Page 142 of Counting On You

How did he even get it?

“Someone should tell him that chocolate and flowers are the way to go. I’m so sorry. He really has no taste,” Sylvie says. “It even smells bad.”

I laugh and wipe at the sudden tears filling my eyes. “No, it’s perfect.”

“Perfect?” She sounds so aghast I let out another laugh.

“Yes.” I turn to her, and for the first time I hug her—really hug her with tears spilling down my cheeks.

When I cried for Bruce, I cried for the months I had wasted on him. Now I’m crying because my heart is bleeding to be with Kade.

I crave his touch, his smile. It feels as though my soul’s missing the sound of his voice, his laughter, everything about him.

“It’s the perfect gift.” I press the book against my chest, thinking that his hands touched it before me. That his thoughts were with me when he left. That he knows me so well, maybe better than anyone else.

“I miss him,” I whisper. “I miss him even though I don’t want to. Why does it hurt so much that he’s gone?”

“Because you’re in love with him,” Sylvie whispers, smiling.

“What am I going to do?” I take a tissue from Sylvie’s outstretched hand and begin to dab at my tears.

“That one’s easy. You two are going to see each other again.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?” Sylvie asks.

“Because friendships formed in rehab don’t last.”

“But we both know what you and Kade had wasn’t exactly friendship.”

I grimace. It was friendship…and a lot of other things. “You know what I mean.”

“He cares about you, so if you’re happy about this—” she points at the box, “—book—”

“It’s a first edition,” I cut her off.

“I get it.” She rolls her eyes, not getting it at all. “What I’m trying to say is that he makes you happy and that’s all that counts.”

“Let’s pretend I wanted to get in touch with him. I don’t have his number.”

“That’s not true.” She points at the book. “He told me to tell you to look inside.”

I open the book, my fingers lingering over the old print. As I turn the page, I stop breathing.

It’s a note in Kade’s handwriting, written on a piece of paper.

Vicky,

Our past doesn’t defineus. Your past doesn’t bother me.

Call me when you change your mind…be it tomorrow or next year.

Call me when you’re ready and I’ll be there, waiting. Assuming they let me out, otherwise I insist you visit me, making use of your amazing climbing abilities.

And remember:

Do. Or do not. There is no try.

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