Page 169 of Just One Little Bargain

Soon they’ll exist only in memory, and there’s no way to know which pieces time will keep intact. That terrifies me almost as much as losing him.

The clock on the wall ticks.

Usually, I don’t hear it. This morning, every tick lands with a dry little click. The second hand jerks forward in tiny, merciless increments while the clock face keeps swallowing the daylight one fraction at a time.

I put my fork down. I can’t force down another bite.

This is it. This is how it ends.

Not with some magnificent catastrophe, but over pancakes, while neither of us says the word goodbye. The moment we give this ending a name, there’s no pretending we aren’t already living through it.

***

All afternoon, I’ve treated my departure as another item to manage. Keys in my bag. Shoes by the door. Leave on time. Don’t linger. And I’ve been very good at keeping myself occupied: two guest inquiries answered, the Clover Room’s toiletry basket restocked, an entire load of laundry folded with painstaking concentration. All while refusing to acknowledge that half my attention is fixed on tonight.

That resolve lasts until my hand closes around the doorknob at six.

Milo catches my wrist, and I turn. His eyes meet mine. Every practiced sentence I’d prepared for this moment disappears.

He pulls me toward him. I fold into his chest before pride or common sense can intervene, my arms closing around his middle. The embrace tightens almost immediately, one palm spreading between my shoulder blades while the other settles at the nape of my head, keeping my cheek tucked beneath his collarbone. The knit of his sweater scratches against my face.

“This isn’t a goodbye.” I say it into his sweater, desperate to make it true.

His breathing deepens beneath my cheek, stirring the hair at my temple, but no words follow. When I ease back, his glasses have slipped low, eyes wet behind them. My hand rises on instinct to straighten the frames, fingertips lingering at his cheekbone.

Our mouths meet without the heat we usually tumble into. The kiss is slow, almost unbearably careful, lingering long enough for the salt of tears to gather between us before Milo eases back just enough to breathe. When he kisses me again, I slide my hand behind his neck and thread my fingers into the curls, holding him there.

We’ve kissed in laughter, in hunger, against walls and tangled in sheets. I know the pressure of his mouth when he’s teasing me, the brief hesitation before he gives in to wanting more, the helpless sound he makes when I catch his lower lip between my teeth. Every version of him is inside this kiss, but none of our usual playfulness survives it.

There’s still a childish part of me convinced that if I put enough of myself into this, Hell will discover there’s no easy way to remove him from me. I press my mouth to the corner of his jaw, then to his cheekbone, then back to his lips because every second spent anywhere else seems wasteful.

Eventually, the kiss slows. Our mouths separate, but Milo keeps me close, the tips of our noses brushing. His forehead settles against mine, hands moving up to cradle my face.

“You’re the best thing that ever happened to me,” he whispers.

My mouth opens, but the words I want to say catch behind the pressure in my throat.

“Go.” Milo kisses my forehead, lingering before he finally steps back. “Evie, you have to leave.”

My keys are still clenched in my right hand. Their teeth have pressed small, distinct impressions into my palm.

I make myself walk through the door and down the path, one foot and then the other, the gravel shifting under my shoes. The evening air is cool and smells of turned earth from the garden beds, and I don’t look back.

The car door slams shut, and suddenly my breathing sounds too loud in the enclosed space.

I sit there with both hands on the wheel, looking through the windshield at the lane. His scent of cedar and light woodsmoke clings to the shoulder of my sweater where my face pressed against him. At some point, I’m going to have to wash it.

The first tear reaches my chin before I make it to the bottom of the hill.

Chapter 49

Evie

Mom lives in lower Brindlewood, where the road begins its long slope toward the river. Her cottage appears around the bend in a wash of faded green paint and white trim that has needed repainting for at least three summers. Mom keeps insisting she likes it “weathered,” which is a generous interpretation of peeling.

The front garden has surrendered to itself. Wildflowers have escaped the beds and tangled through the weeds, spilling over the stone. Terracotta pots crowd the porch steps, some bursting with herbs and trailing vines, others holding the brittle remains of plants.

I climb the steps and try the handle. Of course it’s unlocked.