Wherever She Goes(54)

I sob against his chest until the pressure finally eases, until I can lift my head to say I’m all right. I look up and . . . he kisses me. His mouth goes to mine, and there isn’t a moment of surprise in that, not a moment of hesitation either. He’s kissing me, and my arms go around his neck, and I’m kissing him back and oh God, I’ve missed this. I’ve missed him so much. Time blurs as I pour that longing and need into my kiss. I forget where I am. I forget whatever I should be doing. I certainly forget that I should not be doing this. Or maybe I do remember that last part . . . and I just don’t care.

It’s a deep, desperate kiss, and the next thing I know, I’m in our bedroom. He lowers me onto the bed. Or maybe I pull him down onto it. I have no idea who does what—I only know that neither one needs to prod the other. I’m on the bed, and he’s over me, and we’re still kissing. He has my shirt up, and I’m tugging down his sweatpants, and it comes as naturally as fixing his coffee. Motor memory, the hungry kiss, and then both of us falling into bed and—

His phone buzzes. I glance over to see it standing on the charger. Paul puts his hands to my face, getting my attention and ignoring his phone, but when I see the name that flashes, I pull away. He glances at the phone. He sees the name—he must—but it doesn’t seem to register. He only lowers his mouth to mine again. I pull back and scramble from under him.

“Gayle,” I say.

There’s still no reaction. Or if there is, it’s confusion, like I’m speaking an unfamiliar name.

I wave at the ringing phone as I clamber off the bed. “We can’t. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—That’s not right. You have . . . Gayle.”

He gives a soft—and uncharacteristic—curse and hits the Ignore button. By then, I’m at the door. He doesn’t come after me. He just sits on the edge of the bed, face in his hands.

“I’m sorry,” I say again. “I shouldn’t have—”

“It wasn’t you.”

“It’s . . .” I inhale. “Habit, right? Being here. It’s just habit. I’m sorry. I’d never—I know you have . . . someone . . . and I wouldn’t try to do that. It’s disrespectful.”

“Disrespectful.” He gives a short laugh and shakes his head.

“I’ll go,” I say. “I shouldn’t have been here. I’m sorry.”

As I turn, he says, “No,” and rises to his feet. His hand lands on my shoulder. “Charlie would love to see you. If you’d rather I wake her, I’ll do that.”

“No, I can. It was just . . .” I twist to look back at him. “I see you got her a real bed.” I smile when I’m saying it, but that starts the tears again, my eyes filling. I wipe them away. “Sorry, it’s just . . .”

I’m missing her life. I’m missing so much of it.

Missing you, too. Missing both of you.

He gives me a one-armed hug, more careful now. “I know. You go get her up, then, and I’ll shower and dress. There’s cereal and bagels. She goes back and forth between them.”

“Do you have eggs?” I ask.

He hesitates, and when he forces a smile, it’s a little awkward, a little sad. “That would require me knowing how to cook them.”

I nod. Then I murmur that I’ll figure out something and slip from the room. As I go, I hear him pick up his phone to call Gayle back.





Chapter Twenty-Seven





I hold it together for Charlotte. That’s easier than I feared. She’s thrilled to see me, even though I’m quick to explain that I just stopped by. It doesn’t matter. She wakes with a bounce, as always, and there’s no time to grieve for what I’ve lost. I get a taste of it this morning, and I’ll take that as a gift and make the most of it.

I find bacon in the freezer—bacon I’d put there. I thaw it and whip up pancakes, also from my legacy baking ingredients. Paul comes down, and we eat, and the awkwardness disappears with Charlotte there, talking a mile a minute.

“So you’re taking her to Gayle’s today?” I ask.

He stops with the fork halfway to his mouth. Then he shakes his head. “I changed my mind. Gayle will have brought work home, and Charlie is a full-time job.”

“I has job?” Charlotte says, following our conversation.

“Yes,” Paul says. “A very special job, but it might be too hard. I need you”—he leans toward her—“to be good for Mrs. Mueller. You’re going to stay with her today.”

“And Becky and Pete?”

“Yes, you’re staying with Mrs. Mueller, and her son Pete and her cat Becky.”

Charlotte squeals. “Noooo. Becky is girl. Pete is dog.”

Paul frowns. “Are you sure? Becky kind of looks like a little girl, but I’m pretty sure Pete is a rat. A huge rat, like Matt.”

“Pete is dog!”

“Chihuahua,” Paul murmurs to me.

“Ah,” I say. “Well, I can see where you’d get confused.” I turn to Charlotte. “I bet Pete loves Matt.”

Charlotte shakes her head, curls bouncing. “No. Pete scared of Matt. Becky like Matt.”

“The Muellers moved in down the road,” Paul says. “Becky’s four. Her mom has offered to take Charlie anytime daycare doesn’t work out, so I called this morning. I also let the daycare know she’d be away.”