Page 210 of Where We Stay

His mouth lifts into a lazy smile. “You complaining?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Come back here first,” Dean says. “We’ll go together.”

“I’ll meet you there. It saves me driving all the way back.”

“You sure?” he asks, studying my face.

“Yep. I’ll see you tonight.”

I grab my bag and attempt to walk past him, but Dean catches my wrist and pulls me against his chest. His mouth finds mine, and within three seconds, I’m questioning whether clean underwear is really that important.

“Love you,” he murmurs against my lips.

“Love you too,” I whisper, forcing myself to step away before we end up back in bed.

Before I can make it downstairs, Aspen calls my name because she desperately needs to show me something that apparently cannot wait another second.

So much for leaving.

* * *

It’s three by the time I finally pull into my driveway.

I meant to leave Dean’s hours ago, but Aspen needed to show me her new drawing of a sunflower garden. That somehow turned into researching how to grow real sunflowers, which then became painting more sunflowers while she explained exactly where every single one would go.

So, yeah. A six-year-old runs my life now.

I walk up the porch steps and slide my key into the lock, but the handle turns beneath my hand before I can use it.

The door is already unlocked.

“That’s weird,” I murmur.

I locked it before I left. I know I did.

I always fucking lock it. I check it twice before I even leave the porch.

I stay frozen in the doorway, staring into the house. Nothing looks different, which somehow makes the knot forming in my stomach even worse.

“Hello?” I call, pushing the door open another inch.

Silence answers me.

Fuck.

Maybe Georgie came over. She has a key, but she would’ve locked the door behind her. She also would’ve texted me before rummaging through my house.

Maybe I forgot.

No. I don’t forget.

I lock the door when I’m home. I check it again before I go to bed. I sure as fuck lock it when I leave.

My hand tightens around my phone as I step inside. The sensible part of my brain is screaming at me to call Dean, but the rest of me is still desperately searching for a harmless explanation.

The living room looks exactly how I left it. The blanket is folded over the back of the couch, and the mug I used Friday morning is still sitting on the coffee table. Nothing is broken. Nothing appears to be missing.