“It’s not the right chord, Zach. It’s not.”

Violet sighed loudly and reached for the can of Pringles. Amazingly, their mutual work ethic had taken over when they’d reached the house, and instead of ripping off each other’s clothes, Violet had reached for a notebook and pen, and Zach had reached for his guitar. But they’d been at it for over three hours, and they didn’t have much to show for it. Violet grimaced at the notepad on her lap. She still didn’t believe him entirely when he said her poems were good, but there was no sense in fighting him since he was so resolute. She chose her words carefully. “Or this poem isn’t right for that music.”

“The poem is perfect. You just need to get used to the sound. It’s not folk.”

“I know it’s not folk,” she answered, rolling her eyes at him as he gestured for the chips, putting his pick between his teeth when he withdrew a handful.

They sat on the floor against the living room sofa, a crackling fire burning in the fireplace and a cornucopia of gas station junk food on the coffee table. As if by tacit agreement, Zach hadn’t offered Violet any Scotch, nor had she asked for any. She was encouraged, at first, by their drive and focus. But Zach was being stubborn now—he was fixated on that D-major chord and wouldn’t give it up. Couldn’t he hear that it just wasn’t right for the trauma of her words? For the aching sadness?

“I know it works for ‘Clair de Lune,’ but it’s not working for ‘My Spot.’ I think it needs something a little darker, a little gloomier. A minor chord, maybe. ‘Clair de Lune’ is wistful. ‘My Spot’ is like getting punched in your heart. It’s about pain.”

Zach flinched but ignored her. He started playing again, humming the melody line where the words were supposed to go, and Violet shook her head back and forth, slapping the notebook on the coffee table in frustration. Sophie’s words about taking a risk passed through her head, but she was starting to feel like songwriting together was one risk not worth taking. If they couldn’t write songs, she wouldn’t be able to pay back her spent advance. And so far it wasn’t going very well.

“How many times do I have to say it? I don’t care what you hear in your head. You’re trying to force the words into the wrong melody.”

“Uh, Violet, this is what I do,” he said, smirking at her with a mocking superiority. She’d forgotten what a smug bastard he could be when it came to music.

“Right. That’s just great.” She braced herself on the couch to stand up. “I think we need a break.”

“I don’t need a break. Maybe you need a break.”

“Yeah, I definitely need a break,” she said. “I need a break from you.”

He put his guitar to the side, looking up at her, feigning surprise. “Oh. Is that how it’s going to be?”

“Yes, oh, genius songwriter who knows everything and obviously doesn’t really want a partner, because he’s not listening to a damn word she’s saying. Yes, apparently that’s how it’s going to be.” She took a deep breath. It had been an emotional day, to say the least, and Violet wasn’t in the mood to squabble. “I’m really tired, Zach. I’m going to bed.”

“Bed?” He ran his tongue along his lips, looking up at her. “Yeah, we could pick this up in the morn—”

“Alone.”

She gave him a look, and his eyes took on a wounded, pleading quality. She was ruining that part of his night, and she knew it, but she was too frustrated with him to shift gears and feel sexy and playful with him. She put the top on the Pringles and packaged up the rest of the snacks, taking them to the kitchen counter without a word. She felt his eyes on her, hungry and desperate, the whole time. She even felt a little satisfaction in punishing him.

“Violet, come on. You’re just going to walk away? And go to bed by yourself?”

She turned off the kitchen lights and started for the stairs.

“There you go. Walking away. Just walking the fuck away because you don’t like how the song sounds.”

No, I’m walking the fuck away because you’re not listening to me. And this isn’t going to work if you don’t let me into the process.

“Good night, Zach,” she called from the stairs. “See you tomorrow.”

Regardless of what he might think, she’d had big plans for tonight too. And they didn’t include sleeping alone. But he was patronizing her and ignoring her input, and her frustration and disappointment had finally gotten the best of her. If they couldn’t write one song together, how the hell were they going to write four? In two weeks—correction: In twelve days?

And if she used up all her time in Maine trying to write songs that weren’t going to be any good? She’d return home with no songs, no $40,000, and no sequel. She’d be in breach of contract and have to wipe out her paltry savings to pay the fine. Not to mention move out of her apartment, find a new job, and . . .

She heard him pick up his guitar and start playing the same chords again. They weren’t right for her lyrics. He had to know that. He was just being pigheaded!

