Page 18 of From the Wreckage

Brielle

The days blur together in the best way. Every morning after my dad leaves for work, Everett and I walk the trail around the lake, his long strides slowing just enough for me to keep pace.

When we return, we sit on his porch with steaming mugs of coffee, the sunlight dappling through the trees.

We talk about everything and nothing. He listens while I tell him stories about university life—late-night cramming, my roommate Meghan’s obsession with reality TV, the time a raccoon broke into our trash bins.

I skip over Joey. I don’t want to taint these mornings with him.

On Wednesday, he takes me on a motorcycle ride.

It’s exhilarating with the wind tangling in my hair, his solid back warm against my chest, and my arms holding onto his waist. We end up at The Pine & Page, sinking into mismatched chairs by the window.

My iced caramel latte drips condensation onto my palm while he nurses a plain black coffee.

He watches me over the rim of his cup, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “You realize the way you drink that stuff makes it look like a full-blown addiction, right?”

I lift my cup, putting the straw between my lips, and take a long, noisy sip just to annoy him. “They’re my guilty pleasure. I drink them as often as I can.”

He shakes his head, but the warmth in his eyes makes my chest ache.

By the time we leave, the clouds have darkened, indicating a storm is rolling in. We reach his cabin just as the first fat drop falls. Everett pulls the bike into the garage while the thunder rumbles, but I don’t wait inside.

Instead, I step out as the downpour hits, my arms stretched wide, my face tilted up to the sky. Rain soaks my hair, my shirt, my skin, but I don’t care.

“What are you doing?” His voice is sharp with disbelief.

I lower my head, grinning at him. “Dancing in the rain.”

His brows pull together. “But there’s no music.”

I spin in a slow circle, laughing. “Yes there is. It’s the sound of the rain on the roof, the trees, the grass. Music’s all around us.”

For a beat, he watches me. Then his expression softens, his mouth curving into the kind of smile that makes my knees weak. He steps forward, rain dripping from his dark hair into his eyes. “Dance with me?”

I melt instantly. When he pulls me close, I don’t care that we’re both soaked. His arms are warm and strong, holding me like I’m the only thing in the world he wants to be close to.

He slowly spins me in circles, his rain-soaked leather jacket cool against my cheek. The scent of him—leather, pine, and rain—does things to me that are probably illegal in ten states.

It’s magical. The storm rages around us, thunder rolls in the distance, and Everett holds me like I belong in his arms.

Thursday morning, after our walk, I settle into his porch chair expecting coffee. Instead, he sets a plastic cup in front of me, condensation beading down its sides. I blink in disbelief at the iced caramel latte.

My lips part. “You made this?”

He shrugs, trying to play it off. “Picked up a latte machine yesterday evening.”

My throat tightens. He drinks his coffee black. He bought that machine for me.

I take a sip, my chest swelling with something I’ve never felt before. He makes me feel seen. Special. Wanted.

And for the first time in my life, I believe I might actually be all those things.