Page 70 of The Risks of Reuniting

Holt

Standingatthefrontdoor of Chloe's condo while she digs out her keys is nerve-wracking and throws me into a time warp. She purchased the townhome-style condo about three months before I was accepted to Chapel Hill. I helped her choose it, we talked about where to put furniture, and what colors to paint walls, and spent hours here eating dinner and watching movies, or kissing goodnight on this very doorstep. Then I burst that bubble by leaving her here alone. I'm grateful she had Allie move in, but knowing I'm the reason for that has me feeling nauseated.

I'm honestly wondering which bush Allie is going to leap out from. I know she has words for me, and I'd respect her less if she didn't. I love that Chloe has an army behind her.

The late-May sun beats on my back, so dry and different from North Carolina and Lima. I can feel my lips chapping as I stand here, but it's good to see the blue sky after a month of haze and gray skies. I look up at the view of Mount Olympus, which still has snow on its highest peaks, and feel a rush of homecoming. This is the place I grew up, and it's as familiar to me as the face of the woman attempting to find her keys. She's so travel weary that she's become disorganized.

"Your lawn looks short," I comment, glancing at the small patch next to her front walkway.

She scoffs. "You can talk to Mr. Steven Moore about that. He's been a nuisance," she replies, referring to her dad.

"Doesn't your HOA mow it?"

She turns and points at me with her keys. "Exactly my point."

I have to wonder if he trimmed the bushes too, because they seem smaller somehow, but I'm not going to ask. Chloe's dad is all personality with a thousand percent loyalty to his family, so there's no way he wasn't going to take care of things while Chloe was away.

"Why isn't Allie throwing the door open to welcome you home?" I ask. "She knows your flight plans, right?"

"Yeah, we made a countdown chain and posted my flight plans on the kitchen cupboards," Chloe responds with a tone of amusement. "I'm not sure where she is."

"It's Sunday."

She nods. "Thank you Calendar Man."

"I just mean, she's not at work."

Chloe gets the key in and turns the lock, opening the door to a dark and silent condo. The scent of it is the same as I remember, and I halt in my progress through the door as it assaults my senses. The laughs, the cuddling, and lastly the tears and heated words. This place is a pool of memory. I have to face that, but I sort of wish we had somewhere else to go because I want to pretend none of it ever went down.

Before she's even made it two steps into the door I reach around her from behind and hug her tightly, my front to her back, bent slightly to press my cheek to her ear. I can't stand the thought of either of us hurting like that again, and I have to hold her close for a moment, to remind me that she's real and she's truly giving me another chance.

"You okay, love?" she asks quietly, dropping her luggage in order to wrap her small hands around my wrists.

"This place is full of memories," I respond, pressing a kiss to her cheek, "not all of them good." She hums. "I'm trying to be cool about it, but it's a lot right now."

She lets me hold her, and I force my tense muscles to relax before kissing her again and releasing her.

"So, Allie?" I ask, getting us back on track as we both pick up our packs.

"She could be at the gym, running errands, brunching with her family, attending church . . ." Chloe lists as she makes her way into the living area, using her foot to push her pack along the floor. "The options are endless."

"Hiding behind a shower curtain to knife me when I go to relieve myself," I add, setting my own pack down and closing the front door behind me.

She nods. "That too."

She starts flipping on lights and I take in the things that are the same, but mostly the things that have changed. The furniture is laid out differently, and one of the walls has been painted a green color that Chloe could not have picked out herself. She hated statement walls.

"The green is nice," I point at it and she wrinkles her nose.

"It's terrible. Sometimes choices are made when we're grieving, and then we're too lazy to undo them."

It's a sober moment and I'm happy when she shuffles into the kitchen. There's a table runner that I remember shopping for, and her baking canisters still sit in the same place near the range. The kitchen feels nice and homey, small but perfect.

"This is the same, though," I state, happily.

She wrinkles her nose again. "Yeah. Might be time foran update."

I'm not sure how to take that. Are we talking around something, or is she simply stating a weightless thought.

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