She slammed her bedroom door shut and lay on the bed. For Violet, her poems had always felt like a part of her soul, and the crushing disappointment of sharing them with Shep so many years ago, only to have him label them “maudlin downers” or “a hobby, but not a career, Vi,” was enough incentive for her to keep them hidden from him. She hadn’t even submitted them to the editor at Masterson until after Shep’s death, knowing he’d have tried to talk her out of it, calling it foolishness. He’d never read her book, claiming it wasn’t an interesting genre for him. Honestly, it hadn’t hurt her feelings. In fact, she’d been a little relieved that he’d never had a chance to recognize himself in her writing, even though Veronica ended up with Shane in the end. It had been enough–perfect, even–that he’d been genuinely supportive of her novel-writing career, albeit from a polite distance.

Sharing “My Spot” with Zach this afternoon had seemed so natural as she lay beside him again after so many years apart, and she could tell he’d been moved by her words. She could tell that still, now, despite the passage of time, he got her and her voice. And her heart had swelled with the sheer joy of sharing her work with someone who cared about it, who candidly and passionately appreciated it.

Which is why his patronizing attitude downstairs had gotten under her skin so quickly. She couldn’t bear for him to take her words and match them with the wrong music. Not when he knew better. She’d rather not offer them at all. She’d rather woodenly finish a mediocre book.

Her body tingled with frustration, imagining the things they should be doing to each other right now—the “damage” Sophie had mentioned—and she wondered if she’d been rash in going to bed alone. When she’d lowered herself onto him this afternoon, his eyes had captured hers unrelentingly, and he’d held his breath until she was fully impaled on him before breathing again. Goose bumps lifted on her skin as she remembered the way it felt to have Zach inside her again, to be joined so intimately with him. It felt like heaven. Cliché? Maybe. But if heaven didn’t feel like sex with Zach Aubrey, she’d just as soon skip it.

Her hand skimmed over her blouse, pulling it out of the waistband of her jeans, and she caressed the hot skin of her exposed stomach. And, oh my God, when he’d sat up, holding her body against his, matched together in every possible way—their mouths, their chests, his hardness deep inside her, her legs locked behind his back—she’d almost wept from the heat and the intimacy and the way it felt—felt—to be with him again. She unbuttoned her jeans, then unzipped them, slipping her hand inside to rest flat over her panties. She heard his voice in her head murmuring, “Just let go, baby,” deep and intensely aroused, and she moaned lightly. She wanted him. Badly. Not her hand. Him.

She huffed, sitting up in disappointment.

No, I’m not going back downstairs to write a shitty song just so he’ll come upstairs with me after. I’ll take a shower instead. That’s what guys do, isn’t it?

***

As he watched her go upstairs alone in a snit, he felt like a jerk. She was punishing him for being such an asshole of a writing partner, and the truth was? He deserved it.

More truth? He loved her poem, but he hated it too. He hated that it had been born out of pain that he had caused her. He hated that she was right: it was impossible to make her words from those dark, lonely days fit into a carefree, major melody. He hated the final words, “Never belonged to me,” even though he knew the song would be a major hit if they could get their acts together and actually write it. He hated that he’d have to listen to the song over and over again during practices and recording sessions, every moment reminding him of what a bastard he’d been.

For his own, selfish sake, he wanted to cheer it up. He wanted the song to have hope. By a strange twist of fate or destiny or dumb fucking luck, their story wouldn’t, in fact, end that night at Yale. By some miracle, their story was still being written.

Couldn’t he offer hope to her heartbreak? Couldn’t they add that complexity to the text through the music he wrote? Would it be wrong to take her gut-wrenching words and marry them to a melody that offered hope?

Because then he could bear it. He could write it and record it and listen to it a million times if it had hope. If her words weren’t the last, well, word. If the music made the words inevitable instead of impossible. He needed to write hope, if she’d let him.

His fingers started moving across the strings, playing a classical version of the old Scottish hymn “Bunessan,” best known in Cat Stevens’s version of “Morning Has Broken.” It was a song that had always confused him: the words were full of hope and promise, but the melody was so heartbreaking. It contradicted itself in a perfect inversion of the song he was writing with Violet. That it was Violet’s all-time favorite piece of music wasn’t lost on him. Playing in a seamless stream, he walked up the stairs, opened her bedroom door, and sat down on her bed to wait for her to finish her shower.

