Sunday. What used to be my favorite day of the week has quickly turned into the monster under my bed—you can only ignore it for so long before it claws its way back into your mind.

It wasn’t that Grams and I did anything particularly special on Sundays, but it was always just sort of ‘our’ day. It was a lounge-around-in-jammies, have-breakfast-for-dinner, watch-classics-till-we-pass-out kind of day. We’d argue over Carey Grant versus James Dean and throw popcorn across the sofa at each other like college roommates. Even when Bobby and I were together, he knew Sundays were reserved for Grams, and when I was younger, Jamie and I only ever did sleepovers on Friday nights, so they wouldn’t interfere.

But all that went to crap when I woke up with a bad feeling four Sundays ago.

I had ignored it, of course—a talent of mine—but when she didn’t come down to the kitchen for her usual breakfast tea, that bad feeling went from a dull ache in the back of my mind to a sharp twist in my gut. Sundays may have been her day to let loose, but that wasn’t enough to make her lose sight of her morning routine. Not even a fire could stop her from showing up at the wooden breakfast nook, six o’clock sharp, ready for tea.

Literally.

I may have accidently started a small fire in the backyard when I was nine. Yet there was Grams sitting in our breakfast nook with her tea in hand, mere minutes after fixing my mess and while the place still smelled of smoke and ash.

But now, this day has evolved into something else entirely. Three weeks ago, I started this new routine of turning out the lights and pretending, just for a day, that that particular Sunday had turned out differently. That I’d heard the familiar sounds of Grams’s walker scratching softly across the carpet, seen her small, wrinkled smile as she carefully lowered herself into the window seat, and listened to her voice, gentle and soothing, hum a slow tune.

The routine is an unhealthy one, and it only ends up making me cry, but I do it to myself anyway. Must be that mentally unstable half of my brain again.

I jolt and tug the comforter around me when a shrill noise sounds from my right. There’s a standard, room-assigned phone sitting on the nightstand, vibrating with each ring. When it doesn’t stop after the fifth time, I cave.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Lou! Good morning.” Claire’s been extra chirpy with me ever since our first ‘girls’ night’—her name for it, not mine—a week ago.

We’ve hung out three times since then, too, and I’m slowly beginning to admit even I’ve had a little pep in my step throughout the week, whether I was working for Mr. Blackwood or running errands. When I went to the shopping strip yesterday to pick up some more clothes and essentials, I caught myself humming the bubbly tune she has a habit of whistling. I immediately shut that crap down, but I can’t deny it’s been kind of nice hanging out with the queen of all things happy. I’m still concerned about whatever brought her to tears that morning last week, but I haven’t asked, and she hasn’t told.

I return my attention to the phone. “Morning, Claire. What’s up?”

“You have a visitor,” she sings.

“I do?”

“Yup, one who’s traveled a long way to see you.”

Jamie. I practically dance out of bed. If there’s anyone who might know how to pull me out of my Sunday funk, it’s her. “Be right down!”

I brush my teeth in record time, throw my hair up in a pile on my head, and don’t even bother to change out of my purple pajama shorts and thin T-shirt before racing down the stairs and skidding to a halt at the front desk.

My nose wrinkles. “Bobby?”

I’m not sure what surprises me more—the fact he’s found me or the way he’s cleaned himself up. The stubble on his face is gone, and he’s dressed in a sky blue button down shirt paired with a decent pair of dark jeans. He’s even styled his light brown hair. “What . . .”

“Lou,” he says with that confident grin I haven’t seen in a long, long time. He knows he cleans up good. “You look nice.”

I glance from him to Claire, whose own grin is about to split her face as she stares unabashedly.

“Bobby,” I repeat. “How’d you find me?”

He takes a few steps toward me, but when I retreat, he stops. There’s only about five feet between us as it is, and I don’t need him inching forward. “Jamie. When I went to shoot the shit with Daniel, I asked if she’d heard from you, and she showed me the postcard.”

I roll my eyes toward the ceiling. Jamie’s got a whole ’nother kind of letter coming to her. As good as Bobby looks, I don’t let my guard down. Changing the person you’ve been for years takes a lot more than a razor blade and an ironing board.

