The Whys of Us

44

Just Jupiter released the five-track album this morning. Embry and Sage helped.

And when he wakes up, there's a message waiting for him. Please don't wait for me, Rhysand. You don't have to. You can love someone else, you know?

Rhysand wants to laugh. It's the same thing he said to Sabina, the same thought he repeated over and over in his head. Sanford can love someone else, but he won't. I can't. I won't.

Sanford doesn't take a minute. Rhys, I'm sorry. I'm really sorry.

Can I see you? He rushes to type his response, heart in his throat. If it's...if it's only alright with you. If you don't mind. If you're not...if you don't want to, it's fine, don't force yourself.

She sends him one line—an address.

Rhysand grabs his laptop, buys a ticket to the earliest flight—this afternoon—and packs one bag.

He messages Trey on the way to the airport. I'm coming to see her. Flying in a few hours. Wish me luck, old man.

His reply is immediate, and Rhysand smiles. About time. And you don't need it, kid. Don't make my daughter cry.

Rhysand takes a deep breath. Will try my best. Call you when I can.

It's a small city—Lake Aiken has half of South Bend's population. Sanford lives in a small part of the small city called Little Elm, near the beach.

The address she sent leads him to a small house painted white, yellow lights hanging beside the glass windows, with small steps and a porch leading up to the front door.

He pulls out his phone with one hand. I'm here.

He doesn't have to wait long. Oh. Oh, your trip was quick. I'm, um, I'm still in school, finishing up work. Go inside and wait if you want, um there's a key under the plant near the door.

Rhysand's heart almost bursts. She's a teacher? She's working in a school?

He types his reply, and his fingers shake. Okay. Get home safe.

Rhysand walks up the stairs and fits the key in the lock. Inside, the house is small, and it's bare—white, empty walls with no pictures. There's furniture around, and there's food and the smell of pastries—God, he missed that smell—but it doesn't feel like Sanford's home.

The living room is tight—it leads immediately to the tiny kitchen with a small table, two wooden chairs on opposite sides. There are only two doors in the hallway—one's for the bathroom, Rhysand presumes, and the other's her bedroom.

Rhysand is tempted to walk inside her bedroom, but he sits down on the couch, tossing his bag on the floor. No. It would be invading her space and privacy.

His foot taps the floor repeatedly, and it doesn't stop until the door opens, just about fifteen minutes later.

Sanford stumbles inside her home, and Rhysand stands up, hitting his knee on the table. "Fuck," he hisses, gritting his teeth.

When Rhysand raises his head, his heartbeat stops.

Her hair is longer, but it's still dark and curly, and it looks as soft as it was when Rhysand tucked loose strands behind her ear. Her eyes are still the same shade of ocean blue—still lovely, and innocent, and those are the eyes that made him weak to the knees. He remembers how painful it was to see them cry.

She looks thinner. She's wearing a yellow knit cardigan tucked in—in that skirt with the pockets. She looks vibrant, as always.

Beautiful, as always.