***

Letting the three-nozzled shower beat steaming water on her weary body was a close second to sex with Zach, and it allowed her a little more time to sift through her feelings. Sift being a euphemism for confront because her feelings were less and less hazy the more time she spent with Zach. And the less hazy, the more vulnerable she became, which scared her. Because being with Zach now, even in light of their differences, felt more right, more instinctive, than all the years she’d spent with Shep. And that made her feel heaps of guilt.

Oh, Shep had been solid and loving, but he’d never really connected to her heart on the visceral level that Zach did. Around Zach she felt illuminated from the inside out, she felt understood. She felt full. She felt complete. Just as she had at Yale.

When Zach walked away from her, her heart had imploded with the pain of his rejection, with the pain of separation from him. Shep was a logical successor, someone who, like water surrounding jagged stone, would serve to dull Violet’s edges over time. Dull them until she could never feel that sort of pain again. Until she lost sight of herself, softening into something smooth and pretty, and not at all extraordinary. And thus had she lived for years, docile, dull, and pretty.

And now, after finding Zach again, every cell in her body was suddenly waking up after a deep, long sleep. She’d already fought with him three or four times in the short time they’d been reunited and it felt good—no, great—to feel passion again. It felt empowering and blessedly familiar . . . as though the cage into which she’d placed herself for nine years was dissolving around her and she’d soon be free again. And it confirmed what every dormant cell in Violet’s body had known for nine long, hibernating years: Zach was her other half. In no uncertain terms, he was the only person on earth who could offer her that feeling of completeness, who could make her feel whole.

But it didn’t matter. Because for all that being with Zach blew her mind, as promised, and her body recognized his as something that belonged to her, trusting him felt impossible. Impossible. Despite his regrets and reassurances and beautiful words and beautiful body, she simply didn’t trust him. And if she couldn’t trust him, they couldn’t be together.

She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the shower wall as the hot water cascaded down her body, making her feel drowsy, and her heavy thoughts sapped any remnants of spirit. The only person who made her feel whole was the person she trusted least in the world. The irony of it, the unfairness of it, made her dizzy.

When she reached for the faucet and turned off the rush of water, she heard something. What was it? Music. Soft music coming from the bedroom. Turning her head toward the door, she made out the dulcet tones of Zach’s guitar. She stepped onto the bath mat and wrapped a fluffy white towel around her body. Then she leaned her exhausted head against the door, listening. A small smile spread across her face as she closed her eyes.

“Morning Has Broken.”

Of course.

She slid to the floor of the bathroom, holding her knees to her chest, her ear pressed lightly against the crack between the closed door and the wall, and listened to him play. It was the least she could do, since he’d finally listened to her.

***

When the bathroom door finally opened, Zach’s fingers paused. She stood motionless in a white towel, her hair wet and wavy, bathed in the soft light of the nightstand lamp. Though she was only a few feet away, it was too far away from him. He ached for her.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered, leaning her head against the bathroom doorway. “Please play it again.”

“Violet,” he started, wanting to tell her what an ass he’d been and beg her to let him be with her tonight—hold her, talk to her, lie on the floor while she slept on the bed—anything but face exile from her, from the feeling of wholeness that he hadn’t felt in too many years.

“Please, Zach. Please play it again. For me.”

He did. Because he would do anything for her.

Her sad, tired eyes held his as his fingers picked up the light, plaintive melody again.

“The music was wrong,” he said softly, staring at her.

She smiled.

“But I think something like this would be . . . right.”

“It’s folk,” she said, her eyes filling.

“I can live with that.” He looked down at his fingers for a moment before catching her eyes again. He was still worried that he’d be forced to spend a moment away from her. “Can you?”

“Yes,” she murmured as he finished the final phrase, his fingers stilling.

She approached him, and he held his breath, his chest expanding with her nearness, wanting her more than he’d ever wanted anyone, as though she belonged to him. She gently took the guitar off his lap and leaned it against the chair across from the bed.

He watched her, wondering if she’d let him stay or send him on his way.

She turned back to him and stood between his legs, reaching around his head to take his hair out of its ponytail and then running her fingers through the thick, shoulder-length brown strands. She didn’t belong to him. She wasn’t a part of him. He didn’t have a right to her. And yet she touched him like maybe she could love him again, and he cursed his hopeful heart for not holding back something, anything. Didn’t it know better than to hope for love after all of these years without it?

But this was Violet. Violet. And so he was rushing headlong into it with every possibility of losing her again. Whether she realized it or not, he was filleted wide open to her, his beating heart offered in sacrifice, in penance, in trade for anything she was willing to give. And it had been such a long time coming, there was nothing, nothing, he could do about it.

