Page 121 of Never Alone
I laid in the dark after he'd gone and listened for the truck to start.
I'd spent eight months waking up at four-thirty with my heart racing. Now I was up at five because Cole was up at five, and the kind of awake I was now was different. I was awake for him, wanting a glimpse of him before he was gone for a whole day.
I busied myself the whole day at the bakery and then at home. I struggled to sleep, wriggling with excitement that he'd be home in the morning.
I'd gotten up at five. Made coffee. Got Noah to the bus. Wiped the kitchen counter. Folded the laundry I'd been letting sit on the dryer for two days.
By seven, I was at the window. I'd never been a woman who waited at windows. The sixteen-year-old version of me would have laughed at the woman at the window. But the woman at the window had chosen him, and the woman who'd chosen him got to wait for him to come home, so I let myself wait.
The truck pulled in at three minutes past eight.
I watched him get out. He was tired the way he was tired after a twenty-four, the slope of his shoulders a little heavier, the bag on his shoulder hanging lower. He'd taken his hat off in the truck. His hair was a mess. He looked up at the window before he came in, the way he had started doing.
He saw me at the curtain.
His face changed when he saw me. Not a smile, exactly. Something around his eyes.
I went to the door and opened it before he got to it.
The day after a twenty-four was my favorite day.
It was my favorite day, the way certain Sundays had been my favorite days as a kid—nothing scheduled, the house quiet, yourfeet on the couch, and nobody telling you to move them. It was my favorite day when Noah was at school, and Cole was home, and the apartment was ours, and the only thing on either of our calendars was each other.
He'd showered. He'd eaten. He'd been quiet through breakfast in the way he was quiet when his body was just starting to remember it was allowed to rest. By eleven, we were on the couch in the living room. The TV was on with the sound low. Some documentary about boats. Neither of us was watching it.
I had my legs over his lap. My head was on his shoulder. His arm was around my waist, heavy and warm, his thumb moving in slow, absent passes across the side of my hip.
"I've been thinking."
"Yeah?"
"Noah."
"Mm."
"He hasn't had a real trip in a long time. Not since—before. I've been thinking it might be time. Somewhere fun. Somewhere he can just be a kid for a few days and not worry about anything."
"Yeah."
"I don't know where yet. Somewhere with water, maybe. He's been asking about the beach since Jack and Ben went."
"That's a good drive. We could make a weekend of it."
We.
He'd said it without thinking. The way he said most things now.
I tipped my chin up so I could see his face.
He was looking down at me. Not at the TV. He'd been looking at me for a while.
I leaned up and kissed him.
He kissed me back, slowly, his hand coming up to the side of my face. He kept it there a second after the kiss ended.
"Tessa."
"Yeah."
