Page 16 of All This Time

And I’m afraid that it’s only getting worse with each encounter.

***

“This is the best spaghetti, Mrs. Hart,” Fletcher groans and mumbles around his mouthful of food. “I don’t know what you put in this, but I could eat it every day.”

My mother laughs. “It’s a pretty standard recipe, Fletcher. Although, I guess I do add one special ingredient.” She looks over at me and winks. “Love.”

I roll my eyes. “Jesus, Mom. That was cheesy.”

My father pipes up. “It’s true, though. Something about home-cooked food just tastes better, and your mother is one hell of a cook.” My father blows a kiss across the table toward my mom, and I groan, rolling my eyes. But honestly, I admire what they have. They are still head-over-heels for each other, they genuinely respect and admire one another, and even when they argue, they never forget they’re on the same team. It makes me hopeful that I can find that kind of love one day because they’ve shown me that it’s possible—plus, it makes those novels I’ve been reading more realistic.

Fletcher points his fork toward me and my entire body becomes alert. “He’s right, Laney. Trust me. You’re lucky you have a mom who can cook like this.”

Rhonan chimes in. “You don’t hear me complaining,” he says as he shoves a forkful of pasta into his mouth.

Once we all finish eating, I help my mother clean up the kitchen.

Our house is on the back of the property, tucked into the base of one of the mountains behind the vineyard, offering expansive views of the grape vines and mountains surrounding our small town. The house itself is made of beautiful red brickwork, with massive picturesque windows and ivy vines cascading up the sides, matching the aesthetic of the winery’s main building. The inside, though,reflects my mother’s touch—vaulted ceilings with broad oak beams, soft brown and green décor, and deep colored wood throughout.

Once I finish helping my mom, my dad drives Fletcher home, and I make my way to my room to hang out and read until I go to sleep. I’ve been really into YA romance novels lately, and the one I’m reading now is about a girl who’s in love with her brother’s best friend—go figure.

It’s just after eleven when I hear scratching at my window.

I bolt upright, my heart pounding violently in my chest. It’s not uncommon for a tree branch to kiss my window when the wind whips outside, but it’s a still night.

Oh God, someone is breaking in. I’m going to be murdered in my own room and I haven’t even kissed a boy yet.

When my window shakes and begins to rise, I jump from my bed and prepare to bolt from my room when the voice behind me stops me in my tracks. “Laney?”

Twisting around, I find Fletcher staring at me as his body is halfway in and halfway out of my bedroom window. “Fletcher? Wh—what the hell are you doing? I thought someone was coming to murder me.”

He huffs out a laugh as he steps all the way into my room and shuts the window behind him. “No murdering on my mind, I swear.”

Keeping my back to my door as I try to process what’s happening here, I eye him warily. He looks massive to me, even though my bedroom isn’t especially small. “Didn’t my father drive you home a while ago?”

He brushes a hand through his hair. “He did.”

“So, what are you doing back here?”

His eyes dart around my room, taking it all in, and I suddenly realize he’s never been in here before.

Fletcher and his father moved to Blossom Peak when he was a freshman, so I was only twelve at the time. Any time Rhonan had his friends over, I was told to stay away—annoying younger sister rules and all that.

It wasn’t until I started going to Blossom Peak High last year that I actually started interacting with Henley, Elliot, and Fletcher more—mostly so people knew not to mess with me since I’m Rhonan Hart’s little sister, but also because it’s a small school and they can’t avoid me as easily.

“Your room doesn’t look like I imagined,” he says, pulling me back to the present and the reality that he’s here, in my room, just the two of us, just like I wished he would be more times than I can count.

“What do you mean?”

He takes a step further into the space and heads toward my dresser, examining the postcards I’ve wedged between the mirror and its frame. “What are these?”

“Those are postcards, Fletcher.”

He flashes me a deadpan look. “You don’t say?”

I take a deep breath and blow it out before moving into the same space that he’s occupying, making sure to prepare myself for the proximity.

“These were actually written by my grandfather.” I take one down and flip it to the back. “He was a soldier in World War II and wrote them to my grandmother while he was overseas. He’d write her letters too, but sometimes a postcard was quicker. Before she died, she gave them to me.”