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Instead, I enter the communications center, take a seat and power up the computer, crossing my fingers tightly as I do so. The little bar dances back and forth across the computer screen, over and over and over again. My stomach tightens and my foot bobs at a pace any crack addict would appreciate. The seconds feel like hours as the word ‘loading’ works its way under my skin.

And then it happens … the chime … the system booting up. It’s fixed! Every tense muscle in my body relaxes. I settle into the seat and let out a long sigh of relief. Then, without hesitation, I quickly pull up my email.

There are four messages from Katie, and I read each of them—more than once. With each one, my heart both breaks and then mends, and when my mind finally puts together the messages she left me in the form of subject lines, my heart expands to epic proportions.

She wants me.

She wants us.

I say, hell yes.

Tears blur my eyes, but I blink them away. I have to let her know that I’m okay. I check my watch.

0600.

Struggling to do the math in my head, I finally realize that it’s only ten where she’s at, so I rip the phone from the cradle, dialing her number as fast as my fingers will move.

“We Can Try”—Between The Trees

DIPPING MY HANDS INTO THE hot, soapy water, I reach for a glass and then perform the same monotonous routine that I’ve been performing on this load of dishes for the past twenty minutes.

Scrub. Rinse. Repeat.

My eyes have been locked on a little girl playing in her yard across the street, but my mind isn’t processing what my hands are doing or what my eyes are seeing. I’ve had a one-track mind for the past several days, and it’s been on Devin.

I’ve carried my phone around in my hand like it’s attached to my body, and every time it rings, my heart stutters to a stop. But it’s never him, and with each day that’s passed, what little hope I had left has slowly started to fade.

A soft knock sounds at the door, but instead of moving to answer it, I just yell at whoever is there to come in. Probably not the smartest idea, but right now I don’t really care. My mind drifts back to thoughts of Devin when I hear the front door open and then shut, followed by the soft shuffle of someone walking toward me. Hopefully it’s not a serial killer. I take that back—

“Hey, Kit Kat.” At the gentle sound of Bailey’s voice, I close my eyes, take a deep breath and pray to whoever is willing to listen that she takes pity on me, because I’m not up for much of a fight right now.

Pulling my hands from the sink, I dry them off with a towel and then turn around and prop myself up against the counter. Bailey is standing in the doorway, her shoulders hunched forward, her hands wringing together. I can’t help but wonder what in the hell she’s so nervous about.

My silence must be unnerving because she takes a step forward and says, “Thank you for taking care of me the other night.”

Scrunching my nose, I think back to what she’s talking about, and then I remember her drunken evening. “You were gone when I got up.”

“Yeah”—she clears her throat—“sorry about that. I should’ve waited for you to get up, but I was embarrassed and still a little frustrated with you … well, more with myself … anyway, I just needed to get out.”

“How did you get home? You didn’t have your car.”

“My car was only a mile down the road at the bar, so I just walked.” Bailey’s eyes dart to the kitchen table and then back to me. “Mind if I sit?”

“Oh, um, no … go ahead, sit.” I stay standing. Right here, I feel absolutely nothing, but if I move … well, if I move, that might change. And I really don’t want that to change.

Bailey pulls out a chair, sits down and props her elbows up on the table. The room is eerily quiet, and judging by the w

ay she’s shifting in her seat, it’s making her uncomfortable.

“Mama told me about Devin,” she blurts. I can’t say that I’m surprised.

“What do you want me to say, Bailey?”

“Nothing.” Her eyes soften and she shakes her head. “I just … I wanted you to know that I’m here for you if you need me. I know things have been a little rough between us, but you’re still my sister, and I want you to know that if you need a shoulder to cry on, or someone to sit down and eat a pint of cookie dough ice cream with, I’m your girl.”

Her words wrap themselves around my heart, and suddenly, the urge to close myself off isn’t as strong. But I don’t give in because giving in means feeling, and right now I’m specifically trying not to feel.

“Thank you, Bailey.”