Reaching through the seam of her towel, he rested his hands on her naked hips and pulled her to him until his cheek rested on the towel, over her breasts.

“That’s my favorite song,” she murmured as her fingers threaded through his hair gently.

He leaned back to look at her, reveling in her nearness, her touch, the smell of her freshly washed body, scented with lilac and lemon. “I remember.”

She stared at his face with a wide, worried gaze as his hands skimmed up from her hips to her waist, massaging her soft, damp skin with his strong, calloused fingertips.

“Can I trust you?” she asked quietly, as though deep in thought, more to herself than to him.

“I won’t hurt you,” he promised, his fingers inching up her body until his hands cupped her naked breasts, his thumbs brushing the nipples into tight points as she swayed closer to him. She loosened the towel until it fell from her body, pooling on the floor at her feet.

Zach sucked in his breath, looking away from her face to his hands, which covered her breasts. He leaned forward and took one pink bud into his mouth, sucking on it gently as her head tilted back, her fingernails grazing his skull. He kissed a small trail to her other breast, licking a circle around the nipple.

Her hands reached down to find the edge of his T-shirt and pushed it up his chest, the heels of her hands running slowly over his skin until Zach reached behind his neck and pulled the shirt off. Her fingers wasted no time unbuckling his belt, and he stood up from the bed so she could unzip his pants.

“I want you as naked as me. I . . . I need you, Zach.”

His body reacted to her words, tightening everywhere in anticipation and time stopped, screeching to a halt around him. His thoughts about the song and her feelings and his feelings for her, his worries and her mistrust and everything—all of it—disappeared. Because all that mattered was that Violet needed him.

He pushed his jeans to the floor, and she wound her arms around his neck as she crushed her body against his, her smooth, pale skin pressed against his tan, tattooed muscles. But before his body took over completely, his mind asserted itself one final time. He dipped his head to kiss her, but paused against her lips, panting.

“I mean it, Violet. I won’t hurt you. I won’t fucking hurt you. Never again.”

Then he dropped his head, smashing his open mouth against hers. She moaned low in the back of her throat, and he pushed her down onto the bed, carefully covering her naked, willing body with his.

***

“What’s this one?” she asked, propped on her elbow beside Zach, as she took a guided tour of his body in the moonlight. “A lighthouse?”

He lay on his back, smiling at her, and glanced over at the sleeve of tattoos that covered his right bicep. He flexed it lightly.

Show-off, she thought, remembering how he’d held his incredibly toned body over hers as he made love to her, teasing, until she cried out to him to “cut the shit,” and he’d beamed as he slid with unerring precision into her hot, wet body. His smile had faded quickly, though, as he clenched his jaw in determination, holding himself still and full within her. She’d gasped her approval, then grasped his ass and pushed him forward to the hilt as she arched up to meet him. His eyes shuddered closed then, and he lost whatever battle he was waging with self-control. He drove his body into hers over and over with increasing speed and thrust until she exploded beneath him, and he bellowed her name, convulsing inside her.

Studying the dips and curves in his arm muscles made her pelvic muscles flex and release in a flutter of activity, like aftershocks. Oh God, she wanted him again. (And again and again and again.)

“That’s for where I grew up,” he said, his eyes heavy and sated and amused. Damn him, but he read her like a book. He kissed her lightly. “Not yet, Vile.”

He looked so pleased with himself. Yes, Zach, you’re totally irresistible, she thought, rolling internal eyes.

“In landlocked Upstate New York?” she asked, trying to sound crisp and disinterested in his insanely cut body as she poked the lighthouse again.

He took her finger from his arm and bit it lightly, making a tremor shoot from her fingertip to her belly, increasing her frustration.

“Yes, wiseass. In Cape Vincent, which is on the Saint Lawrence River, directly across from Canada. Not landlocked. And at the farthest tip of town, there’s a lighthouse out on Tibbetts Point. Cora and I used to ride our bikes there when we were kids. One of my few good memories of growing up there.”

What had happened, she wondered, that had formed him into the bitter, introverted boy he was when she met him at Yale? He rarely talked about his parents, except for a few times when he was drunk, and never in a very positive way. They’d driven him to success. Perhaps too hard.

“Tell me about it, Zach. About home.”

His eyes hardened. She had definitely hit a nerve.

