Page 51 of This

Dane and I haven’t fought before. Unless you count the bar blonde and lettered Noah, which I don’t. Some people thrive on the arguments and the make-ups. I’ve been one of them, driven by the drama. But that’s not who Dane and I are together. We’re validating, understanding of each other. At least, I thought we were.

When I come out, he’s not there. My last two boxes are by the closed door, the overhead light off and the pink lamp with white flowers on instead. The dim room fits the mood. More shadows than light.

I wait a minute, five, then ten.

Where are you?I text him.

His answer takes just as long:Needed air.

Please come back.

We need to talk about this.

I’m sorry.

Every response I start, I delete until I give up altogether. I change into sweatpants and a T-shirt, and then I go through his bag to find a sweatshirt. I crawl into the bed he’s supposed to be in with me, the hood over my head, the drawstring pulled so tight that it closes in around my face, only the tip of my nose out, and I hide my hands in the sleeves, so as much of me is covered with him as possible. Self-inflicted torture. Dane is in every breath and thought, thoroughly consuming me. It hurts, but it’s better than him not being here at all. The harshest truth I’ve had to admit to myself.

Alot of breaths passbefore the sound of my bedroom door. I’m still buried in the hood, but I hear his shoes hit the floor. He climbs into the bed, the blankets moving as he adjusts them over us.

All goes quiet again until his soft voice asks, “You in there?”

I tug at one side of the hood, loosening it until I can see him. His eyes trace my face for a second before he pulls me to him. His hands are cold and his lips, too, when they first touch me, but they warm fast against mine. He kisses me, shaking his head as he apologizes against my mouth. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for acting like a dick.” More head shaking, his lips pressing to mine again. “I’m not a jealous person—or I haven’t been until you. It scares me.Youscare me.”

“Why?” I whisper.

“Because you make me want to fly two hours every weekend and buy cupcakes for your birthday and lose my shit thinking about anyone who’s ever touched you or might think about it.” He pauses, skimming his fingers along my hairline and down the side of my face. “I have no idea who I am since I met you.”

Same. I don’t lump for men. I don’t start talking to them again after I stop. I definitely don’t hide in their clothes, counting my breaths and missing them.

“I’m sorry for not telling you about Bentley sooner.”

He stares into my eyes, the way I only let him do. “I need to know you won’t keep things like that from me anymore.”

I nod, running the pads of my fingers over his jaw and down the chain on his neck. From don’t-wants to needs, and again, mine comes easily.

“And I need you not to walk out on me again.” I blink through tears, another confession pushing to the surface. “I can’t deal with you leaving and not knowing if you’re coming back.”

His brows knit while he studies me, really looking until the understanding I'd hoped for earlier floods into his eyes. “Oh shit.” He pulls me closer, his arms tying tight around me, and I press my cheek to his bare chest. “I never meant to make you think I wasn’t. I couldn’t stay away from you if I tried.”

I sink as far into him as I can. I want to believe him beyond all doubt, but it only goes so deep. Trust runs shallow in my veins. People who shouldn’t leave do and ones who should stay. They care, then they stop. Love until they don’t. You can’t predict which way someone will go.

Ourselves included.

Life with Maggie is anexperience. She times her life around the sun. For a frail woman in her late eighties, she accomplishes more in a morning than I do in a day, sorting boxes or reading or baking. After the first snow, I wake up, and the sidewalk has already been shoveled and my car cleared off. I start setting an alarm to beat her to it.

“No, no, no,” she says when I bring back green bananas. “Only ripe ones. And only three at a time. Otherwise, I might die before they’re ready to eat.”

The same with all other produce, which means I become a household name at the tiny grocery store across the street from the realtor’s office.

The work is easy, unlocking doors and guaranteeing open houses don’t run out of snacks. By the end of the first week, I’ve walked through every for-sale house in a twenty-mile radius of the office. I snap pictures, doing what I can to disguise problem areas that could deter someone from looking.

Katie Sayer, The Home Slayer, claims if she can get someone in the door, her charm can, “sell a barn without a roof.” She proves her magic when two couples enter into a bidding war over a house with more holes in the drywall than outlets and light fixtures combined.

I quickly adjust to the cold. After a few weeks, I stop putting on a coat when I dash out to start my car in the mornings to let the engine warm.

The day before I fly to Arizona for a weekend filled with bridal showers, I help Maggie move a box down from a shelf in what was her husband’s office. George worked on custom jewelry, engravings, and bending spoons to make into bracelets. The room is untouched from when he passed away ten years ago, his pliers and reading glasses still on the workbench he used.

Back in the living room, she plops on the couch and pats the seat next to her. “I have something for you to take with you for your friend.”

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