Page 99 of Hometown Halftime

“Alexa,” I call out cautiously. “Play Lost by Dermot Kennedy.”

The speaker chimes softly before music fills the duplex.

The sound of a piano drifts through the room first, low and emotional, before a voice follows, rough around the edges in a way that grabs hold of something inside me. I lean against the kitchen counter while the song plays around me, letting the lyrics settle in slowly.

And God, it’s beautiful.

Halfway through the first chorus, I understand exactly why Riley likes it.

There’s something about the song that feels like him. The emotion buried underneath restraint. The quiet ache sitting beneath every lyric. I take a deep breath while I listen because suddenly, I can picture him hearing this somewhere alone. Driving home after football practice or sitting in his dorm room at school.

And it hits me in a way that makes my heart feel vulnerable. Because standing alone in his kitchen with one of his favorite songs playing softly through the space while a tiny stuffed otter sits on the counter makes one thing painfully clear—the more I learn about Riley, the more I want to know.

I grab my coffee and my new otter and head upstairs to get ready for the day. Before I take my shower, I open my text thread with Riley.

Me:

Thank you for everything this morning.

I place the baby otter by mine on the bed, snap a photo and send it with a caption that says, no longer lonely.

Riley:

(heart emoji) You’re welcome

Me:

What are you doing this evening?

Riley:

Just hanging at home, why?

Me:

Want to come to Sunday dinner at Knox and Brynn’s?

Riley:

I’m down

Me:

It’s at six.

Riley:

I’ll be ready. See you soon.

Then I give Brynn a heads-up.

Me:

Hey, I’m bringing Riley to dinner. Is there room for an extra chair?

Brynn:

Good morning! Of course!