Among the Echoes(42)

I’m relaxing in bed when a sudden tap on my window scares the shit out of me. I scream and rush toward the door until I hear his voice.

"Riley. It’s just me. I didn’t mean to scare you," Adam says to my window.

The blinds are closed, but that doesn’t mean I don’t try to squint to get a glance at him. I don’t respond, but tears pool in my eyes. I stare at the window, willing it to open. I wish he would climb through, pull me into his strong arms, and tell me that it’s all going to be okay. Even while I’m wishing, I begin to pray he will just leave. I don’t know how much longer I can stay away from him.

"I’m leaving," he tells the window while apparently reading my mind. "I have to go back to LA. I just wanted to..." He pauses. "Look, when I first met you, all I wanted was to help you. Then I really met you and all I wanted was to get to know you. You’re hiding, Riley. Whether you know it or not, that is exactly what you are doing. Okay, fine. We can’t be together. And while I don’t completely understand your reasons, I accept them. But what I won’t accept is you locking yourself away from living a real life. If you won’t let me help you, promise me you’ll let someone else. You’re an amazing person, Riley Peterson, and you are doing the entire world a disservice by keeping all of it to yourself."

The tears steadily fall from my eyes. It takes every ounce of my willpower not to climb through the window myself at this point. But there is one emotion more powerful than any other—fear. And it’s the only reason my feet remain rooted in place.

"If you need anything, Riley, you have my number. Day or night, all you have to do is call. Take care of yourself. Bye, beautiful." With his final words, I hear his footsteps walking away.

I rush to the other window so I can catch a last glimpse of him as he leaves. His muscular body moves slowly towards the car. With a small bag thrown over his shoulder, he looks nearly identical to the day when I first met him. Just over three weeks ago, Slate Adam Andrews walked into my life. I thought I was scared that day, but as I watch him drive away, I’m suddenly more frightened than ever.





Six months later…





"Special Delivery!" Dave shouts from the den.

"Flowers or eggs?" I reply.

"Italian food."

"Shit!" I groan to myself.

"I’ll take care of it, Riley."

"Don’t you dare touch that gnocchi!" I yell as I head to the kitchen.

For six months, Slate Andrews has been sending me gifts. Every week. Every. Single. Fucking. Week. A box arrives at my door. It never comes on the same day, so I can predict it and avoid it. Nope, he keeps me guessing. It’s always something different too. But one thing always remains constant. Each week, there is a box of clear contacts of a different prescription.

It all started at Christmas, exactly a week after Adam moved back to LA.



"Oh, Dave. It’s perfect," I say, pulling the new jacket from the box.

"It’s got a secret little pocket I was thinking you could hide your phone in." He takes the jacket from my hands and begins to show me all the bells and whistles. I can’t help but giggle at his enthusiasm.

Suddenly, there’s a knock at the door and Dave’s head snaps to mine. The surprise in his eyes lets me know that he was definitely not expecting this one.

"Go to your room, babe." He orders.

"No," I defy, but I rise to my feet anyway, knowing that this is not something to be argued.

"Go," he whispers.

I move to my bedroom, preparing for the worst. I cover my ears in fear of what I might hear, but the disturbing sounds never come. I finally lift my head from my shaky hands as Dave walks into my room.

"It’s okay," he says, but he approaches me with apprehensive eyes.

"Dave, you’re scaring me."

"Slate sent you a present." He holds out a silver box with a bright-blue bow.

"Why?" I jump to my feet. I want to immediately rip the contents from the package and, at the same time, hide it for all of eternity.

"You know why, Riley."

"What is it?" I ask, knowing that Dave opened it, especially since I’m assuming it was addressed to me.

"Flowers."

"Okay." I breathe a sigh of relief. I can handle meaningless flowers.

"And new sweats. They’re pink," he says, and it makes my eyes water. Sweats may not be the most romantic gift, but the memory makes the tears appear. Though his final words are what make them fall freely. "And clear contacts."