Chapter Twenty-Two
Miah waited. And waited. When he’d gotten home and he’d filled his mom in, he’d poured himself a whiskey, swearing it’d just be the one, for his nerves, but that had been at seven. When nine had arrived bearing no news, he’d opened a beer. Then at nine thirty, another beer. He’d called Nicki then and confirmed it—no news on her end, either. Another beer. By ten thirty, another, and he’d been buzzed enough to call her again.
“Sorry,” she said, sighing across the line. “Nothing.”
“I figured. And so you know, I’m slightly drunk. Are you?”
“No, not at all. Feels like I’ve had ten coffees, though.”
“Could you come over?”
A pause. “Yeah. I could.”
“Please do. My mom and I are just sitting here, chewing our nails and drinking enough beer and chardonnay to hobble a horse.”
His mom shot him a look from the other end of the couch, then took a brazen slug of her wine.
“Matty’s in bed. I just need to let my mom know. She’ll understand—I’ve been a wreck all night.”
“You’ll be in good company, then.”
“Plus it’s not like there’s any news I’d get pacing the floors here that I couldn’t get over there. Should I bring food? Something absorbent, perhaps?”
He chuckled at that, feeling hazy and lost but just a tiny bit hopeful, a teeny bit giddy. “No, we’re okay. We’ve got leftover tamales and rice and beans.”
“In that case, I’ll be there even quicker than expected.”
“See you in a bit.”
“See you. Save me a glass of white.”
“That’s up to my mom.”
A soft laugh. “Bye.”
“Bye.”
He waited for her to end the call, then set his phone aside.
“That’s nice,” Miah’s mom said softly, eyes on the fire crackling in the hearth. It was a little early in the season for a fire, but Miah had needed the task. He’d been putting it off, seeing as how fire had become such a touchy subject since last winter, but tonight it had felt right. Fire could give comfort as readily as it wrought havoc.
“Nice that Nicki’s coming over?” he asked.
“Yeah,” his mom said, meeting his gaze. “She’s a nice girl.”
Miah smiled. “Woman. But yeah, she is. Nice as they come.”
“Indeed.”
He laughed. “I know you know, Mom. Nicki told me about the earrings.”
Her smile was sheepish. “I’d started to wonder if she threw them out with the lunch bag.”
“Nope. So go ahead and get nosy if you want.”
“Okay . . . Are you two dating?”
“Sort of. Casually. It’s complicated, with me so overworked, and her with her son to consider.”
“Of course. But you like her?”
He nodded. “I do. A lot.”
Her smile deepened, dimpling her cheeks. “Good. I do, too.”
“Just . . . just be cool,” he warned mildly.
She smiled. “Whatever do you mean?”
“You know. Just don’t ask for updates. Let us take this at our own pace.”
“Naturally.”
He smirked, knowing that request would feel anything but natural to a hardcore romantic. “Uh-huh.”
She rolled her eyes, but her expression admitted surrender. “Fine. Give me a break, though—it’s been over forty years since I was dating myself, and I’ve got exactly one child to live vicariously through, okay?”
“I know. Too bad you and Dad spawned such a workaholic.”
“I’m proud of what a hard worker you are. But I know you want to meet the right girl, too. And I want that for you. And I happen to be very fond of Nicki, so just know you’re asking a lot of an old woman.”
“I’ll give you two strikes, then. Two pointed, nosy questions about us before I cut you off.”
“I appreciate that.”
“You want a refill?”
She glanced at her glass, then swallowed the final bit. “Why not?”
“Why the fuck not, indeed.”
In the kitchen, he topped her off and opened a fresh beer for himself and delivered them to the coffee table before heading to the bathroom to do what little he could to smarten himself up. He changed his shirt and socks as well, then headed back down just as the bell sounded.
Nicki looked surprised when he swung the door in. “Oh, hi. Did you see me drive in?”
“No, just happened to be in the hall. Come on in.”
“Thanks.” Her voice betrayed the same nerves Miah felt crackling inside him, her usual velvety tone sounding brittle tonight.
He shut the door behind her. “Still want that glass of white?”
“That and several more, thanks.”
He managed a laugh. “You’ll need to drive home at some point.”
“Eventually.”
He cast her a look as he opened the fridge. “Eventually?”
“My mom said take my time. She knows the suspense is torture, and beyond that, she probably knows me and you . . . Anyway. She’s on Mathias duty until I’m back, whether that’s in an hour or who knows when.”
