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I hold my breath, hoping it’s a neighbor.
The sound of a key sliding into the lock echoes from the front of the house, and annoyance shoves my anxiety aside, forcing me toward the noise.
Tate looks up when I stop several feet away, a coy smile breaking through his obvious exhaustion. “Hi, honey. I’m home.”
“You can’t just barge in here,” I protest. “What if I was naked?”
Wrong thing to say. His eyebrows pop before he glances at his phone. “It is eight o’clock and you’re usually in the tub with a glass of sauvignon by now. But I also think you’re forgetting this is my house too.” He jangles his keys.
“Well, I’m not, and things change. Maybe I drink chardonnay now.” More lies. If he wasn’t here, I’d be winding down from my day doing exactly that.
I expect a witty remark. Instead, his face breaks out into a huge yawn. The shadows under his eyes are still there, and his shoulders curl in on themselves. He’s here to recover. Once he’s better, he’ll be gone again.
And as much as his being here is giving me whiplash, I’m not in the habit of making him suffer following his seizure. Taking care of him comes naturally to me.
“I stocked the freezer full of ice cream.” I make for the kitchen, but Tate’s hand on my arm stops me. Ignoring his searing touch, I continue rambling. “I picked up some soup and banana pudding for you. There’s medicated mouthwash upstairs to help with your tongue and Epsom salts if you wanted to soak in the bath. I know how sore you get—”
“Talia. Take a breath,” he whispers.
I can’t. I can’t breathe with him this close.
“I made up your room. You must be tired, so I’ll leave you to it.” He lets me slip free, and I put some much-needed distance between us.
“Our room.”
I stop in my tracks and turn.
“You said my room.” The grip he has on his suitcase tightens, knuckles turning white. “But my room is our room.”
I can’t do this now. Or ever. Four minutes, and the careful walls I’ve built since he left are already being tested.
“I don’t sleep in there anymore. I made you up one of the guest rooms, but if you want to sleep in our old bedroom, feel free.” The sheets aren’t made. I couldn’t bring myself to do it. His mouth drops, but I cut off whatever he’s about to say. “I’m up early for work, so if you don’t need anything, I’m going to bed. You need your sleep.”
With a fire underneath me, I dart for the stairs, not daring to look back, even when Tate’s deep timber follows me.
“We need to talk, Talia.”
Yes, we do, but not tonight.
Inside my room, I slump against the door and slide to the floor. Pressing my forehead to my knees, I take three deep breaths, working to calm myself. It has the opposite effect, and on the fourth exhale, hot tears spring to my eyes. I muffle my quiet sobs into my palm.
No one is perfect, but once upon a time I thought Tate was. I’m far from perfect too, and maybe that’s where we went so wrong. Our naïve, teenage hearts placed the other on a pedestal so high up, the fall was fatal. There was no other woman or man. No deep betrayal or dark secrets.
We grew up and grew apart, revealing imperfections that were too great to ignore.
The last time Tate stood in front of that huge front door, suitcase in hand, it cracked my chest wide open. Seeing him in that same spot, acting as if nothing’s changed, reopens the barely healed wounds.
There’s a soft thud from the guest bedroom next door.
The tears fall harder.
It’s the closest we’ve been in over a year, and yet a single wall puts more distance between us than the hundreds of miles we’ve spent apart.
NINE
TALIA
SIXTEEN YEARS OLD
