The deck boards under my palms are cool. There’s a thin film of river air over everything—clean and damp, a little mineral to it. The window is dark and covered in curtains. I try the bottom sash with two fingers, gently. It doesn’t budge. Of course it doesn’t. They keep the house locked like people with good sense.
I lift my knuckles and tap once. Twice. The sound is soft, but in the hush it feels like a cymbal crash. Nothing. I try again, a little rhythm I don’t even know I’m doing until I’m in the middle of it—tap-tap…tap.
There’s movement inside. A thump. Another. The lamp doesn’t come on. The shade tilts, and then she’s there—sleep-tousled, T-shirt sliding off one shoulder, confusion furrowing her brow. For half a second, she looks like she’s still dreaming of me, then she blinks and her eyes clear.
She unlatches and lifts. Cool air rushes out around my wrists.
“Hi,” I breathe out.
She doesn’t ask a single question. No “Where-were-you,” no “What-are-you-doing,” no “Have-you-lost-your-mind-climbing-the-side-of-my-parents’-house?”
She reaches, finds my hand, and curls her fingers around mine.
I swing one leg over the sill and then the other, careful, quiet, trying not to kick anything that makes a lot of noise when it falls. Her room smells like clean laundry and something citrus-vanilla-y coming from a bottle on the dresser. There’s a book face down beside the lamp. The bed is unmade, a Paige-shaped curve warm in the sheets, a throw quilt kicked to the floor.
She steps back just enough for me to clear the frame and then lets go of my hand. No words. None needed. The apology is sitting just under my tongue anyway—clumsy and not enough.
She moves back to the bed and gets in, pushes back the blanket next to her.
I peel off my T-shirt. Jeans next, belt buckle. The room is so quiet I can hear the slide of denim over my knees, the tiny hitch of her breath when I move. I’m down to boxers and the tired kind of ache, and then I’m easing under her sheets, the cotton cool and then warm where she was lying a moment before.
She scoots in with this small, decisive motion like she’s been doing it her whole life—knee over my thigh, arm across my stomach, tucking herself into the space between my shoulder and my throat.
Her hair smells like whatever conditioner she uses and something unmistakably her—sweet and clean. I breathe it in and something in my rib cage that has been locked all day loosens and opens.
The apology is stuck in my throat. It’s not enough. I owe her more than that.
I try again.
She shakes her head against my collarbone. Her hand opens over my sternum, palm warm, fingers splayed like she’s taking inventory of proof that I’m here. I cover it with mine. Our hands look ridiculous together—hers small and fine, mine nicked and scarred. They fit anyway.
Outside, the river does its slow, muscle-deep hush. A car goes by far off, tires whispering on asphalt. The house settles around us. Somewhere, a clock ticks, echoing the minutes away.
Her leg slides over mine. My thigh fits between hers. Her belly, not yet showing, presses to mine, and it makes something fierce twist in me. I press my mouth to her hairline. She sighs and relaxes against me.
Her fingers curl once, a little squeeze around my fingers, and then loosen.
Her breathing evens out first—slow, then slower, little ghostly breaths against my skin. Mine follows, like my body has been waiting for permission to relax. I trace the curve of her shoulder with my thumb once, memorize the weight of her head on my arm, and let the stupid, stubborn fight I’ve been carrying all day drain out into the mattress and disappear.
The last thing I know is that, for the first time since those three men sauntered into my pub, my head is quiet.
Chapter Thirty Nine
Paige
The alarm at 4:00 a.m. is a buzz in my head before the sound fully forms. I slap for it blindly, catch the edge of my phone case, and fumble until the noise dies.
Silence rushes back in: the low hum of the AC, the far-off hush of the river, the house breathing. My heart thunders anyway. I roll onto my side carefully, trying not to wake up Ben, but his eyes are already open.
“Hey,” he whispers, voice rough with sleep. The single syllable finds every tender place in me and softens me up.
“Sorry,” I breathe. “I meant to catch it before—”
“You did,” he says, lips tipping like the idea amuses him. “I was awake.”
“Did you get any sleep?” I ask, settling back down.
He nods, tiny, like he doesn’t want to wake the room. “Some,” he says. “Enough to know you steal the covers and make a little whistle sometimes when you sleep.”