“Oh. That’s nice.” Did that mean she was staying the night? Miah didn’t exactly have sex on the brain, but the thought of her body warming his lonely sheets was infinitely appealing. “You’re welcome to crash. I can’t imagine I’ll work myself tomorrow, not until we’ve got answers.”
“Thanks. Now, I’ve got some catching up to do—let’s get me however drunk you and your mother are.”
“You got it.” He found a glass and filled it so near to the brim Nicki had to lean down and suck a bit off the top, making them both laugh.
“Lead the way,” she said.
“You been hearing phantom phone-buzzing all evening?” he asked as they headed for the den.
“Oh my God, yes. Constantly. Even though I’ve confirmed eight hundred times that my ringer’s on super loud.”
“Ditto.” It was such a comfort to have a partner in this awful uncertainty and waiting, so much so he could feel the emotion rising up like a tide. Or what a man who’d never seen the ocean imagined a tide must be like.
They entered the den and Miah’s mom got up, meeting Nicki for a hug.
“Thank you,” he heard her mumble. “Thank you for this. Whatever comes of it.”
Nicki stepped back, nodding. “Something. Something will come of it. Hopefully not a manhunt. Hopefully a quick arrest and a confession, and the implication of whatever other parties are involved.”
“Hopefully.”
Miah’s blood boiled anew at that, his fists tightening to imagine what he’d do if he got his hands on the mastermind behind it all. He’d been working hard all evening to stay hopeful for his mom’s sake, but rage was nagging at him, too, fraying his already ragged edges.
Nicki slid her phone out of her back pocket and set it on the table before taking a seat on the arm of the couch. “If I had to guess—which is all I’ve been doing for the last few hours—I’d imagine Oren Vreeland is in custody, being questioned.” She sipped her wine. “Given what they have on him between the bank video and the sketchy phone call, I don’t see them releasing him, either.”
“Let’s hope not,” Miah’s mom said.
“Who knows what sort of man he is?” Nicki went on. “Whether he’ll blurt it all out at the same time he craps his pants, or go silent as a stone. But this shit takes time, usually. He’ll want a lawyer, a lawyer will have to be found, he’ll need to consult with them, and on and on. So I hope you’ve got a backup bottle,” she joked, taking another deep drink.
“We’ve had the news on,” Miah’s mom said. “Silly as that sounds.”
Miah shook his head. “News is how we found out half of what we did about Tremblay, and how we heard about him getting murdered in jail.”
Nicki nodded. “Impersonal, but the way of the world these days, for better or worse. And with this case being as huge as it is in the region, if anyone on the outside of the investigation gets wind, it’s sure to spread. Last thing you guys need is a load of rubberneckers and press a-holes calling with questions you can’t answer.”
“No kidding . . .” Miah felt heavy at the thought and took a seat on the cushion nearest Nicki. He let himself touch her, passing his palm lightly across her back like a windshield wiper. It was a small comfort, though he couldn’t help but remember those pitch-black days following his father’s death . . . the endless phone calls, the endless news that never seemed to actually answer any of their questions. He could live through that again; justice and an explanation were too essential to his sanity for him to break now. But the thought of it made him feel ancient, old as the mesas.
The three of them talked for a long time, easing away from the gaping chasm of the unknown and into less onerous but nonetheless intimate territory. Nicki asked about Miah’s mom’s upbringing, which segued naturally into how she’d met Miah’s dad. He was already spread open, vulnerable to the nth tonight, and thinking about his father was as essential as water but also as sharp as a honed blade. He was relieved for the escape when his phone rang—Vince wanting an update. Miah had none to give, but excusing himself to the kitchen to take the call offered him a chance to catch his breath and keep his shit together. He hung up, promising to keep Vince updated if he heard anything. He nearly invited his friend over, but something held him back. He knew the guy’s presence might comfort him, but he sensed that what the women needed was the quiet, emotional space. And as naked and quaking though it left Miah feeling, he suspected he needed it, too.
He spent too much time trying not to feel. Covering over anything scary—fear, insecurity, helplessness—with work. He didn’t want to be that man. It’d kill him, given enough time. Facing that shit might feel like staring down the Reaper, but he knew in the long run it was better for him. And even if he broke down and sobbed like a toddler with a skinned knee, tonight he happened to be in the company of two people he knew wouldn’t hold it against him.
He reentered the den to find his mom on her feet, stretching before the hearth, alone.
“Where’s Nicki?” he asked.
“Bathroom. I think I better head up, leave you kids to it. One more glass and I’ll officially be wasted, I suspect.”