“Baby—” I shoot him a warning glare, and he tries again. “Lou. I’ve missed you so much.” His light blue eyes are so sincere, for a second I see the sweet boy he once was. “Please . . .” He comes closer, and this time I let him. When his hand comes up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers brush my cheek.

Well, hell. My mind might be able to reason, but my body remembers his touch. Deep down, there will always be a part of me that longs for the comfort his familiarity provides. Not even I can deny that when it’s staring me straight in the face.

I hear the sound of Claire shuffling away, but I don’t turn to look. “Bobby.” My voice comes out in a whisper, and I hate it. “What are you doing here?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” he asks softly, his hand lingering. “I came for you. I’ll always come for you.”

I close my eyes. It’s Sunday. Sunday. And Bobby is standing in front of me—cleaned up, with his hand in my hair. It’s not even nine in the morning. I can’t sort this out right now.

“Got any plans today?” he asks.

I shake my head.

“Let me take you out. Like I used to. Remember?”

My eyes fly open, and an eyebrow lifts. “Oh, I remember. Do you?”

He seems to doubt himself for a second, glancing away, and I know then that he doesn’t.

“Last time you took me out was two years ago, Bobby. To Hooters, where you got so wasted, I had to have the guys at the next table help me carry you out to my truck.”

This time he’s the one to shut his eyes, squeezing them hard like it might wash the memory away. He shakes his head. “I’ve changed, Lou. I have. Somethin’ happened the day you left.” He lets his fingers slide down, skimming past my shoulder.

I don’t know why, but I find myself thinking of someone else when he does this. Another, warmer, touch that stroked my skin. Rough fingers slowly trailing down the nape of my neck, the curve of my shoulders. What it felt like to have the heat of his firm body pressed against me. A low breath escapes through my lips.

Something flickers in Bobby’s eyes as he watches my reaction, and it seems to make him bolder. He moves closer, leaning down so our faces are only inches apart. “When I saw you drive away from me, all your shit packed up and that For Sale sign in your yard, that was it. I swear to you, Lou, I haven’t had a drink since.”

It’s not the first time he’s told me he’s sober. That he’s changed for me. But it is the first time in a long while that I’ve smelled this fresh clean scent coming from him. Not even a hint of alcohol or cigarettes hits my nose.

“One more chance,” he pleads, folding his hand over mine. “That’s all I’m askin’ for. I drove straight through the night to get this moment right here.”

I chew on my lip, begging my brain to step up for once and pop out a logical answer for me.

“You don’t want this.” It comes out in a mumble because I’m still halfway biting down on my bottom lip, as though that’ll get me to shut up. “If I agree, if I say yes, it won’t be for the right reasons, Bobby.” And it’s the truth. What I don’t elaborate on, though, is what those reasons would be: because it’s Sunday, because I’m lonely, because I’m hurting more than I’ll ever admit. And maybe, because I’m scared.

His fingers squeeze around my own. “I don’t care. I’ll take whatever I can get, Lou. Anything at all.”

Voices trail down the stairwell as other guests make their way into the lobby, and I move back a step, pulling my hand from his grasp. “Okay.” The word is hollow. “You can take me out.”

Bobby looks almost as stunned as I feel. “Yeah? Today?” He pulls his hand through his hair and lets out a loud exhale he must’ve been holding in. “You won’t regret it, bab—Lou. I promise, you won’t.”

“I better not,” I warn, and his grin widens.

I can’t remember the last time he’s talked to me like this. Like I’m all he wants. Not for me to grab him another beer, to rub his back, to change the channel. Just . . . me. The corner of my lips lift a little.

I turn toward the stairwell and hear him call after me, “Wait, where you runnin’ off to? I thought I was takin’ you out.”

“You are,” I call back, glancing over my shoulder, “but I have things to do.” Lie, lie, lie. “You can pick me up for dinner.” He’s got some groveling left to do, so I figure it’s a win-win.

His cocky grin tells me he’s up for the challenge. “All right. Pick you up at six then.”