We’re cresting, and when we do, we’ll float back down into reality, into our two separate bodies.
But right now, he’s entirely mine and I’m his.
In the night I get up to pee, and when I come back, Miles is splayed out in the middle of the bed, arm outstretched like he’d been reaching for me in his sleep.
Seeing him there, lit by the moon, sends a crushing tenderness through me.
I tiptoe through the chilly room, climb into bed as gracefully as I can, but he still wakes enough to sleepily drape an arm around my waist and haul me into the warm nook of his body. “You were gone,” he murmurs.
“Now I’m back,” I whisper.
With a low, drowsy hum, he kisses my shoulder, and drifts back to sleep.
30
MONDAY, AUGUST 5TH
12 DAYS UNTIL THE READ-A-THON
In the morning, I don’t wake Miles.
As much as I would like to spend the morning making out, we were up late, and I’ll see him when he picks me up from work anyway. He’d texted Katya last night to see if she wanted his shift, and she’d replied not at all but I need money so I’ll take it, and so we’d decided to get dinner and drive up to a dark sky park.
While I’m dressing, I spot the note from Dad sitting on my dresser. When I was younger, I would’ve read it over and over, scouring for proof that he loved me, or clues about what I’d done to drive him off. Today, I just toss it into the trash on my way out.
I feel like Belle in the beginning of Beauty and the Beast, walking around with a shit-eating grin, greeting everyone like it’s the first day of the rest of my life. I’d be less obvious wearing an I’ve Had Great Sex sandwich board.
I stop at Fika for tea and order Ashleigh a latte too. When Jonah hands it back to me, a realization hits like a gong, reverberating through my bones.
Ashleigh.
I was supposed to paint with Ashleigh.
On my way out the door, I open my calendar and scan for her birthday.
Only, I never added Ashleigh’s birthday to my calendar. I’ve barely added anything in weeks, just like the whiteboard’s gone to the wayside.
An icy fist presses against the bottom of my stomach. It was this past Saturday, I’m positive.
She called in sick, I remember then, which triggers another nauseating lurch in my gut. She was sick on her birthday and I didn’t even check in on her.
How could I forget about her? How could I let this happen?
I practically run the rest of the way to work and get there right as Ashleigh’s locking her hatchback.
As I jog toward her, something flashes in her eyes, too quickly to read, and my heart turns over painfully as her expression settles back into neutrality.
I come to a stop, choke out, “Hey.”
When she doesn’t say anything, I hold her coffee out to her. She looks at it, her hand tightening on her purse strap for a second, before grudgingly accepting it.
“I’m so sorry,” I blurt out. “About Saturday. I just—my dad was in town, and then he left really abruptly, and I was completely distracted and Miles and I—god, I’m really sorry.”
She snorts, shakes her head. “You know,” she says. “It was your idea to do something for my birthday. You insisted. And weirdly, you even got me excited about it.”
“I know,” I say. “You shouldn’t have been home sick alone on your birthday. I understand why you’re upset with me.”
“I wasn’t sick,” she says. “I took the day off.”
“You never take the day off,” I point out.
“Which is why I did, for my birthday. I stayed home and got ready to paint my bedroom a horrendous shade of pink, just because, and watch Real Housewives with my friend.”
My face heats. “I’m so sorry, Ash. Why didn’t you call me?”
She scoffs. “What, more than those nine times? Call me old-fashioned, but once I hit the double digits, I start to feel a tad desperate.”
“Oh my god,” I groan. “The beach! We didn’t have service.”
“We,” she says.
My throat tightens. “I really can’t believe I missed it.”
“It’s fine,” she says.