“Shame to wake up with a hangover, on top of all the unanswered questions.”
“Exactly.” She came over and they hugged. She felt strong. She’d lost weight since the fire, and the change had left her feeling fragile to Miah, brittle. Only just now he felt something in her embrace that he hadn’t in a long time. Something fierce and sturdy.
“Night, Mom. I love you.”
“I love you, Jeremiah.”
They stepped apart. He smiled. “Drink a load of water.”
“Sound advice. You may want to heed it yourself.”
“And if Nicki’s here in the morning, try to be cool about it.”
She held his face in both hands, squeezing his cheeks as she’d been doing since time immemorial. “If I made pancakes, would that be cool?”
“That would be really dorky and make me feel about nine. But it’d also be pretty goddamn welcome, with the hangovers I’m betting we’ll earn ourselves.”
“No cute shapes, I promise,” she said, grabbing her glass and heading for the hall. “Just big old boring circles.”
“Appreciated.”
“Night, honey.”
“Night.”
He watched her go, tamping down some primitive urge inside himself, one that had him wanting to run after her and wrap his arms around her and collapse in a boneless heap. Some instinct baked into him from age one, three, five, likely, one he could never fully outgrow. And with an unexpected and blindsiding pang, he wondered if he’d ever have a child who’d feel that toward him.
Thankfully whatever sloppy new wave of emotion the thought was about to usher in was cut off when Nicki appeared on the landing, exiting the guest bathroom. Their eyes met and she waved down at him.
When she reached the bottom of the stairs he told her, “My mom headed up to bed.”
“She said she would. I don’t blame her—it’s after midnight.”
Miah started and checked the clock on the mantel. “Jesus, it is.”
Nicki went back to the couch, settling in with her wine while Miah put a couple more logs on the fire. When he turned, he found her watching him with a funny smile on her face.
“What?”
She shrugged. “Nothing. You just look like you belong in some ludicrously manly outdoors-stuff catalog.”
“Thanks?”
She nodded. “It was a compliment.” She patted the cushion beside hers. “Sit your attractive ass down, Church. Let’s get ready for a long night.”
He grabbed his bottle and took a seat. “You think they’d call in the middle of the night, if there was something to share?”
“Not sure . . . I wouldn’t hold my breath, though. I really don’t expect anything soon. The lawyer situation’s bound to muck everything up.”
“I just want to hear he’s in custody.”
She nodded. “Me too.”
“If he was . . . Well, they’ve got him, right? If they haven’t contacted the bank already, they will, and they’ll see he took out three grand that day. Or six grand or whatever. And I bet Lorna would give a statement about the cash Chris got.” And maybe even hand over the actual bills, Miah hoped, if her conscience or her hunger for justice eclipsed her fear. “Is there any chance that what Casey did—tricking Vreeland into confessing—could come back and bite us? Like, I dunno, recording him was so sketchy it could cause a mistrial or something?”
“The detectives would know if that was a danger, and if it was, I’m sure they wouldn’t mention the recording. Honestly, this is great news. And an amazing bit of shady-ass detective work on you guys’s part.”
“Can’t claim much credit. I told Case he was nuts.”
“The nuts do occasionally pay off.”
“And how.” He took another sip and stared into the fire, filled to the brim with anxiety and hope and impotence and impatience, and that rage, tugging at its leash—all emotions he’d had his fill of these past days and weeks and months. Even hope. Hope was fucking exhausting.
“Seriously,” Nicki said, drawing his attention to her pretty face, made all the prettier by the soft, warm glow of the hearth and reading lamp. “This is good, Miah. Vreeland had to be rattled from the call. Then to have the cops show up a couple hours later . . . ? He had to know that was no coincidence, maybe even that it had been some undercover thing, or else the blackmailer changed his mind and decided to sell him out for the reward. He’d have known before the cuffs were even on, he was busted. His best and only strategy is a plea deal.”
Miah nodded. “Fuck, though . . . Another goddamn trial to live through.”
“Yeah.” She rubbed his thigh, and it occurred to Miah then, he needed her. Needed this—a partner in his life, someone who’d always be on his side when shit got ugly, someone to comfort and to take comfort from. Someone to worry with, late into the night. He wondered what he had to do to keep her here . . . even as he knew he could never trump the best interests of her son.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he said softly. “Not just because I doubt Vreeland would’ve been caught without you. I’m just glad you’re here, on this couch with me.”
“It’s always best to get drunk in good company,” she said with a smile.
