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Ali cupped Cornell’s face, painting it with deflating bubbles, and pressed her lips to his.
“What are you doing?” he asked with a hiss as she tightened the grip of her legs, rocking into him with a gentle moan.
Ali leaned back from the kiss, watching as Cornell’s eyes fluttered open. And there it was—the same look of love, adoration, and promises across his face. His hands on her body held her firmly and tenderly. It was the same, even if Ali was different.
It was whole, even if she was a little broken.
“I think in football, they call it a fumble recovery.”
* * *
“Come on, Mowgli. Let’s go.” Ali said, tugging gently at his leash. It was after eight, and Cornell was at his dinner with Evan and the school board. She felt bad rushing him. Mowgli was pushing ninety pounds, and he and his lazy personality needed the exercise.
Her phone buzzed, and Ali pulled it out to read a text from Cornell.
Pop the champagne. Home soon.
Ali beamed.
Never had a doubt. Come home, and I’ll show you how proud I am of you.
There wasn’t champagne, but Ali had brownies and ice cream and, since the gala a week ago, renewed access to something more delicious—Cornell.
She pocketed the phone, frowning when the light from the screen disappeared. It didn’t take long for Ali to realize that while physical intimacy seemed like a hurdle, overcoming it didn’t mean all was well. She clutched Mowgli’s leash tightly as they continued to walk down the dimly lit street, fighting the triggering dark.
Not even close to the same as that night, Ali thought with a firm nod, taking in glowing windows of neighbors’ homes and the streetlights. But with each step, the night sky seemed to darken, the faint lights scattered along the street seemed to fade more and more, and the generalized anxiety began to narrow, paving a heavier darkness in her mind, the darkness of Broad Meadow Lane with its sparse streetlights and few houses.
The racing of her heartbeat was illuminating only one thing—the darkness of that night.
“Let’s go.”
Ali pulled Mowgli as they rounded the corner of their street. She began to jog, and Mowgli hopped and jumped along excitedly. The anxiety began to quell when Ali saw their driveway. Home. But with her next step, Mowgli jumped again, one paw landing on her hip, and Ali lost her balance, landing in the cold grass flanking the smooth pavement.
She groaned and pushed herself up. “No jumping—”
“Are you alright?”
The deep boom of the voice made Ali’s head fly to the side, up to the front door—where a man waited on the step.
Ali scrambled for the leash she had dropped even though Mowgli hadn’t moved, caging her legs with his body. The voice said something else, but Ali couldn’t understand between the pounding of the pulse in her ears and the sound of shoes scraping against the pavement. Mowgli was still standing over her, wagging his tail excitedly, his head nudging hers.
“Alison?”
Run.
There was a gentle clicking of a tongue, and Mowgli hopped off.
“What do you feed him? I think he’s three times the size as when y’all moved in.”
Clutching the grass with her fingertips, Ali looked up to see Mowgli in the driveway next to her car, playfully rubbing against a pair of jeans.
“You’re no lap dog,” the voice said with a chuckle. “Don’t think you make a good guard dog, either. Alison? Are you alright?”
Ali’s fingers slowly loosened their grip on the ground. “I’m fine,” she squeaked out to Mr. Hoffman, their landlord. She pushed off the ground, ignoring the hand held out to her.
“I told Cornell I’d drop off the property tax documents he asked for.” Mr. Hoffman held up a manila envelope. “Martha and I would love to see this work out. We raised our son in this home. It would be lovely to see it go to such a warm couple.”
“Oh,” she breathed, wiping her hands on her pants before grabbing Mowgli’s leash. “Down, Mowgli.”
