Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 102167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 511(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 511(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
I turn back toward my nightstand, grabbing my phone without thinking. My thumb hovers over the screen again, but instead of typing, I get out of bed and throw on my favorite Prada sweats before slipping on a pair of Hermès slides and grabbing my purse.
Maybe I can’t decide on what to say because fucking typing something out on a stupid phone isn’t the answer at all.
I close my door and lock it behind myself quickly, jumping on the elevator of my building and riding it to the basement garage with unconcealed urgency.
My G-Wagon is in its assigned spot like magic, even though the last time I saw it was at the airport hangar on New Year’s Day morning, and I climb in and fire it up without hesitation.
My lip gloss is in one cupholder, an old empty Starbucks cup in the other, like artifacts of a woman left behind.
I strap on my seat belt and floor it out of the spot, rolling down my window despite the nighttime chill. The wind grounds me on the drive over, blowing in my hair and tangling it wildly.
On autopilot, I pull into a parking spot outside his building, shutting off my engine and laying my head on the steering wheel as I try to muster the courage to climb out.
This is crazy. I know it is. And so at odds with the twenty-seven years of life I’ve lived up until the start of this all. But on another wavelength, in a parallel universe, it feels so, so right.
I climb out and head inside, and after a short ride up in the elevator, I’m standing in front of his door. I pause, my mind finally catching up with my surroundings and working to prepare me for an outcome I can’t foresee.
What am I expecting him to say?
What am I expecting him to do?
My heart pounds as I lift my hand and knock lightly, and for a moment, all I can hear is the sound of my own breathing.
Then the door swings open.
“Avery?”
Henry’s voice is low and rough from sleep, and the sight of him… God, the sight of him steals the air from my lungs. He’s standing there in gray sweatpants and a T-shirt that clings to his chest, his hair mussed, his eyes soft with sleep, and his beard still intact.
Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but it’s the first positive sign that maybe I’m not the only one holding on to the island’s alternate reality.
Relief floods through me, so overwhelming that I feel like crying.
I’ve missed him.
Not just his presence, but everything about him. The way he looks at me, the steadiness of his voice, the way he makes me feel like I’m not alone. Being here, seeing him, it’s like finally taking a breath after being underwater for too long.
In that moment, none of the questions matter. Has he been thinking about me the way I’ve been thinking about him? Does he miss me, even a fraction of the way I’ve missed him? Is he still with the blond woman named Ashley? I need him and his arms more than I need answers to anything.
I shove inside, slamming into his chest and pushing him back until his door falls closed behind us.
“Avery,” he says my name again, his voice a soft balm for the rough uncertainty I’ve become twisted in since we got back.
I open my mouth, but the words catch in my throat. The jumble of feelings I’ve been carrying threatens to spill out all at once, but I don’t know where to start.
So, I say the only thing I can.
“I can’t fall asleep.”
He pulls back slightly to look me in the eyes, his crinkling carefully at the corners as he brushes my hair behind my ear. Then, without a word, he grabs my hand and guides me through the darkened space on gentle feet. It’s such a simple touch, but it sends a shiver down my spine.
His bedroom is dimly lit by the soft glow of a lamp on the nightstand. He pulls back the covers of his currently empty bed, motioning for me to lie down, and I do. The bed is warm, and it smells like him—clean and familiar. He climbs in beside me, his movements careful and deliberate, like he’s afraid I might shatter.
But I don’t hold back. I curl up against him, tucking my head into his chest.
He wraps his arms around me, pulling me close, and for the first time in two days, I feel like I can breathe again. He slips his hand into my hair, threading his fingers through it in slow, soothing strokes.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, his voice rumbling against my cheek.
Tears prick at my eyes, but I blink them away. He moves his hand to my back, tracing soft patterns there, and I feel the tension in my body start to melt away.