Page 81 of The Long Way Home

“In every room, Parks,” I tell her but she won’t remember.

That chuffs her a bit.

Pushes herself up off the ground, walks to the sink and starts vigorously washing her face.

I walk over, take the face cloth from her hands and wash her myself. Laser-focus on those cheeks of hers I used to know so well and graze so often. My finger lags behind the cloth, tracing the hollowing indent of her cheekbone, and I wonder if she’s okay or if this is a thing again.

She watches me, quiet. Eyes big. Looks like that deer I love.

I can’t look at her though because if I do I’ll kiss her and that’s not who I’m trying to be anymore.

You’re with Jordan, I remind myself.

You’re with Jordan and none of this is real. She’s leaving in a few days.

Magnolia reaches out, touches my face with her hand.

I find her eyes, kiss her palm twice and lock this moment away in my brain forever in case it’s a dying breed.

I wake up the next morning with Magnolia peering down from her bed at me on the floor.

“What are you doing down there?” She frowns.

I rub my eyes, tired.

“I, um—” Clear my throat. “This felt like the safest option.”

“Safer how?” She sits up quickly but immediately grabs her head in pain, closes her eyes again.

“You right there, booze hound?” I ask as I sit next to her on her bed.

She glances at me. Repeats the question. “Safer how?”

“Safer like, you’re the most handsy girl in England when you’re drinking Sambuca.”

Her eyes go wide. “Oh no.”

I let out a dry laugh. “Turns out,” I clear my throat again, “drunk you still remembers all my,” clear my throat one more time, “…buttons.”

Her mouth makes an O shape before she snaps it shut, embarrassed.

We sit there like that for probably a minute, and I’m fucking living for it, swanning around doing the backstroke in it.

Because I never get to be the one who didn’t fuck up, didn’t do the embarrassing shit, and she’s sitting there dying over it all because she’s the one who came on to me.

“Do you still remember my… buttons?” she asks quietly before looking up.

I press my mouth together, squash away a smile that shouldn’t be there.

“Nah,” I lie as my eyes touch all the places that are seared into my mind.

Her cheeks go pink and then she looks down at herself — checkered full-length pyjamas — then back over at me.

“The Thelma and Leah Gingham cotton pyjamas.” Her eyes pinch, curious. “Interesting choice.”

I give her a shrug. “Didn’t want you to think I was being opportunistic.”

She gives me a playful look. “Are you saying you don’t think I look sexy in this?”