Page 45

He clears his throat. “How’ve you been, Jess?” His demeanor grows serious, his voice a little rough, hinting at the emotion I thought I saw in his eyes just a second ago.

“I’ve been good,” I tell him honestly, even though here, in this moment, it kind of feels like a lie. But my lifehasbeen good. Better than I could’ve imagined for myself at sixteen-years-old, and I’m incredibly grateful for every beautiful piece of it. It’s just that the reminder of the one thing that’s been missing from my life all these years is now sitting right here next to me.

“How about you? How have you been?” I ask for the second time in as many weeks, avoiding the weight of those thoughts. I direct him onto the freeway, and he takes his time merging over the three lanes before answering.

“I’ve been good too, Jess,” he says, but his eyes betray his smile. They mirror my thoughts, of years missed and lost, and it’s too much to handle at once.

I turn and look out the window, watching the city lights disappear behind us.What are we doing here? What are his expectations?

What are mine?

I have no clue. I have no fucking clue.

But why does it feel like my chest wants to cave in?

No matter how much I sit here and try to fight it, the pressure behind my eyelids surges forward, along with everything unspoken wanting to settle between us. Eight years worth of questions waiting to be asked and answered.

My heart climbs its way up into my throat. I force in a steadying breath of air, blinking my tears away from my eyes.

In the very next breath, Greyson takes my hand in his.

“I know…I know,” he says with a resigned sigh, and I shift in my seat to look up at him. His green eyes are dark and intense, sinking into the depths of mine. “How about we save this conversation for another day—soon—but not right now. I say we take things slow. We’ve got time; I’m not going anywhere.” He swallows, and I watch the movement in his throat. “And something tells me that this time, you’re not either.”

I wipe the tips of my fingers beneath my eyes, catching my tears before they fall, and nod. I can’t say anything past this lump in my throat. Wouldn’t even know where to begin if I could. Except, maybe:You’re right. You’re absolutely right. There’s no way in hell I’m ever running from you again.

His fingers tighten around my hand, and I find comfort in his grip. Firm. Like he doesn’t want to let go yet, either.

Fifteen minutes later, we pull up to the curb in front of my house—thoughts, feelings swirling. I unbuckle, and we turn to face each other. Watching, not saying a word.

It’s pretty amazing, after all this time, to be this close to him again.

My fingers ache to touch him; my heart screams out for his. I feel empty. Empty of his touch, and empty of his kiss.

And I’m pretty certain these feelings are written clear across my face, because at the same exact moment, both of our lips twitch and slowly pull up into two matching smiles. Smiles that connect between our eyes. Between his heart and mine, gently tugging them back together.

“I’ve missed you,” I finally admit, and I can breathe a little easier, now that I’ve ripped it off my chest and thrown it out there.

“I’ve missed you, too,” he replies easily, his hand wrapped around mine again, thumb grazing my palm, and I’m still smiling. I can’t help it. I never could when I was with him.

And I want to heed his advice and take things slow, however they may come, but I also feel the intense need to throw myself over this center console between us and land myself in his lap. To kiss him stupid after eight long years and not come up for air. I can hardly breathe, anyway, with the way his tongue has slipped out of his mouth to graze his lips for a brief moment as he continues to watch me.

Focus. Say something, Jess.

“I’m pretty busy the next few days, unfortunately,” he says first, his hand slipping behind his neck in a firm grip. “But do you think I could come by sometime this week?”

“Yeah, of course.” I nod, relieved. “Here.” I pull my phone from my purse and unlock it, opening up my contacts list. “What’s your number?”

The nine digits slide off his tongue with ease, and I shoot him a quick text:Jess here.

He smiles as he lifts his phone, screen lit up from my message. If I’m not mistaken, the tilt of his lips holds the same affection for me that mine do for him, and hope blooms inside my chest, sprouting from the seed ofhim and Ihe planted all those years ago—hope for us, and some kind of future where I’ll get to see his face far more often.

But in the very next moment, my hope catches fire, bursting into flames and falling to the ground in a fiery mess. Because right there, on his left hand, I finally see it. Different from the other decorative rings that adorn his fingers.

A slim, smooth, slap in the face.

A wedding band.

Thirty-nine Before