Page 38 of Max Bannon

The nights were the hardest.

That’s when I missed him the most—when the bed felt colder, the cabin quieter, and my thoughts had nothing to distract them.

He texted me every night. Nothing long. Nothing over-the-top. But always enough to make me feel like I still mattered. Likewestill mattered. He always said he loved me.

Tonight, I was curled up in bed in one of his old T-shirts, the one he accidentally left behind, which still smelled like cedar and soap. I stared at my phone, hoping the message would come.

And then—there it was.

MAX

I saw a redheaded woman on a Vespa scooter today and almost got flattened by a fruit truck because I thought it was you.

TESSA

You thought I was in Italy… on a Scooter?

MAX

It made sense in the moment. Also, I might be jet-lagged and stupid with longing.

TESSA

Longing, huh?

MAX

Yeah. I miss your voice. I miss tripping over your shoes. I miss watching you try to remember where you put your keys while they’re in your hand.

TESSA

That happened ONE time.

Okay, maybe three times.

MAX

Wanna see something?

A second later, my phone lit up with a video call.

I hesitated, heart fluttering, then tappedAccept.

His face appeared, a little blurry from the streetlamp behind him, but still gorgeous in that rugged, I-haven’t-slept-much way. His hair was tousled, and he had a shadow of stubble along his jaw that made my insides turn to mush. He was so handsome.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, voice low and warm.

“Hey,” I whispered, like the moment might break if I was too loud.

He panned the camera to show the street—cobblestones, a little café, a trio of musicians playing something soft and romantic under a string of lights.

“I found this place and thought of you,” he said. “They serve this drink with lemon and honey—tastes kind of like the tea you like when you’re sleepy.”

“You’re making me jealous.”

“You’re making me homesick.”

I swallowed hard, blinking back the stupid tears that always showed up when I missed him too much.

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