Page 38 of Let Me In

I nod. It’s all I can manage. My voice has disappeared tangled up in the part of me that still doesn’t believe I’m allowed to want this.

And before he walks away, he adds, “I’ll leave the porch light on.”

It’s such a simple thing, but it hits hard. Like safety I didn’t know how to ask for. Like he’s already made room for me in his world, and intends for me to stay. Welcomed. Light on, door unlocked, arms open.

He says it like a promise. One he means to keep, no matter what.

He waits for me to unlock the door, while I hold the warmth of his words like something fragile and glowing. His hand brushes mine one last time, our eyes locking. He reaches to graze his thumb along my jaw, and then he steps back. Like he physically has to force himself.

I try and fail to hide my smile. And watch him get into his car. I watch until I can’t see the shape of it anymore.

Inside, I don’t head straight to my room. I hover near the front window for a minute after I hear the Chevelle pull away.Watch the tail lights disappear down the road, the low purr of the engine fading into quiet.

And for the first time in I-don’t-know-how-long, I feel wanted.

Not for what I can offer. Not out of obligation.

Just… for being me.

I move through the house in a kind of daze.

Not disconnected, but the opposite. Warm, lit up.Hopeful.

The dogs pick up on it. Cleo watches me from the hallway, her head tilted just enough to ask a question without saying it. Luca follows close at my heels like he’s afraid he’ll miss whatever changed.

I feed them slowly. Fill their bowls, wipe the edges like it matters.

Everything feels softer. Lighter.

I’ll leave the porch light on.

I don’t know what it is about those words, said so quietly and simply, but they hold something bigger. Something that settles in the places inside me that are always braced for the door to close before I can get through it.

I carry that feeling into the kitchen, where Mom is at the stove. She doesn’t look up right away. The smell of dinner fills the air, something roasted.

“I’m going out tonight,” I say, gently. “Just for a little while.”

She glances at me, not sharp—but wary. Her eyes flick to the clock, then back.

“Where?”

I hesitate. “To Cal’s. He invited me for dinner. Movie too, I think.”

She goes still for a moment. The ladle she’s holding doesn’t move.

Then she says, slowly, “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

My breath catches. “What do you mean?”

“Men like that…” she starts. Her voice falters, like she doesn’t know how to finish it. Or doesn’t want to.

“He’s not like…” I stop. “He’s… different.”

She doesn’t answer.

And from the garage, I hear my father’s voice. Flat. Cruel in that way only someone practiced can manage.

“Maybe Luca’ll get out. Dogs like that don’t always come back.”

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