Ms. Fisher,
A woman by the name of Cheyenne Ortega contacted thefront desk this evening and requested we inform you that they’re very excited to see you tomorrow. Per her request, here is her phone number, should you need to contact her.
I look up and Connor’s warm smile greets me like he knew all along this is exactly what would happen. My eyes water. I think I’m smiling, but I’m mostly hyper-focused on the piece of paper in my hands, running my fingers along the edges to ensure it’s real, that this isn’t a dream.
Earlier, I said I wasn’t worried. Still, my emotions get the best of me. I’m lost to a wave of quiet, anxious thoughts and a heart that squeezes in my chest. Connor takes the letter, sets it on the dresser, walks me to bed and peels back the covers.
He moves about the hotel room, flipping off the lights and making sure the door is locked, before he climbs in beside me. There’s no great wall of pillows between us this time. We both shift to the center of the mattress until our bodies find each other, limbs intertwining, like it’s something we’ve done a thousand times before.
Connor still wears his sweatpants and t-shirt. “You’re wearing a concerning amount of clothes for a man who says his body is a furnace.”
“I didn’t want to tempt you with too much skin and hard muscle.”
“Says the man who gropedmein his sleep last night.”
He laughs as he rolls to his back. I follow suit, resting my head in the crook of his shoulder. My body uses his like a human body pillow, arm across his chest and leg hiked over his hip.
“Maybe I should put on more clothes so you’re not tempted again,” I tease.
He hauls me in tighter to his side. “Hell, no. You’re perfect.”
Several minutes tick by and I’m nearly lulled to sleep, nerves settled, by the steady rise and fall of his chest under my palm. His fingers lazily tunnel through my hair and the world’s nearly gone dark, when he whispers, “Are you asleep?”
“Mmmm.”
“Is that a yes?”
I snort. “What is it?”
“I just wanted to say thank you.”
I tilt my face up to his. “For what?”
“For letting me be the one who gets to share this weekend with you.”
“You know I didn’t invite you, right?”
“Touche,” he says. “But you didn’t send me packing so I’m calling it a win.”
I grin, my index finger sketching soft circles over his chest. “I did always want it to be you, though. I mean, I didn’t know if it would ever happen, but whenever I imagined the possibility, it was always with you.”
His body stills beneath me and he weaves his fingers with mine. “You did?”
I nod. “You remember my tenth birthday when I asked you if you thought my birth parents thought about me?” He squeezes my hand and I take in a deep breath. “I’d never voiced anything about my birth parents to anyone before, but I did with you that day. I didn’t plan it, but you were there and you were always so nice to me and the gift, I just…”
He squeezes my hand again. “You just what?”
“I always felt safe with you. Not that I didn’t feel safe with my family, but I don’t know…it felt different with you, I guess.” I shake my head. “Sorry, I know that doesn’t make sense.”
“No,” he interjects, voice low and hoarse. “I get it.”
Something about the way he says it tells me he really does get it.
After a few quiet seconds, he asks, awe and expectancy lacing his words, “So, I was your first choice then?”
I smile into the skin along his collarbone. “Always have been.”
The breath that seeps out from deep in his chest carries years of longing and hope on its release and I squeeze my body closer to his in solidarity.We made it.
