Page 72 of Almost Home
I hoped he knew I meant for our date—that I was referencing the plans we’d kind of made but hadn’t firmed up completely.
“I’ll let you in whenever you want.”
My stomach flipped.“Good.”
And I thought he’d leave it there. Maybe he’d fallen asleep and we’d talk tomorrow. But then my screen lit up again.
“Not sure I ever let you out.”
I didn’t know what to say in response, but I held the phone close, cradling it against me like it was him.
Wilder Saint had always been soft on the inside, almost too sweet and gentle to be believed under all the gruff, tight-lipped man. But this whole day had shown me what had been true when we were younger remained so—Wilder wasn’t hard or reluctant to feel. If anything, he felt more deeply than most. And maybe, he still felt as much for me as I did him. Maybe staying wasn’t just for him, but for me, too.
CHAPTERTHIRTY-SIX
Wilder
The morning after a night like last night would normally leave me with an unshakeable malaise. Today felt immeasurably different.
First, because I hadn’t been alone. And while I hadn’t memorialized my friends alone in the past, I’d still woken up with that isolation. Yes, I had friends who I thought of as kind-of brothers, but they weren’t my brothers by blood and childhood. They were important, particularly Bruce and a few others who I hoped would work their way out here when their active time wrapped up in the next few years. But even in those times, I found myself reflecting on missing my family. Feeling like I belonged there, and yet that part of me was held separate.
Last night, that part of me had clicked back into place.
Call it the beauty and brutality of shared grieving or the healing of time or the blessing of vulnerability—call it what you will. It had resulted in a renewed bond between my brothers that I felt as I padded along the path at a lazy pace, the peaks of the mountains ahead of me hidden by clouds.
Wyatt and Warrick had left around midnight, after hours of talking and eating and drinking. Instead of pounding into the grief with the burn of whiskey and solitude, I’d told them stories about my friends—the living and the dead. I’d shared the most difficult moments when the whiskey loosened my tongue, and I’d shared my tears when they did theirs.
I had never imagined crying with my grown brothers would be a necessary event in my life, but this morning, I recognized how essential it’d been. They knew me so much better than they had before because I’d told my stories—ones I only told on days like yesterday. And I knew them better for receiving their compassion and experiencing their grief as we touched on having lost our father. We’d spoken of the baby, too, because we’d also all lost that little one—until the last few weeks, I’d hardly allowed myself to realize how they might’ve grieved too. It had been good to talk about that.
And then, there was Sarah.
She’d never been more than a breath from my mind all evening, and by the time they left and I’d lain my head on my pillow and wished I could look across and see her next to me, just to rest next to her, I’d texted.
Her response—her welcoming tone despite my failure to apologize for my ass-backward approach to supporting her earlier and my generally piss-poor mood all day—had lit me up. Rereading the texts today, I should’ve been concerned. I’d put myself out there, shoved my heart right into her hands with that last message.
“Not sure I ever let you out.”Hell if that didn’t say exactly the truth.
Sitting there with my brothers and knowing she’d sent them to me despite my jackassery of the day, the surety of my feelings for her had wrapped around my ribs and squeezed. Even now, just thinking of her and the prospect of seeing her later today made my normally steady breath come up short.
The day crawled by despite my efforts to distract myself—a tour of the property where they’d pour the foundation this week, weather permitting. Finally, I showed up at my mom’s house to burn off some time and to make an effort with her. I’d been so focused on my brothers, I’d rarely had time with just her.
“Your brothers both told me about last night,” she said, pouring me a cup of steaming tea.
“What’d they say?”
She turned the delicate handle of her teacup to the side and smiled almost wistfully. “They both said how honored they were to be with you.”
Her glance up revealed her eyes were shining, and my throat instantly tightened. Damn the emotions waiting right there at all times these days.
“I was honored to have them with me. Glad they came.” Barely scratching the surface, that, but she could see. Mom broadcasted her feelings in every expression, and I could see that joy and relief beaming through her.
“Warrick said Sarah sent him.”
I nodded, waiting. She had something to say, and I hoped she’d go ahead with it.
Sure enough, she sipped her tea, then set the cup down with a delicate clink against the china saucer. “Have you forgiven her?”
I swallowed, not sure how to answer. Yes, I had. But in some ways, it didn’t feel… finished. I was getting there, more every day, though we hadn’t gotten to a full closure on what had gotten us here. But we didn’t have to rush it. She was back, and I was, too. I never would’ve guessed the first few days we were here, not even after her apology, but I believed we’d get there.
