Page 115 of Hate Mail

My smile dissolves. It’s easy to forget that Bruno belongs to the shelter, and Luca is only fostering him. “How long until that happens?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Could be months. Weeks. Days. There’s an adoption event this weekend. I didn’t think he would be ready just yet, but I’m going to call the shelter in the morning and find out if they want him there.”

“Oh.” I look back down at the sleeping puppy. I don’t know why I feel so sad. “I guess I thought I had more time with him.”

I slide off the couch. Luca stands up behind me. I pick up my box of letters, then turn to face him.

“I liked reading them with you,” he says.

I nod, too tired and conflicted to respond.

“Maybe we can finish reading them later?” he asks.

“Yeah. Sure.”

He walks with me to his front door. “I can walk you home,” he offers as he opens the door for me.

“Thanks, but I think I’ll be fine. It’s not like I have to leave the building. Plus,” I add, gesturing to the box that I’m holding against my stomach, “if anyone tries anything, I can use this box of letters to defend myself.”

“That gives a whole new meaning to using words as a weapon.”

I step out into the hallway and then turn around to face him. Something has shifted between us. I’m not mad at him anymore. I want to go back to the way things were before he told me who he is. I want to trust him again.

He stands in the doorway, watching me as I readjust the box in my arms. I’m stalling. I could have turned around and headed for the stairwell by now, but something is keeping me here in this hallway.

“Goodnight,” I say, even though this is the start of my morning. I know that he will be going back to bed.

I turn around and head for the stairwell. I’m almost there when I hear the sound of footsteps hurrying behind me. I look over my shoulder to see that Luca is following me.

“I told you I don’t need you to walk me—”

Before I can finish my sentence, he cups my face in his hands and kisses me. I’m still holding the box against my stomach, so it’s positioned awkwardly between us, and he has to lean over it to reach me. His lips are warm against mine, and his stubble scratches my face like I imagined it would. My heart is beating so fast I’m afraid I might drop my box.

When he lets go, he takes a step back and pushes the stairwell door open.

“Sorry,” he says. “I was only coming to get the door for you, but…”

“But?” I prod when he trails off.

“I didn’t want you to go home thinking that I didn’t want to kiss you.”

I smile, but I can’t find the words to respond. I head downstairs to my own floor, thinking about him, about that kiss, about everything that happened tonight.

I make it back to my apartment and set the box down so that I can unlock the door. I hesitate before I turn the key. Maybe I’m overthinking things. I’ve been known to do that. We had such a great connection before, and after spending the night reading old letters with him, it doesn’t feel like anything has changed. I want so badly to trust him, so maybe I should stop looking for reasons not to.

* * *

“Cheers to being a homeowner,” Anne says, clinking her glass against mine. “Let me know if you need help with the mortgage. I’ve been told I make an excellent roommate.”

It’s Friday night. I just spent the afternoon doing one last walk-through of my new house and then signing a bunch of documents until my wrist was sore and I was pretty sure I was developing a case of carpal tunnel syndrome. When I was finished, they handed me the key to my new house and sent me on my way. I never knew that buying a new house would be so anticlimactic. Now I’m at a five-star restaurant with Anne, celebrating with an expensive dinner and a bottle of champagne.

“I already have two roommates lined up,” I tell her. “Their names are Roland and Phoebe.”

She rolls her eyes. “Cats don’t count as roommates.”

“Why not?”

“They don’t pay the rent.”

---