I kiss her one more time, this time slower and more gently, letting my thumbs brush across her cheeks while her lips quiver under my touch. I step away from her, and see her phone sitting on her desk, so I pick it up and program my number in with her contacts and then hand it to her so she sees.
“I want you to text me when you land…so I know you’re okay,” I say, squeezing my hands around hers and kissing her knuckles before I back out of her room and go back to mine.
“You get shit figured out?” Ty says when I walk in, his back to me and the light on at his desk while he flips through a yellow legal pad full of notes.
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure I did. I’m just gonna hit the showers. I’ll be back in a few,” I say, grabbing my clean sweats and the long-sleeved T-shirt Rowe wore the night she slept in my arms.
I pause at the division in the hallway, and I look at the door to her room, the light still shining underneath. I hope she’ll sleep tonight, but if she doesn’t, I hope it’s not because of regret. I walk quietly down the hall—careful not to make any noise that would make her look outside—and I hang my shirt on her doorknob. Then I step away silently until I’m sure the coast is clear. I let out a heavy sigh, and make my way to the showers.
After thirty minutes of cold water, I finally feel calmed down. I shut the water off, dry myself, and pull on my sweats to go back to my room. When I pass her hall, I pause, just to see, and the shirt is gone.
Chapter 17
Rowe
Nate was right. By the third play through, I had all of the words memorized to “Sweet Caroline.” The guy sitting next to me even caught me mouthing the words during takeoff and followed along with the ba ba ba part in the middle. It made me laugh, and before I knew it, we were soaring above the clouds.
I wouldn’t say I like flying. But I think as long as my iPod is fully charged, I should be able to survive my trip back to school. However, I would prefer to fly non-stop this time. My parents saved money with this flight, but I had to sit at a gate in Denver for about two hours.
Coming home was strange. I’ve only been gone for a month, but I feel like so much is different. Maybe it’s me. My mom did wait up for me, and we all sat at the kitchen table and ate slices of an apple pie she bought at Kraft’s Market.
Sleeping in my bed was strange, too. Before I left for McConnell, I didn’t think I would ever be able to find comfort on a strange mattress, in a strange city, with a stranger as a roommate. But I did. And now I think I slept better with Cass snoring a few feet away from me than I did here behind my own bedroom door.
But my best dreams came from the night I stayed with Nate. I wore his shirt to bed last night. I sent him a short text because it was late when I landed, but I think he had been waiting, because he wrote back right away, and said he’d talk to me in the morning.
I sent a text to Cass, too. She told me to take my time coming back, not because she wouldn’t miss me, but because she was having a full weekend of sleepovers with Ty. I wanted more sleepovers too, and was a little envious that I wasn’t there to take advantage of Nate being alone in his room.
The scent of my dad’s eggs and sausage spills down the hall and has me climbing out of bed early. I wheel my suitcase out with me, parking it at the laundry room, hoping someone will notice. When I enter the kitchen, my dad slides a plate my way.
“I see you brought laundry home for me,” he says.
“You’re just so much better at it than I am,” I smile as I douse my plate with syrup for my sausages.
“Yeah, yeah. That’s what your mother says, too. I think you two are in cahoots on this whole plot to domesticate me.”
“Honey, you came domesticated. That’s why I married you,” my mom smiles as she slides onto the stool next to me and digs into her breakfast. “Mmmmm, hey. What’s this?” My mom pulls at the sleeve of Nate’s shirt, and I can feel my face redden immediately. I’m not sure how to explain this, and I’m not very good at lying.
“Baseball shirt,” I say, quickly stuffing my face with another bite. I can tell by the way my mother’s eyebrow is cocked that she’s suspicious, and she waits until my dad’s back is turned to drill me a little more.
“It looks like a boy’s baseball shirt,” she whispers. I smile and shrug and keep eating, doing my best not to look her straight in the eyes. That’s how she gets me, the eye contact. I think it’s one of those skills from being a professor.
“Hmmmmm, we’ll talk about this more later,” she says, and I hope like hell we won’t.