One Day Soon (One Day Soon, #1)(73)

“This is a bad idea,” he muttered, looking towards my dark house. “I shouldn’t be here.”

I turned in my seat so that I was facing him. I felt apprehensive as well. I understood his trepidation. My suggestion had been impulsive. Something I hadn’t afforded myself in many, many years. But it had felt right.

But did it still feel right?

I looked at Yoss and I saw a troubled, sick, lonely man.

My eyes followed the line of his jaw, finding the familiar, but my stomach clenched at the different.

I was pushing him. I was pushing me. I was forcing something I felt we both needed. Both deserved.

A second chance.

His. Mine.

Ours.

Was Yoss right? Was I only in love with a memory?

“I’ll take you somewhere else,” I said suddenly, my voice too loud in the quiet car.

Yoss frowned, narrowing his eyes as he looked at me. “So you agree with me. That this is a bad idea.”

I picked at the skin around my thumb, a nervous habit. “I don’t know what to think.” I blew out a noisy breath and pushed my hair back away from my face with slightly shaky hands.

“When I saw you in that hospital bed, the world stood still. I’ve thought about you every single day for the past fifteen years,” I told him.

Yoss didn’t say anything. He stared past me towards my house. His eyes a little lost. A little sad.

“So here we are and I feel like I’m pushing you. I don’t want to push you. I don’t want to ever make you do something you don’t want to do.” I touched his arm. Briefly. Hesitantly. “As much as I want you here, I don’t want this to be about me. Or not just about me. I want this to be about us. About getting to know each other again.”

Yoss ran a hand over his face. “Yeah. I want that too,” he grudgingly admitted.

“You do?” I asked, my voice slightly high pitched.

“I’d like to see your house. If that’s okay,” he said. I took the keys out of the ignition, relieved that he seemed to want to be there.

“Of course it’s okay,” I replied, getting out of the car. Yoss followed me up the path towards the front door.

“You live on a nice street. Lots of trees. And it’s quiet,” he went on. He seemed to be taking note of everything.

“Yeah, it is nice. I like it here,” I said, opening the front door and turning on the light in the foyer.

Yoss followed me into the house, his hands shoved into his pockets. “It smells like lemons,” he observed, sniffing the air.

I chuckled. “Yeah, it’s the air freshener.” I dropped the keys on the table and pointed to the oil diffuser plugged into the wall.

I walked into the living room, turning on lights as I went. I realized how messy my house was. How much stuff I had crammed into every corner and on every available surface. I stepped over piles of books and wished I had taken the time to straighten up before leaving the house that morning. But, to be fair, I hadn’t realized I’d be coming home with a new houseguest.

“Sorry about the mess. I…uh…well, I need to sort through a lot of stuff. Throw some things out.” I flushed in mortification as Yoss looked around.

“I have a problem getting rid of things. I’m a bit of a collector, I guess. I see something I like and I get it. I’ve been told that I need to learn to let go of things. I suppose that’s always been a problem of mine. Letting go.”

What the hell was I saying? I was rambling. It was ridiculous.

Yoss picked up a snow globe that said New York on the base that I had picked up from the flea market. I had never even been to New York. I wasn’t sure what had possessed me to buy it.

“You have a lot of nice things, Imi,” he said after a while, putting the snow globe back down.

“I have too many things,” I argued, feeling defensive. Embarrassed.

“You want to remind yourself that you can buy the things you want. I get that. Hell, I’m the same way. Don’t you remember all the random shit I had? There wasn’t a piece of junk I didn’t have to have,” Yoss commented and I relaxed, relieved that he understood.

“I suppose that’s part of it.” Yoss picked up a framed photograph of my mom and me on the windowsill.

It was taken at my college graduation. It had been a good day. One of the better times we had spent together. We had celebrated at the Italian restaurant where I had worked all through school. My co-workers had bought me a few rounds of shots and my mother had held my hair when I puked in the bathroom later. I had woken up the next morning with a horrible hangover and Mom had made me a fried breakfast. Not your typical mother/daughter bonding, but it was good for us.

“You look happy. I’m glad you have a good relationship with your mom now,” he said, staring at the picture.

I frowned. How did he know that was my mother? Did he just assume because we resembled each other?

“It’s not perfect, but I don’t hate her anymore. I feel very differently about her now than I did when I was sixteen,” I told him.

“That’s great,” was all he said.

“Have you ever spoken to your dad?” I felt compelled to ask.

He shrugged. “I tried to see him once. Not long after you—” He stopped himself, glancing at me. “Yeah, I did. Many years ago. I went to my old house. His car was in the driveway. I don’t really know what possessed me to bother. I guess I was feeling..…I don’t even know.” He looked down at the picture of my mom and me again. “I knocked on the door. And while I waited I remember thinking that maybe he had gotten help over the years. That he wouldn’t be the same alcoholic, abusive bully he used to be. That maybe we’d be able to have a relationship.”