A Lover's Lament(62)

“One step at a time, that’s all you can do. Read the letter first, listen to what he has to say and then go from there. You don’t have to forgive him right away—or at all, for that matter—but at least you’re taking that step. Just remember you’re taking that step for you, and no one else.”

“Wait a minute … is this Dr. Perry?” I quip. “No really, what did you do with her?”

“Ha ha.”

The faint sound of water sizzling catches my attention, so I open my eyes and whip around. “Shit.” Quickly, I turn the temperature of the stovetop down and blow across the top of the steaming water until it stops boiling over.

“Are you okay? Did you hurt yourself?”

“No, I’m fine. Just a little cooking mishap. And in case you’re wondering, no, I’m not a better cook now than I was before you left.”

“Duly noted.” Devin yawns through the line and I look at my watch. Six forty-five. I wonder what time it is where he’s at. “What are you cooking?”

“Do you really want me to tell you?” I ask. “Is it going to make you dream of food?”

“Tell me, woman. Let me live vicariously through you.”

“Okay,” I drawl. “Wait for it … wait for it … spaghetti!”

“Mmmm.” Devin moans, deep and long. The vibration in his voice slams into me like a tidal wave. Desire pools low in my belly, and a vision of the two of us naked and writhing in bed flashes through my head.

“That’s sounds so good,” he says.

“It—” My voice squeaks and I clear my throat, thankful when the words come out right the second time around. “It is. It’s become my specialty.”

“Oh yeah? What’s your secret?”

“Well, if I told ya, I’d have to kill ya.”

“Wow, now I’m dying to know.”

“Fine, fine, twist my arm, why don’t you? It’s chicken.”

“What?” He chuckles. “Chicken?”

“Yeah. I put chicken in the spaghetti rather than beef. It’s amazing! I’ll make it for you some time.”

“I’m gonna hold you to that.”

I hope you do, soldier. “It’ll be great. We can have a spaghetti picnic under the stars. If you’re good, I’ll even pack Cool Ranch chips and Mountain Dew.”

“You remembered,” he mumbles as though lost in thought. I nod my head, but by the time I remember I’m on the phone and he can’t actually see me, he starts talking again. “And on this picnic, will you serenade me with Backstreet Boys too?”

We both fall into a fit of laughter as we argue the age-old question of who is better—or worse, as Devin likes to say—Backstreet Boys or NSYNC. Then I go on to tell him about Bailey, why she’s upset with me, and how she ended up here tonight—leaving out the fact that Wyatt brought her. He doesn’t need to know everything.

Devin tells me some funny stories about his friend Navas, and I can tell by the way he talks about him that Navas is a good person. I’m glad that Devin has someone like that in his life—someone he can trust and talk to that’s there with him, day in and day out. If I’m being honest, I’m a little jealous that I’ve been replaced, and then I wonder if that’s how Devin feels when I go on and on about Maggie.

Devin is yawning nearly every other word, and when I glance at the clock in my kitchen, I notice that we’ve been on the phone for nearly an hour. “You sound exhausted. What time is it there?”

“Ummm …” The phone buzzes and crackles a few more times. “Almost two-fifteen.”

“In the morning? Oh my gosh, Devin, why didn’t you tell me I was keeping you up?”

“Because I wanted to talk you, Katie.” My shoulders relax, but I still feel bad. He probably has to get up at the asscrack of dawn. “And trust me, I don’t sleep much anyway.”

“We’re going to discuss that the next time we talk,” I say, causing him to chortle. “But I’m letting you go because you need to get some sleep.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

Neither of us says a word or makes the first move to hang up. I’m instantly transported into the ‘you hang up, no, you hang up’ antics we used to play as children, before his mom disconnected their phone. “I’ll try and call you again soon,” he says.

“You better.”

“Katie?”

“Yeah?” Walking into the living room, I curl up in the recliner and lean my head back, closing my eyes.

“This was—”

“Great,” I interrupt. “It was great.” He mumbles in agreement, and suddenly I feel the need to ask him about us. I need to know if he feels this connection or if it’s just in my head, because I can feel myself starting to fall again. And wouldn’t it be a bitch if there was no one there to catch me?

“Devin?”

“Yeah?”

“This friendship … it’s, um … I mean, I feel like …” I bite my lip, frustrated that I can’t seem to put into words everything that I’m thinking and feeling. Taking a deep breath, I reach down deep, grasping whatever courage I can find. “Since your first letter to me, I’ve felt … I just …”