“Fuck home. It’s just a lighthouse. I never said home. It wasn’t a home.” She winced as he spat out the words, but he reached out and put a gentle hand on the swell of her hip. “Sorry, Vile. Sorry. It’s not you.”

“I know. It’s okay,” she said. “You never talked about it very much.”

“Wasn’t much good to say.” He avoided her eyes, his fingers moving of their own volition.

“We don’t have to talk about it right now,” she said softly, reaching out to cup his cheek. At some point she hoped he would talk to her, help her understand who he was and what he had suffered. But she also knew enough about Zach to know that he had trouble with intense emotions, and she’d rather wait for him to tell her than force the issue.

He turned his lips into her hand, muttering, “Thank God.”

“So a lighthouse for Cora?” she said in a light voice, touching his cheek tenderly.

 “This one’s for Cora,” he said, placing her hand near his heart.

“Roman numeral two?”

“Gemini.”

They were talking about his sister, his sister, for heaven’s sake, and all she wanted was for him to flip her over and fill her again. When had she become so insatiable?

“Ah. The twins.”

He leaned up on his elbow, mirroring her, and reached out his hand to lightly caress her breast. “One set of twins.”

Her body flooded with warmth. He pulled his hand away, which made her scowl. He was teasing her, and she wasn’t in the mood to be teased. She was in the mood to—

“You’re twisted, Zach. We’re talking about your sister, and you’re grabbing my chest.”

“I don’t care if we’re talking about my mother, Vile. I’m still gonna want to grab your tits.”

She was so surprised by his words that she laughed as he reached for her, pulling her up against him.

“You’re so beautiful, you can’t be real,” he sighed, dropping his lips to the soft skin of her neck. They lay side by side and she leaned into him, tilting her head back to give him better access, and then . . . then she felt it, as she lay in Zach’s arms with his lips pressed to her skin and his rigid flesh pressed against her: happiness. Tentative but real. For the first time in too long to remember, she felt happiness, and it almost made her want to cry with relief.

She made a sound in her throat that was a cross between a moan and a laugh and a sob, and he leaned back, stroking her hair out of her face. He slipped a condom on deftly and rolled her onto her back, moving his hips into position over her.

“What?” he asked.

“I’m happy. That’s all.”

“That’s all,” he panted, testing her, teasing her, touching the tip of his hardness to her slick, ready entrance.

“You too.” She didn’t ask; she stated it, like an unquestionable truth, running her hands down his back, waves of hot and cold covering her skin as she poised herself for his welcome invasion, every cell pining for him.

The muscles of his back rippled and flexed as he eased into her with a low gasp. “Me too.”

***

He looked at the clock—six thirty—then turned back to Violet’s sleeping face. The sun was just starting to peek through the edges of the shades, casting her pale skin in a half-light.

 

I can hear the soft breathing 

Of the girl that I love, 
As she lies here beside me 
Asleep with the night.

 

F-Dm-Bb-Am. Simon and Garfunkel’s words circled in his head, and his fingers twitched, playing the chords softly on the sheets between them. F-Gm-C. A folk song. She must be deep in his head if his default morning music was folk. Who was he kidding? She’d always been in there deep. His lips turned up at the thought, thinking maybe folk music wasn’t so bad, after all. He sighed, drinking her in.

Her hair tumbled around her head in chestnut waves, unruly and wild. She looked like the Violet he used to know, and he reached out gingerly, fingering one thick curl, then pulling away before he woke her. Dropping his glance to her lips, he memorized them, the slight puffiness of them that was his doing, the way the bottom lip pouted a little, begging him to grab it between his teeth and bite gently before sucking, before nipping and kissing.

He groaned and rolled onto his back. Her eyes had been tired and overwhelmed last night as she stood against the doorway while he played “Morning Has Broken.” She needed sleep, and he needed a distraction or he’d be waking her up for a little more of what they’d enjoyed until dawn.

His stomach growled, and he mentally reviewed the paltry contents of the kitchen. Half a can of Pringles, some Oreos, a box of Cheez-Its, half a bag of Cheez Doodles, and three cans of Diet Coke. Not much of a breakfast.

Huh. He remembered seeing a storefront last night in Bar Harbor advertising New York City bagels. He owed Violet a nice breakfast after treating her to junk food for dinner and keeping her up all night making love. If he drove fast, he’d be able to get there and back in two hours, before nine o’clock and, if memory served, still a little while before Miss Lazybones finally woke up. And just in case her sleeping habits had changed, he’d leave a note so she wouldn’t worry.

