. Ivy’s laughter, the way she looked at me, the way she felt in my arms—every single second is burned into my memory.

The thought of leaving her behind again makes my chest feel tight.

Whatisthis? What are these feelings I’m having? It was just a weekend. Not even.One night.Less than twenty-four hours. Right?

Maybe I’ve pushed any feelings like this down for too long. Or maybe it just took someone like Ivy blowing my world open for me to realize what I’ve been missing.

After falling asleep against the window for a while, I rub a hand down my face, exhaling hard, a realization hitting me. Geez. I don’t even know herlast name.How wild is that?

I’ll see her soon. And then I’ll get to know her last name, and many other things about her, too.

As I come to from my nap, the train slows as we approach the station, the city skyline coming into view. I shift in my seat, grabbing my bag, checking my phone. My fingers brush my pocket, muscle memory reaching for my wallet?—

And come up empty.

I freeze.

Pat my pocket again. Then the other one. My bag. My jacket.

Nothing.

“Shit,” I mutter, my pulse spiking. I drop back into my seat, checking under it, around it. My stomach churns. My goddamn wallet is gone.

I sit up straight, my heart pounding. The postcard.Her number.

Fuck.

---