“I, um . . . I’ll miss you, if you decide you need to leave Fortuity. A lot. I’ve been torn for a while, about whether to play this all cool, keep my head on straight about what’s realistic between us, or to let myself fall for you.”
Her smile turned sad. “Ditto. Times a hundred.”
“I get it, though. Your family comes first. Mine would, too, if things were reversed.” That was probably no small part of what he admired about her. Family was everything. The only thing. And his own had felt so small and so fragile since the fire.
He wondered if she could tell . . .
He was half in love with her.
He’d known passion before, known their level of chemical compatibility, but this was more. He lusted for her, respected her, felt free to be a mess around her. She appreciated the deepest pain of his life in a way no one else could; knew it as she knew her own. She was his friend and his lover and his partner, too, in all this strife and drama. She was smart and sexy and funny and hardworking, a good mom and a good citizen. She was all he could ever ask for, all he’d waited for. And if he lost her, he’d never be the same again.
“If you stay,” he said, taking her hand, “I’m gonna teach you how to ride a horse.”
She laughed. “Are you, then?”
“Can’t have Matty showing you up.”
She shot him a stern look. “I have not signed off on that, so we’re clear.”
“You will,” he said, mustering cockiness. “Anything to get him outside, right?”
“We’ll see.”
“And if you stay,” he added, “I’ll find you a bike. A classic, get it all fixed up for you.”
“Now that—that bribe could work on me.”
“Good. Just tell me what color.”
“Black,” she said, no hesitation.
“Noted. You know that’s way more dangerous than horseback riding, as hobbies go, right? A horse’s top speed is only thirty miles an hour.”
“Motorcycles can’t kick you in the skull.”
“Horses can’t catch fire.”
“Motorcycles require helmets, and I very much doubt you wear one while you’re riding a horse.”
“You won’t get sideswiped or rear-ended on a horse.”
“You’ll never step in motorcycle poop by accident.”
Miah laughed. “Horses are very clean-burning. Probably a plus for environmentally conscious, liberal-leaning city women.”
She rolled her eyes and seemed to relent. “Well, they’re both a bit stinky.”
“They both come with cool-ass boots,” he countered.
“And I’m sure you look equally sexy riding either.” She sighed, sounding tired, but more relaxed. Miah felt much the same, resigned to the waiting and the uncertainty, eased by the company.
“Exactly how much of a Republican are you, anyhow?” she asked, side-eyeing him.
“I’ve been leaning more independent these past couple years.”
“Oh?”
“I don’t care who people want to marry or what they do with their bodies. It’s taxes and land-use ordinances and trade issues that concern me, as a businessman.”
“Well, well.”
“Hey, I’m my mom’s son as much as I am my dad’s. And my mom’s a bleeding heart.”
“I knew I liked her.”
“You’re a cop, though. Aren’t cops typically conservatives?”
She smirked. “Are black women?”
“Fair enough.”
“Things are pretty fucked in our country at the moment, but as the mother of a brown-skinned boy, you better believe my biases are colored by far more than my job description.”
“Sure. Sorry, I didn’t think.”
“It’s okay. I walk a tough line in this career. It was easier in Chicago, when half my colleagues were black, too. Here . . . Well, I dunno. It’s a trade-off. I worry less about my safety, even if I feel like everybody’s staring at me all the time.”
“Sure it’s not because you’re unnaturally attractive?”
She snorted. “I’m not sure, no. Maybe I’ll start telling myself that. Thank you.”
“It’s nice,” Miah said, “being sort of . . . outed, you and me. With my mom knowing, that is.”
“Yeah, it is. So long as she’s not a blabbermouth.”
“Only with her sister, and she lives in Utah.”
“We’re probably safe, then.”
“If you did stay . . .” He frowned, realizing in that moment that he was quite drunk. Another slug of beer spurred him clumsily onward. “How long would you wait, or how long would you need to be seeing someone, before you told your son about it?”
“Ooh, I dunno. I always told myself that magic number was nine months, based on just random advice I’d heard—to introduce them, that is. I’d tell Matty I was seeing someone before then. But that was all in theory, since I haven’t been serious with anybody since my divorce. Honestly, I hadn’t expected it to be like this, dating somebody. If that’s what we’re doing. And since this wine is starting to work, I can admit that is probably what we’re doing.”
“Probably.”
“So now, I don’t know. Because I never expected to date anybody my son would already know, and also because I just didn’t expect I’d fall this hard.” She looked down, shy or embarrassed. “I always imagined my post-divorce dating misadventures would be way more awkward and formal than this. Like meeting guys online or blind dates. It was never this organic, in my mind. Or this easy. In my head, it looked way more like job interviews.”
