Ten Below Zero(78)

The hand in mine on my lap squeezed once. Then again. Then once more. Three times. I opened my eyes and saw Everett staring at me. His eyes were red, but soft. And his brow was furrowed. “Parker,” he said, with recognition. With feeling.

“Everett,” I said back. My words were strangled with fresh tears. Tears on top of tears. He touched my hair, slid a hand down my face, looking at me as if seeing me for the first time in forever, and then he cradled my face and kissed me.

I pulled back first and put my hands on his face. “You remember?” I asked, hardly able to see him through the tears.

He nodded, his thumbs on my chin. “Parker,” he said again.

I brought my hands up to his wrists and squeezed. “I’m so happy,” I said, laughing from relief.

“You’re laughing,” he said, tilting his head to the side. “It sounds so weird.”

I laughed and squeezed his wrists again. “You’re still an *.”

“I am,” he confirmed. He blew out a breath. “It’s coming back to me so quickly. I can hardly keep up.”

“It’s okay,” I said, wrapping my arms around his upper back. His arms wrapped around me and he hugged me, tightly.

“I’m so sorry,” he muffled against my hair. He ran a hand down my hair, a move that was as familiar as it was deeply comforting.

“Don’t be. Oh, Everett.” I couldn’t stop crying. “I’m so glad you’re back. I’ve missed you.” Understatement of the year.

His hand touched my ribs, where my Purgatoire tattoo was. “Why did you wait so long to bring me here?” he asked.

“I wanted you to be well enough to come.”

He shook his head. “Did you get the box?”

My mind went to the box, the one still sitting in the corner of my bedroom, unopened. “Yes,” I said, “but I didn’t open it.”

“Why?” he asked. “No wait,” he said, holding up a hand. “I get it. But in the box are the Picketwire Canyon pages from my journal. And the photos.”

“Photos, as in plural?”

“I took a lot of photos of you, when you weren’t looking. I asked Bridget to send that box to you. I hoped you’d understand the reason, and bring me here in case it would trigger my memory.”

“Huh,” I said. “I feel kind of bad I never opened it.”

“You could have saved yourself all this heartache, all this pain.” He brushed my hair from my face.

“I don’t mind the pain so much,” I said. “I’ve found pleasure in the pain.”

Everett smiled at me. “Good. It’s good to feel.” His fingers tugged on my hair. I smiled, a real smile.

“Smiles suit you. You should wear them more often.”

“You suit me.”

Everett hopped down from the ledge and put his hands up to catch me, as he had the first time. He pulled me to him for a hug. I clung tightly to him, thankful for the gift. Thankful for the Purgatoire River. Thankful for a text message that was sent to the wrong number. Thankful to feel, to be healed and broken at the same time by Everett.

“You’re cold,” he murmured. It was early June and early in the day, so I did have a slight chill.

“Ten below zero?” I asked.

“Nah,” he said, pulling back and kissing my forehead. “Colder than that.”

I laughed, pressing into him, into this kiss. Relishing this connection.

Everett pulled back and stared into my eyes, the way he had before. His hands clasped mine.

“Are you in love with me yet?”

I smiled. “Unfortunately. Are you in love with me?”

In answer, his hands squeezed mine. Three times. With each squeeze, he mouthed three words. “I. Love. You.”

THE END.