If I Stay

One

He touched my elbow, very lightly, companionably. "Hey," he said softly.

"Hey back," I said, breathless. "You made it."

"It was easy. Though the drive got a little more exciting once I got into the city."

"Boston drivers are assholes," I said apologetically.

"It was fine." He smiled. "How've you been?" And even though he'd been ignoring my texts and messages for months, his dark eyes were as interested and compassionate as they'd always been, as if nothing had changed between us at all.

I bit my lip. "Sometimes I'm still kind of freaked out. But I think that comes with the job." I drew a lungful of air and tried to get a grip. "Want to come in and put your stuff down? And then we'll get dinner?"

"Sounds great." He shouldered his duffel, and I led him down my narrow, twisting stone staircase, hoping I'd remembered to put my bra in the laundry hamper last night.

"It's kind of a hobbit hole," I said apologetically, as I opened the front door. "At best. Watch your head."

We made it inside, and he straightened up, glancing curiously around at my apartment. "This is really nice."

Pale sunlight peeked through the half-windows along the top of the far wall, but did very little to dispel the calm, cool darkness in the living room and galley kitchen. I did like my apartment—I liked the funky cast iron radiator that clunked and cranked like an old steam engine, and I liked the perennial slight sweet woodsy scent. But the apartment was tiny, especially with someone else standing here beside me. My bed was an awkward presence in the alcove to our right, partially hidden by the burgundy curtain I'd forgotten to draw all the way closed.

At least I'd put all of my unmentionables away.

"It's not as nice as our house was," I said. We'd rented an elderly Colonial with a seemingly endless amount of bedrooms and a huge backyard. I could have fit my entire apartment into its kitchen.

"They're different. That's all."

"I guess." I tried not to get stuck on the word different. I knew it was different. The only thing downtown Boston and an island off the Maine coast had in common was the Atlantic Ocean.

Andy set his duffle on the floor by his feet and stretched his arms over his head. It was as if we'd teleported back to Maine and were just finishing up a run. I broke into a smile. "What did you overdo this time?"

"Everything." He grinned and leaned into the stretch. "That triathlon a couple weeks ago kicked my ass. I'm still not back up to form."

"Getting soft in your old age, Carrillo?"

"Probably more to do with the Tough Mudder I did the week before it." He shrugged, still grinning. "How about you? Still running, right?"

"Still running. I joined a club here. We jog around the Commons really early in the morning."

"So I've been replaced already," he said, with a mock grab at his heart.

"Get real, Andy. As if anybody could replace you." Good Lord, Kaye, I thought. "Training with you. You know what I mean."

He raised his pierced eyebrow but didn't speak. A moment later, he shook his head. "So what's for dinner in the big city?"

"I made reservations at a sushi place," I said. "But we could cancel and try somewhere else if you want."

"Sushi, huh?"

"Miranda actually introduced me to it." Our friend Miranda Lewis had lived with us briefly after our housemate Rusty Soloman had moved out. During that short time, she'd torn our entire island apart and stitched it back together.