 He slipped out of bed quietly, grabbed his clothes off the floor, and picked up his guitar by the neck. She sighed loudly as he opened the door but quickly rolled over, breathing deeply, falling back to sleep.

Downstairs, he showered, dressed, made his bed, and pulled the closet door shut on his suitcase and dirty clothes. He gathered up the notes he’d made last night, put his guitar back into its case, and took them down to the basement studio so they’d be waiting for him when he started writing later.

As he headed back up the stairs, he reminded himself to leave her a note but was distracted by the sight of several deer grazing on the back lawn. He stood and watched them for a while from the kitchen window, marveling at their grace and beauty, wondering if Violet had the right idea living in the country, away from the noise and frenetic energy of the city. Without another thought, he grabbed his keys and jacket and headed out the door.

***

Violet’s eyes opened slowly, blinking and squinting from the bright light streaming in through the edges of the shades. As the delicious memories from last night flushed her body, she turned away from the windows and onto her back, reaching her arm out for Zach.

“Zach?”

She touched his side of the bed, placing her palm flat on the smooth butter-colored sheets. Not warm.

“Zach?” she called again, a little louder now, wondering if he was in the bathroom. But the only answer was the sound of a hawk calling to its mate outside, a high-pitched, frantic cawing sound waiting for an answer.

She pushed herself into a sitting position, brushing her hair out of her face. A hint of panic kicked in, but she fought to suppress it. He could be downstairs in his room, or in the studio. Heck, he could have gone for a walk or something. Calm down, Violet.

I won’t hurt you. I won’t fucking hurt you. Never again.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stretched. Her body felt tender, and she smiled, remembering the last time they’d had sex, at dawn—the way he’d held her face between his hands as they came simultaneously, staring deep into one another’s eyes until hers had rolled back in her head. She’d been sitting on his lap with her ankles locked behind his back, and their bodies had trembled together, rocking, overwhelmed and then replete.

“I can’t not have this,” he’d whispered, his breath warming her bare shoulder. His voice was so soft, she wondered if she was even supposed to hear him. “I can’t lose it again.”

The words were so quiet, so full of desperation and longing, she clung tightly to him, nestling her head into the curve of his neck as their breathing returned to normal. Without another word, he lay down, pulling her with him, her back to his front. A strong arm under her breasts pressed her up against him, and he sighed into her damp hair, “’Night, Vile.”

Violet stood up and headed for the bathroom, turning on the shower, watching it instantly mist the floor-to-ceiling glass with steam. She stepped in and let the water course down her shoulders, her back, hips, thighs, and calves, not an inch of which hadn’t been touched, caressed, loved, and licked by Zach Aubrey last night. Physically, she’d held nothing back.

Emotionally, she wasn’t giving much away.

There was a growing part of Violet that wanted to trust Zach’s words, that wanted to believe him when he said he’d wanted her for nine years, and that he’d loved her as much as she had loved him at Yale. His eyes, so steady and intense, hadn’t flinched when he told her he regretted his actions, that he had longed for her during their years apart, that he’d read her book and recognized it as their story. And though she knew he didn’t want to write any more songs for Cornerstone, he was doing that for her, to get her out of a jam and give her the freedom to write what she wanted to. It was a romantic and loving gesture, and she couldn’t deny how right it felt to be writing with him again, despite his initial pigheadedness.

She wrapped herself in a towel and stepped back into her room, pausing as she realized that his clothes and guitar were gone.             

A wave of panic surged, and before she could rationalize it, she ran out the door of her room and down the stairs in bare feet, leaving beads of water scattered across the hardwood floors.

“Zach? Zach?”

She whipped around the newel, briefly glancing into the empty living room, then headed for his room. She threw open the door and gasped. His bed was neatly made. There were no clothes lying around. No suitcase. No guitar. Nothing. Zach had always been neat, but there was no sign that he’d ever even been there.

She walked through the kitchen with heavy steps, her eyes sweeping the counters for any indication of Zach. A note. A used glass. Anything to indicate he’d been here and would be back. But there was nothing.

Maybe he just went for a walk, her foolish heart whispered, thumping an erratic rhythm as she made her way to the living room. Her steps slowed as she made her way to the front windows, dreading what she knew she would find. But her eyes still flooded with tears when she saw that his SUV was gone.

For the second time in her life, on the second weekend of October, Zach Aubrey had run away from her.

She heard her heart beat so loudly in her ears, it made her dizzy as she flashed back to the first time.