Page 117 of Your Place or Mine

She tossed her keys onto the little entry table and wandered into the kitchen. I lingered near the window, watching the town I’d always known stretch quietly beneath the stars. It looked smaller tonight. Or maybe I suddenly felt too big for it, as if everything inside me was pressing against the seams.

She returned with two bottles and handed one over.

We didn’t tap them or give some lame salutation.

Just sipped.

The air in her apartment was warm and full of something that felt like memory. The kind of stillness that lets grief hang in the corners with familiarity.

She sank onto the old rust-colored loveseat and curled her legs beneath her.

I stayed standing.

Because if I sat next to her, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to keep my hands to myself.

“You okay?” I asked, my voice low.

She nodded. “Yeah.”

But she wasn’t.

And neither was I.

There was a rawness between us. Open wounds we hadn’t even finished describing, let alone stitching closed. But somehow, that made the air buzz louder.

I took another sip, watching her over the rim of the bottle.

She looked tired.

Beautiful.

Dangerous in a whole different way.

And then she looked at me, and that was it.

I set the bottle down and crossed the room in two strides.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Just watched me come toward her like she’d been waiting.

I sat beside her.

Close.

Too close.

Her breath hitched. Just barely.

But I felt it.

“Lydia,” I said, like her name alone might stop me.

It didn’t.

She turned toward me, and I could see everything on her face—hesitation, hurt, want.

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