He laughed. “How so?”
“I dunno. I just know myself and my priorities in a way I didn’t before I had a child or navigated a marriage. Or before I lost my dad. I was more starry-eyed and stupid back then. I guess I was expecting to go into the dating world like, ‘This is who I am and this is what I want, and if that’s not for you then let’s not waste each other’s time.’”
“Sounds efficient.”
“Then again, I never pictured myself dating outside of the city. Nothing about you and me was even remotely what I pictured.”
“Tell me I’m stinkier than you imagined, but also way better looking.”
She laughed, a big, raucous sound that made him smile all over.
“Accurate?”
She nodded, grinning. “Yeah, pretty accurate.”
“You know, I’m happy to shave. Just so you know.”
She squinted at him, pondering. “I’m not sure how I’d feel about that . . . I like the beard. It suits you. Though now I’m curious to see what you look like without it.”
“We’ve got loads of pictures.”
“Yeah?”
He stood, feeling the drinks in his legs and head. He crossed the room and grabbed a few photo albums off a bookshelf—the most recent one, plus the two with the bulk of his early childhood pictures.
“Here,” he said, sitting and flipping through the newer one. “There. That’s me, clean-shaven.” It was a picture from last year, of him and his dad standing over the Thanksgiving turkey. He felt a lurch in his heart, just as expected, but less expected was the warm sensation that chased it. Pain mixed with sweetness. Yearning.
“What are you holding?” Nicki asked.
He glanced at the photo. “That’s an electric carving knife. My aunt gave it to my dad but he wouldn’t have anything to do with it. So she insisted we have a carve-off, old-school versus newfangled.”
“Who won?”
“Oh Jesus, my dad. That thing was useless.”
Nicki turned a few pages, peering at some pictures, laughing at others. Miah told her who the faces belonged to, what events had been documented. They didn’t take photographs often these days, so by the time she’d flipped backward to the front cover, Miah was barely out of his teenagehood.
“Oh my God, you were so skinny.”
“I know.”
“I like the ponytail, though,” she teased.
“You better. That was my pride and joy. Want to see what a homely baby I was?”
“Fuck, yes.”
He swapped albums and walked her through the photos he had backstory for. While they joked, his brain seemed to split in two—one half staying with Nicki, the other lost, wandering, seeking his dad’s image. He studied him as a new father, wondering as always if that was in his own cards. And if he’d be even half the father his dad had been.
Nicki finished her wine and had another, smaller glass, and by one thirty they were both suppressing yawns.
“Want to call it?” Nicki asked, eyes a touch glazed from the drinks or the exhaustion. Miah knew the feeling. He nodded.
“Guest room?” she asked. “If I’m not being too presumptuous, assuming we’re sharing a bed.”
“I was thinking let’s crash in mine. We’re not exactly a secret now, plus I doubt either of us is in the mood for making much of a racket.”
“Lead the way, then.” As they headed to the front of the house, she told him, “You really were an ugly baby.”
“I told you.”
“I thought you were just being modest.”
“Nope. I was basically a human raisin.”
She giggled, then lowered her voice as they climbed the stairs. “Matty wasn’t much to look at for the first week or two, either. He had this insane head of hair, straight out of the womb . . .”
Miah led her to his room and switched on the lamp that sat on the windowsill. He hadn’t had a girl up here in ages. Even Raina hadn’t been in here, not since they’d been teenagers and just friends, anyhow.
“What do you think?” he asked, looking around, himself.
“I like the eaves . . . Bit short on decor, though.”
True. It was basically just four gray-blue walls, a bed and a dresser and rug. A single framed photo of his great-grandfather, standing under the Three C arch. “Or maybe you’re a minimalist . . . ?”
“I literally just sleep and store my clothes in here. You need the bathroom?”
“I do.”
“It’s the door closest to the stairs.”
“Thanks. Any chance of a second pillow?” she asked.
Miah eyed his bed. “Oh, right. Duh.” He left the room with her and stole a couple extra pillows off one of the guest beds while she freshened up.
Nicki reappeared in his room, her face looking a bit plainer but no less beautiful for it. “I remembered toiletries but not pajamas.”
“You must be as out of practice at sleepovers as me.”
“Could I borrow a shirt?”
“Sure. Just a tee?”
“Perfect.”
He dug a clean one out of the dresser and tossed it her way, then stripped to his shorts. He stole a glance as she shed her top, her jeans, her socks, her bra. She caught him as she tugged his shirt on and smiled.
