Page 21
"That's one way to put it."
"What about you?" I ask. "Why are you awake?"
He's quiet for so long I think he might not answer. Then, softly, "Dreams. Not the good kind."
The war. Of course. I should have guessed.
"Do they happen often?" I ask gently.
"Less than they used to." He runs a hand through his hair, leaving it even more disheveled. "Talking about Josh, my father... stirred things up."
"I'm sorry," I say, meaning it. "I didn't mean to pry earlier."
"You didn't," he assures me. "I chose to answer."
Another silence falls between us, but it's not uncomfortable. There's an ease to being with Riley that I've rarely experienced with anyone else. No pressure to fill the quiet moments with meaningless chatter.
"It's cold out here," I say finally, aware of the chill seeping through my thin pajamas. "And I don't think this photograph is going to reveal any more secrets tonight."
Riley nods, but neither of us moves to return to our rooms. It's as if we're both reluctant to end this strange midnight encounter, this moment of connection in the darkness.
"I could make tea," I offer impulsively. "If you're not going back to sleep anyway."
He considers this for a moment, then nods. "Tea sounds good."
We make our way downstairs, our candles creating a small pool of light in the darkness. The living room still holds evidence of our earlier conversation—empty coffee mugs on the side table, cushions indented where we sat. It feels oddly intimate, these traces of our shared evening.
In the kitchen, I fill the kettle and set it on the gas stove, grateful again for the non-electric appliance. Riley leans against the counter, watching me move about the small space. I'm very conscious of my appearance—hair tumbling loose around my shoulders, wearing only flannel pajama pants and a thin tank top beneath a cardigan I hastily grabbed on my way out of my room.
"Mrs. Abernathy left some herbal tea in the pantry," I say, opening cupboards until I find it. "Chamomile and... something else I can't pronounce."
"Sounds adventurous," Riley comments, and I catch a glimpse of that almost-smile again.
"I live on the edge," I reply with mock seriousness. "Mysterious tea blends. Moving to towns where I know no one. Inviting strange men to stay during storms."
"Am I strange?" he asks, amusement coloring his tone.
I look at him over my shoulder, taking in the blanket still wrapped around him, his rumpled t-shirt, the beard darkening his jaw. "In the best possible way," I assure him.
His laugh is soft but genuine, and the sound of it warms me more than any tea could. I've made Riley Carter laugh. It feels like an achievement.
The kettle whistles, and I busy myself with preparing our drinks, dropping tea bags into the mismatched mugs I found earlier
"Let's sit by the window," I suggest, nodding toward a small window seat in the living room. "We might be able to see the stars now that the storm's clearing."
The window seat is just large enough for two if we sit close, which we do, shoulders nearly touching, mugs cradled in our hands. Through the glass, we can see that the clouds have indeedparted, revealing a sky brilliant with stars, more than I ever saw in Phoenix.
"It's beautiful," I breathe, taking in the vast expanse of the night sky.
"One of the few advantages of small-town life," Riley says. "No light pollution. You can actually see the stars."
"What are the other advantages?" I ask, curious about his perspective on Cedar Falls, given his complicated history here.
He considers the question seriously. "People look out for each other, mostly. Like Lou offering his nephew's car. Mrs. Abernathy stocking your kitchen. When there's a real need, the town steps up."
"But not always for everyone," I guess, thinking of his strained relationship with his brother, the shadow that falls over his face when he talks about coming home.
"Not always," he agrees. "Town has a long memory for perceived slights. And some people never quite belong, no matter how long they've been here."
"What about you?" I ask. "Why are you awake?"
He's quiet for so long I think he might not answer. Then, softly, "Dreams. Not the good kind."
The war. Of course. I should have guessed.
"Do they happen often?" I ask gently.
"Less than they used to." He runs a hand through his hair, leaving it even more disheveled. "Talking about Josh, my father... stirred things up."
"I'm sorry," I say, meaning it. "I didn't mean to pry earlier."
"You didn't," he assures me. "I chose to answer."
Another silence falls between us, but it's not uncomfortable. There's an ease to being with Riley that I've rarely experienced with anyone else. No pressure to fill the quiet moments with meaningless chatter.
"It's cold out here," I say finally, aware of the chill seeping through my thin pajamas. "And I don't think this photograph is going to reveal any more secrets tonight."
Riley nods, but neither of us moves to return to our rooms. It's as if we're both reluctant to end this strange midnight encounter, this moment of connection in the darkness.
"I could make tea," I offer impulsively. "If you're not going back to sleep anyway."
He considers this for a moment, then nods. "Tea sounds good."
We make our way downstairs, our candles creating a small pool of light in the darkness. The living room still holds evidence of our earlier conversation—empty coffee mugs on the side table, cushions indented where we sat. It feels oddly intimate, these traces of our shared evening.
In the kitchen, I fill the kettle and set it on the gas stove, grateful again for the non-electric appliance. Riley leans against the counter, watching me move about the small space. I'm very conscious of my appearance—hair tumbling loose around my shoulders, wearing only flannel pajama pants and a thin tank top beneath a cardigan I hastily grabbed on my way out of my room.
"Mrs. Abernathy left some herbal tea in the pantry," I say, opening cupboards until I find it. "Chamomile and... something else I can't pronounce."
"Sounds adventurous," Riley comments, and I catch a glimpse of that almost-smile again.
"I live on the edge," I reply with mock seriousness. "Mysterious tea blends. Moving to towns where I know no one. Inviting strange men to stay during storms."
"Am I strange?" he asks, amusement coloring his tone.
I look at him over my shoulder, taking in the blanket still wrapped around him, his rumpled t-shirt, the beard darkening his jaw. "In the best possible way," I assure him.
His laugh is soft but genuine, and the sound of it warms me more than any tea could. I've made Riley Carter laugh. It feels like an achievement.
The kettle whistles, and I busy myself with preparing our drinks, dropping tea bags into the mismatched mugs I found earlier
"Let's sit by the window," I suggest, nodding toward a small window seat in the living room. "We might be able to see the stars now that the storm's clearing."
The window seat is just large enough for two if we sit close, which we do, shoulders nearly touching, mugs cradled in our hands. Through the glass, we can see that the clouds have indeedparted, revealing a sky brilliant with stars, more than I ever saw in Phoenix.
"It's beautiful," I breathe, taking in the vast expanse of the night sky.
"One of the few advantages of small-town life," Riley says. "No light pollution. You can actually see the stars."
"What are the other advantages?" I ask, curious about his perspective on Cedar Falls, given his complicated history here.
He considers the question seriously. "People look out for each other, mostly. Like Lou offering his nephew's car. Mrs. Abernathy stocking your kitchen. When there's a real need, the town steps up."
"But not always for everyone," I guess, thinking of his strained relationship with his brother, the shadow that falls over his face when he talks about coming home.
"Not always," he agrees. "Town has a long memory for perceived slights. And some people never quite belong, no matter how long they've been here."