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“Good girl.” Her hand reaches out, weak but determined, to squeeze mine. “I'm so proud of you.”
“Thanks, Mom.” I give her hand a gentle squeeze back. I sense she’s tired and ready to sleep again, and I press a kiss to her forehead before retreating to my childhood bedroom, needing a moment to breathe.
Lying in my old bed, I stare at the ceiling, tracing the glow-in-the-dark stars with my eyes. The room feels both comforting and foreign—a space filled with memories, yet the girl who lived here is so different now, it’s like looking at someone else’s story. And tonight, it's not the what ifs that haunts me; it's the yearning for someone who is miles away.
Walker. His image fills my mind, the image strong and vivid. I imagine him here, in this very room, his frame dwarfing the full-sized bed. He would look out of place amid the pastel walls and stuffed animals, a lion in a kitten's den. But then, he'd turn those piercing eyes on me, and nothing else would matter.
His presence is so real, I can almost feel the weight of his body beside me, the rough pads of his fingers tracing patterns on my skin. I curl into myself, hugging my pillow, pretending it's him. Pretending his breath is warming my neck, his chest firm against my back.
“Kiss me, Walker,” I whisper into the silence, and it's ridiculous, but the fantasy sends shivers down my spine. In my mind, he leans over, the stubble on his jaw brushing against my cheek before his lips find mine.
The tingling starts at my lips and radiates outward, a warmth that fills me with a longing so intense, it's almost painful. I want him here, now, to chase away the chill of fear and loneliness. To make me forget, even for a moment, why I'm here.
Sighing, I roll onto my back, clutching the pillow tighter. It's just a daydream. Tomorrow, I'll wake up to the same worries, the same responsibilities. But for now, in the dark safety of my room, I allow myself this one indulgence. Just for tonight, I'll dream of Walker holding me close, and maybe, in my dreams, everything will be okay.
I brush past the aisles, my fingers skimming over the cool metal of the shelves. The familiar ding of the convenience store door chimes in the background. I needed to gas up my car and figured I might find some treat that sounded good on the shelves.
“I can't believe you're still around,” a voice drawls behind me.
I stiffen, annoyance flooding through me. Is he following me now?
I turn, ready to tell him to leave me alone. Chase stands there, a smug expression on his face as if he’s convinced the story he made up about me is true, after all. There’s a new girl draped on his arm and her eyes rake over me with an air of superiority that has no real foundation.
I don’t even grace him with a response. Instead, I turn around, looking through a rack of dried meats.
“Come on, don't be like that.” He moves far too close for comfort, the scent of his cologne bringing an unwelcome familiarity. “You know, I've missed—”
“Save it.” I cut him off sharply, snatching a bag of jerky and turning to face him. “I'm here for my family, not to repeat past mistakes.”
The girl giggles, her fingers walking up his chest. “She so cute when she's feisty.”
Chase's eyes never leave mine, anger filling them. He reaches out and grabs my arm, and I look down at the contact before looking him in the eyes.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” I ask, willing him to remember when I punched him in the face. Freeing my arm with a jerk, I make a beeline for the checkout counter.
I won’t let Chase dominate my thoughts.
I miss Walker—the thought brings with it a sharp ache that makes it hard to breathe. I miss his raw honesty and intensity that leaves me breathless.
I love my family. They are why I'm here. And I'm happy to be with them, truly. But part of me yearns to be near Walker.
Chase will keep showing off the women he’s enjoying. I’m sure he even thinks he’ll get under my skin. But I’m done with him. Each run-in with him is just another reminder to look forward, to where my heart really lies.
Chapter Seventeen
Walker
The scent of apples fills my nose as my grandfather’s hand lands with a firm thud on my back, his laughter a comforting sound amidst the rustling leaves as the wind picks up.
We're surrounded by rows of apple trees, their branches bowing under the weight of ripe, red fruit. Sunlight filters through the leaves, casting dappled patterns on the ground. I pluck an apple from its stem, its skin smooth and cool in my palm—the scent is crisp, and the floral notes on the wind remind me of her perfume.
“I never thought I’d see you hung up about a woman,” Hershel observes, the corners of his eyes crinkling with mirth.
I stiffen, the apple in my hand momentarily forgotten. How did he know? I hadn’t said anything. “What makes you think it’s about a woman?” I meet his gaze, but his eyes are too wise, too experienced to not see right through me.
“Boy,” he says, his voice rich with years and wisdom, “you've got that look. The one that says your mind's miles away with someone who's got your heart beatin' funny.”
His expression lightens. “The fact that she got it beatin’ at all is pretty extraordinary.”