Miah blushed, enjoying the sensation. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. I don’t think I’ve felt less beguiling than this in ages, so thanks for the objectification.”
“You’re welcome.” He took a seat on the bed’s edge. “Thank you, by the way. For coming over, and for whatever magic it is you must be that we’ve managed to laugh as much as we have on a night like this.”
“I don’t think it’s me. If I was on my own right now, I’d be a wreck.”
“Me too. Maybe it’s us, then. Something about us together.”
Her smile softened. She got on the bed, stretching out behind him. “That’s a nice thought.”
Miah reclined, staring up at the rafters, as she was. He leaned over to switch off the lamp, moonlight from the window staining everything blue as his eyes adjusted. Beyond the skylights above them, the black was punched through by a zillion stars.
“Do you want to . . .” She trailed off.
“Do you?”
“Yeah,” she said, scarcely a whisper.
In all honesty, Miah wasn’t in the mood. Not in the mood to get off, that was—not in the right headspace to stand a chance at it, indoors like this. But he was very much in the mood to make her feel good.
“Get comfortable,” he said, edging toward the foot of the bed.
“I already am.”
“Good,” he murmured, not really hearing—too transfixed as he slid her panties down her thighs.
“My legs are all hairy,” she said. “Sorry. I wasn’t expecting this.”
“I didn’t shave mine, either.” He eased her thighs wide. “Let’s call it even.”
She giggled, then gasped when he touched her.
He gave her his fingers in all the ways she’d responded to that last time, way out on the range, in the shade of the Joshua tree. He waited until she’d fisted his hair, then he waited some more. Waited until she spoke the need aloud.
“Your mouth,” she groaned. “Please.”
He kept two fingers inside her and spoiled her clit with his tongue and lips. He got lost in the warmth and scent and taste of her, lost in her sighs and moans and the squeeze of her hand in his hair, the dig of her nails into his shoulders and the rub of her heels at his back. When she climaxed it was almost as though he was coming himself, only in his head or his heart, not his body.
Her panting filled the still room and as Miah sat up, he felt high.
“Wow,” she muttered, sounding stoned herself. “I’ll never look up at the stars again without remembering that.”
“That’s what I like to hear.” He rescued her panties from the floor, then lay down beside her, feeling the strangest mix of spent and horny, a heady but peaceful energy humming all through his body.
She turned onto her side. “Now you. Any special requests?”
“No, I’m good.”
“What? All that and I can’t do anything for you?”
“I’m not there, tonight. I mean, I’m not in the right space to get my head where it needs to be, you know? Indoors, that is.”
“Oh, right.”
“That was what I wanted. That and to hold you. If you’re okay with that.”
“I feel royally spoiled, but if you’re sure.”
“I am.” In fact, he realized just then what it was he really needed—to be the one giving. Giving her pleasure, now giving her comfort as he wrapped his arm around her waist.
“Is my hair all up in your face?”
He smoothed her curls down, tucking the crown of her head under his chin. “Your hair’s perfect. Everything about this is perfect.”
There was a long pause, so long he began to wonder if she’d fallen asleep, then—
“You were right,” she whispered. “There is something magic about this. About the two of us. A very quiet, very reassuring sort of magic.”
He glowed to hear that and held her tighter. “I don’t know how I’d get through all this waiting without you.”
“You would’ve. You’re a strong man.”
“Well, it would’ve sucked, anyhow.”
“Undoubtedly.”
Another long, easy pause, and a reckless thought nagged at Miah. Tell her you love her.
He did. He felt that. He knew it was too soon, though, knew it was as much infatuation as anything, but infatuation wrapped around such real and essential bones—respect and understanding, and this deep, deep need to be vulnerable with someone he trusted, who knew him as no one else truly could. He’d felt this before, the dangerous, intoxicating love one felt when friendship and lust collided, those two things he’d always assumed were all it took, all you could hope for. But it wasn’t that simple and he knew it. He knew as well, he fell hard and fast, if not often. And he wasn’t fool enough to say it aloud yet.
But as sleep finally dragged him under, he let himself say it in his mind. I love her. I love her. He let those words wash over him, hoping someday he’d find occasion to speak them aloud.
Knowing my luck, it’ll happen the same day she leaves to move back to Chicago. “I love you. Good luck with the rest of your life.”
And then he’d know for sure, he’d never be somebody’s husband, never be anyone’s father. Because honest to God, there’d simply be no replacing her.