Page 112 of The Storm

I walk backward toward the door, mouth sealed to his, bumping into things.

I have no willpower.

But I have to go.

One more kiss.

A heated look.

A silly, carefree, happy air kiss.

I’m out the door.

I skip down the stairs.

The world is a wonderful, magical place because in it, I get to love him.

My baby.

My darling.

My love.

My man.

THIRTY-TWO

INDY

I humwhen I walk into the house after my morning row. I went alone today because Nick was working late, and I didn’t want to wake him. I wonder how long it will take for somebody to notice he’s not sleeping in his own room at all anymore. We haven’t gotten caught yet.

I’m not sure if I want my family to figure it out, so we have to have that conversation with them or if I’d prefer to postpone it as long as possible. Where I can usually predict their reactions pretty well, me being in a relationship with Nick is the one area where I have no idea what any of them would say. I suppose we’ll have to bring it up one of these days.

There’s still a bit of time until we leave. I have my job in the marina until the middle of September when tourist season starts to wrap up, and Nick is staying on at the restaurant until the beginning of October. After that? We decided on Chicago. We’ve been staying up late into the night making plans. I don’t think Dad will really mind whatever I tell him I’m going to do next year. Mom’s been much more reluctant about this gap year plan I presented to her in the spring though. She nearly hyperventilated when I told her I wasn’t going to school in September, and she only calmed down a bit when I told herabout the bartender job in Boston because at least that was some sort of plan. Not a plan that made her especially ecstatic, but it was a plan, at least. Mom likes a good plan. Which is why I swore my aunt to silence when I declined that bartender position a few weeks ago.

Unless I want to freak Mom out again, we need to have all our bases covered for Chicago before we break the news. It’s happening no matter what, but I don’t want her to worry about us.

I love my parents—I don’t want to just torch bridges and create unnecessary tension.

Which means we’ve done this thing responsibly. Nick’s already got a job lined up at a restaurant. The chef at the restaurant where he works right now is so impressed with him that he asked around when he found out about Nick’s plans, so now Nick’s got a position as a station chef waiting for him in October.

We know how much money we have saved, have a rough budget figured out, and we have a list of apartments we’ll go and check out soon.

And I can’t wait.

Because I’m happy.

Nauseatingly, disgustingly, stupidly happy.

I hum while I open the fridge and peer inside. Mom’s at work, but everybody else is home, so I’m going to make pancakes for breakfast.

I’ve just poured the first batch of batter into the pan when Dia walks in. Honestly, it feels more accurate to say she drags herself in. She slumps into the seat at the counter and drops her head on her arms.

I raise my brows at her. “Late night?”

It takes her so long to answer that I start to think she didn’t hear me, but eventually she mutters something I can’t decipher.

I frown. Ever since we got back from Ocean City, it feels like I’ve barely seen her. I make a face. That asshole move where a person falls in love and then neglects everything else? Seems I could be the poster boy.