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I can’t get comfortable in my bed. It’s three thirty-seven, and yet again, I can’t freaking sleep.

I’m too close to the finish line.

It’s raining, and the first drop of rain against the window woke me. I hear the occasional rumble of thunder off in the distance as the rain picks up.

I’m officially nine months pregnant now, and although I mostly feel pretty good given the fact that I’m close to pushing a watermelon out my vagina, my lower back aches and my hips burn every time I lay down.

I’ve taken to sleeping sitting propped up, but it’s usually only good for an hour or two at a time. Thank goodness for the neck pillow my mom surprised me with last week along with the pregnancy pillow I keep stuffed between my legs.

And speaking of stuff between my legs…I’m freaking horny as hell. I’ve basically been having a love affair with my detachable shower head. I turn up the pressure as high as it can go and let it work its magic.

My mom asked me if I really need to shower two to three times a day, and the answer is a resounding oh God yes .

I really hope nobody checks my browser history, because I’ve been searching the weirdest things lately.

Is horniness normal during the last month of pregnancy?

Apparently yes, it is.

Is it okay to shoot water at your clit while pregnant?

No worries there.

Tristan Higgins .

No news.

I blow out a breath.

God, I miss him—and not just because I’m horny, though he would definitely know ways to satisfy those particular needs.

I miss having him next to me. I miss grabbing his hand and putting it over my stomach when baby girl kicks. I miss sitting on the scenic overlook by the river, holding his hand and resting my head on his shoulder as we take deep breaths together.

I miss dinners together where we talk about nothing and everything, and I miss binging our shows. I still don’t know if Jamie made it out okay since we left off on a cliffhanger with the last episode we watched of Outlander . I miss dancing in the kitchen by the flickering light of candles, and I miss him being there when I go to dinner at his parents’ house.

They’ve both granted me their forgiveness, for which I’m eternally grateful. It was Sue who seemed to really understand, and it was only when I admitted how much I hated my father for what he’d done that she told me the truth about him—and why she drifted from my mother for a short time.

He’d propositioned her not so long ago. She’d declined.

He didn’t know how to have female friends, and what he did cost him one of his closest friends in Russ.

If anything, the fact that he did that to her only helped her understand what position he put me in when I was just a teenager. While I admit I could’ve handled things differently once Tristan and I reconnected, she seemed to understand that I was in a position where I couldn’t change anything anyway. I was protecting Tristan, protecting our connection, protecting our friendship, protecting myself and my baby.

I’m grateful they’re on my side, and I’m still hopeful one day Tristan will come around, too.

I pray for it every night before I go to bed. I was raised to say my prayers, and I always start by asking for forgiveness, particularly since I’m very aware that I’m not without faults.

I pad through the house, down the hallway, through the family room, and to the kitchen for a glass of water. The walk helps loosen up my hip, and it’s when I’m enroute back to my bedroom that a bright light flashes through the front window. I glance toward the source, thinking it’s lightning at first, but then a car pulls up and the back door opens.

A man steps out, and I squint, sure my eyes are deceiving me. I’m half-asleep. I’m dreaming. I step closer and closer to the window until I can clearly see outside.

Maybe I’m hallucinating…or maybe it really is him.

His head is ducked down as the rain beats on him, and he turns to say something to the driver, who speeds off a few beats later. My nose is practically pressed against the glass as I watch his every move, and when he turns back around, his eyes lift in my direction—maybe out of habit, maybe out of curiosity, or maybe out of the same burning need I feel for him.

It’s him. He’s really back.

He stares at me a beat through the window, and then glances at his parents’ house before he looks at me again. The rain continues to pour, making it hard to see him across the space especially in the dark. I scramble over to my door, unlocking it and opening it to stare at him from my doorway. I want to hurl my body into his arms, but I also want to follow his lead.

I walk outside into the rain, and he doesn’t move. I take a step toward him, and he takes a step toward me, too. It’s pouring out here, and the huge old t-shirt I was sleeping in—one of Tristan’s old high school shirts that was big on him back in the day, too—is already soaked and sticking to my skin. I couldn’t find comfortable shorts, so I went without. I’m standing in the rain in a wet shirt and panties as I pray he came home for me.

When we’re close enough that I can smell him—or maybe that’s just the heightened sense of smell (also normal, according to my internet search), we’re still way too far away from each other.

He drops his duffel bag, and then he practically rushes at me, tackling me into a hug the best he can, and his lips collide down to mine. The rain pours down over us, the droplets from his hair falling onto my face and mingling with my tears as he kisses me. It’s messy, with teeth clashing and tongues tangling as we hold each other as tightly as we can. His mouth is everywhere at once and yet it’s somehow not nearly enough as I clamor to get as close as I can to him. Parts of it are reminiscent of our first kiss on the football field in the rain after Homecoming, but we’re grown now. This is an adult kiss, and nothing proves that more than the way his hand drags slowly along my torso.

I can only pray this means it’s another new beginning for us.

It feels like a new beginning.

A chill in the air would normally make me shiver from the rain, but I’m warm in his arms. I don’t care that it’s raining. I don’t care that we’re both soaked through and freezing cold.

All I care about is the fact that he’s here.

He pulls back, then presses one more kiss to my mouth before he leans his forehead to mine. “I love you,” he says softly.

The tears fall harder down my cheeks. “I love you, too,” I whisper.