Page 126 of Ghosts Don't Cry

This is her life. The one she built without me.

Evidence of it is in everything. The photographs on the shelf showing her with friends and family. A collection of mugs that don’t match. A blanket draped over the couch that looks handmade. Small, ordinary things that speak of routine, stability, and home.

All things I’ve never had.

“Coffee?” She breaks the silence, and walks toward the kitchen before I even reply.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

I stay where I am, caught between the front door and the living room, feeling like an intruder in this space that’s so completely hers. The sounds from the kitchen fill the silence—water running, cups clinking, the quiet whir of the coffee maker starting up. I force myself to move further into the room, stopping near a bookshelf. My fingers trace the spines without really seeing them.

When she returns, she’s carrying two mugs. Steam curls up from them, carrying the scent of good coffee. She hands me one, our fingers brushing in the transfer. That simple touch sends electricity up my arm.

She settles onto her couch, tucking one leg beneath her. The movement is casual, comfortable.

“Sit.” It’s not quite a command, but it’s not a request either. She touches the couch cushion beside her, and I sit, leaving a small gap between us.

“How long are you planning to stay in town?”

I take a slow breath, trying to ignore how the afternoon light coming through her windows turns her hair to spun gold. “Six months … at least.”

Her eyes lift slightly. “That’s … specific.”

“Yeah.”

“Why did you come back?”

Okay, I guess we’re doing this.

I lean forward and set my mug down on the coffee table. My arm brushes against hers as I move. She doesn’t pull away.

“Harris Edwards left me the house on Cedar Street in his will.”

“What?”

“He used to visit me in prison.” The words come slowly. “He brought books. Engineering manuals, technical guides, classic fiction.” I pause, staring at my hands. “I didn’t understand why he bothered. Not then, anyway.”

“And now?”

I laugh quietly. “Still don’t, really. I’m living in a house he gave me, and there are conditions while I’m there. I have to stay for a minimum of six months and fix the place up so it’s livable again.” I meet her eyes, and the intensity in her gaze almost stops my breath. “He made sure I couldn’t walk away easily.”

“How?”

“Ten thousand dollars a month living allowance, a roof over my head, a car, and all I have to do is work on the house.” I shrug. “Made it hard to turn down.”

She processes this, her expression thoughtful. Her teeth catch her bottom lip, and then she winces when they catch on the stitches.

“That sounds like him. He always tried to help when we were kids, even if we didn’t want it.”

“I didn’t ask for any of this. The house, being back here … seeing you again.”

“You mean running into me wasn’t part of the plan? Would you have told me you were here, if we hadn’t crossed each other?”

“Nothing about you has ever gone according to plan.”

She sets her coffee down and turns to face me fully. The movement draws my attention to the curve of her neck, and the fading bites I left there. Something possessive and hungry stirs inside me at the sight.

My marks. My mouth on her skin.