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He shakes his head slowly. “In four months.”

I have to bite my cheek to keep from smiling. A swelling pride engulfs my chest. Alexander Caldwell has voluntarily given up sex for four months as a promise to himself. Not me. Not his sister. Not anyone else. Just himself, and it feels like my heart is about to explode with pride.

When I can’t fight the smile any longer, I launch myself back into his arms. “That’s amazing, Alexander. I’m so proud of you.”

“I don’t want you to tell me if you’ve…you know,” he stammers.

“Alex,” I whisper. “I never stopped being yours.”

His cheeks redden, and the corners of his lips turn up in a smile. When he’s kissing me again, I let myself get lost in his nearness.

“Will you wait for me?” he breathes, taking his mouth to my neck, and it feels impossible. I don’t want to wait another second for him, but I know this is what’s best for him. After everything we’ve been through, this could be the thing that brings us back together.

“I will always wait for you.”

CHAPTER 33

SUNNY

It’s been two weeks since the art festival, the night I saw Alexander, and not a day has gone by that we haven’t spoken. Every night he calls and we talk, his voice in my Bluetooth headphones while I paint.

The inspiration comes so much easier now. The paint runs out of my fingers with ideas, color, and life on the canvas since that night.

We don’t talk about the future. We don’t even talk about the past. Mostly, we just talk about meaningless topics—our favorite memories as kids, things we wish we were better at, what we would do if we could start it all again. It’s like I’m learning him all over again, meeting the same man again, but knowing him differently. Falling in love with him again.

He keeps the dark things to himself, and I don’t pry. Alexander talks now like he’s healing, and I don’t want to be the one to bring up the bad things, so we dodge topics like sex, love, and relationships. For me, he skips talking about my parents, the split, and how many times I’ve been smacked around by my mother. The conversations are superficial, but I see the light at the end of the tunnel. We’re not as fucked up as we once were, and the future looks bright.

I only have six more weeks until I’m free. There haven’t been talks of job prospects yet, but I feel them coming, and part of me is dreading them. What do I do if I’m offered something amazing far away from here? Do I ask him to come with me? All I can really think about right now is going home—his home. Our home. My side of the bed that is still waiting for me.

Alexander and I built our lives together before we started our relationship. Before we allowed ourselves to start anything. And now I know that we should have waited until we worked out some of these things we need to work through. And part of me knows there are still so many landmines ready to ruin it all if we don’t get through it before the program ends, and we truly begin.

He cuts our talk short one night, and I can tell he’s feeling anxious. Normally, he’s in such a good mood, lighthearted and easy to talk to, but tonight I can feel the restlessness in his voice. I want to tell him it’s only a few more weeks, but I don’t know if he’s unsettled because he misses me or he misses sex, and I don’t think I want to know.

It’s only eight thirty on a Friday night when he calls it a night. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he mumbles across the phone line.

“Okay.” What else can I say? We haven’t defined the boundaries of our new relationship. How the hell am I supposed to know what I can say at this point, but I feel him struggling and I can’t be there to help him.

I don’t sleep well that night. Something is gnawing at me while I toss and turn, checking his Instagram like a stalker because I’m desperate to know if he’s home or out. I finally doze off somewhere after one in the morning when my phone rings. His face is on the screen, and I panic, sitting up in my top bunk to answer it. The room is silent, but most of my roommates sleep with headphones in to block the sound of everyone else shifting, snoring, or coming in late from the studio.

“Alex?” I breathe.

Before I hear his voice, I hear the wind blowing. There is distant music—and I know he’s out.

“I fucked up, Sunny.” His voice is like gravel, deep and pained.

The blood drains from my face. “No,” I answer, half plea, half statement. He wouldn’t fuck up, not now, not after everything.

Suddenly, the room is stifling, and I’m desperate to get out. Climbing off the top bunk, I slip on my flip-flops, and I run out of the room, through the studio, to the street out front.

“Where are you?” I ask in a rush. I’ll go to him. I’ll fix it. I need to see him.

“I thought I was ready to go out. I thought I could handle being out with my friends again. I missed that, Sunny. I missed having fun. I never missed that when you were here.”

“Alexander, where are you? I’m on my way.” I just start walking, without direction. Which is stupid in the middle of the night for a single young woman, but his voice is in my ear, and I have to push out the realization that Alexander fucked someone else. I just need to be near him. I have to fix this.

“I’m sitting on the roof of the Hyatt.” There’s a slur in his voice, and I know it means he’s been drinking. My stomach rolls.

“Just talk to me. I’m coming to you.”