Air leaves my lungs as I swipe the screen to read the message. What I see makes tears spring to my eyes.
“Is it awful?” Jayne asks.
I shake my head and try to steady my shaking hand, but the quiver in my voice tells everything. “He wants to meet.”
I look around the room and try not to lose it. This moment. This is what I’ve been waiting for. I close my eyes and my mind takes a crazy tangent. Why now? There’s been no more increase in communication than before. Nothing’s really changed other than me being in the same state.
“Go, I’ll take care of this.” Jayne dismisses me with a wave of her hand. She knows it’s been seven years since I last saw my brother. She knows how much I’ve missed him. That I hate myself for waiting so long. I didn’t have to tell her that. She figured it out.
I give her a quick hug. Our friendship may not have logged in hundreds of hours, yet, but there is an honesty and sincerity to Jayne that I appreciate. A kinship that I’m certain time would only strengthen.
“Let’s talk tomorrow,” I say, walking backward out of the storage room, my phone pressed to my chest.
“Yes and I want to hear all the details.”
I laugh and hurry out of the building, high on the afterglow of sex and friendship and the feelings of fitting in. Once outside I text Will that I most definitely want to meet and wait for a response.
OK is all he texts back.
OK?
And just like that I deflate. I reread his message and realize he never said when he wanted to meet. I just assumed he meant now. I rest my head on the steering wheel and rein in my disappointment. I can wait. I’m good at it.
“I can wait,” I whisper with determination. I’ve waited this long.
My mind circles from Will to McRae while I make the short drive home. Once I pull into the driveway, all thoughts are forgotten.
A large black Harley Davidson motorcycle is parked in front of the garage. It’s built for long trips with large saddlebags hanging over each side. It’s totally badass.
When I step from the car, a tall, bald guy rises from the stairs. His jeans sit low on his hips and fall over heavy motorcycle boots. His T-shirt is plain orange and sleeves of tattoos cover each arm. A large thick scar runs across the top right side of his scalp, over his ear, and comes to rest above his right brow. I’m about to inquire if this stranger needs help when I meet crystal blue eyes identical to mine. I burst into tears, covering my mouth to keep in the sobs.
“Aw, come on Jo-Jo. I didn’t mean to make you cry.” He picks up his helmet.
Shaking my head madly, I say, “Please don’t go.” He puts his helmet down on the stairs and waits.
I try to wipe my eyes with my stupid shirt but it’s a crochet piece and the holey rag is useless. I glance back at Will to ensure that he’s not leaving and wipe my tears with the palms of my hands.
“I’m only crying because...” I stop to suck in a ragged breath. “Because I really, really missed you and I wasn’t sure if I was ever going to see you again.” I know I promised myself that if or when this moment happened I would play it cool, but that was a pipe dream of epic proportions.
Will gives a barely perceptible nod. I only see it because I’m staring at him so hard, trying to commit everything to memory.
“It’s been too long,” he says in a raspy voice. He looks away, blinks several times, and does this weird sliding of his jaw from side to side, before he looks back at me. “You’re all grown up.” His smile is soft, tentative, as he opens his arms and takes a step toward me.
I search for the boy I spent the first sixteen years of my life with. The brother who made me feel normal when everyone and everything else made me feel like an oddball. I search for the Will who walked me to every class my first year at junior high, knowing I was out of my league because I skipped a grade.
This man in front of me—whose recent years have shaped him into a person I don’t recognize—was my first friend, sometimes my only friend, but most of all he was the big brother who always had my back.
And then one blustery early fall night changed everything. Will left the house to meet friends and a police officer showed up three hours later to tell us his car had hydroplaned off a bridge into the river below. Will spent eight weeks in the hospital and walked out of our lives the day he was discharged.
I rush into his arms, desperate to know that person again. Burying my face in his chest, I wrap my arms around him.
I dreamed about seeing Will again. Talking to him, maybe even hanging out. But I never imagined what it would be like the first moment I saw him. All my fantasies were after that moment, and I don’t know where to go from here. My gut tells me he’s skittish.
Unmistakably, he’s no longer the boisterous boy I grew up with. There’s hesitancy in everything he does, his movements, his words, and even his actions.
We step apart and our eyes meet, which makes us both laugh. The awkward tension that held us apart a moment ago is broken and evaporates, replaced by curiosity.
I take the metaphorical first step. “Want to get something to eat?”
He scrubs his hand over his face before smiling down at me. “I wish I could. I got this thing.” He looks off toward town. “Trust me. I’d much rather catch up with you than do this dog and pony show.”
I try to hide my disappointment by fixing my smile to my face. “OK—”
“But I have a few minutes.” He motions to the step he was sitting on earlier. “Do you?”
“Of course.” I move to sit on the step, leaving space for him. “Mom would totally flip if she knew you’d cut off all those beautiful curls.” I nod to his head where large dark curls once resided, making girls swoon and desperate to run their hands through them.
He swings his jaw from side to side before answering. “It was useless to try and grow hair to cover this scar.” He rubs his hand over the parting gift from his accident; a movement that appears so natural I’m certain he does it with little awareness. “She would also flip if she knew this thing I was going to was a book signing.”
“A book signing?” Our mother was all about supporting the arts, especially the literary tomes that pontificated her beliefs. I gasp, covering my mouth with my fingertips. “You’re a writer.”
He ducks his head and grins.
“You’re a writer of genre fiction. That’s why mother wouldn’t approve.”
His laugh is quiet but deep. “Yeah. I am.” He swings his jaw again and when he sees me notice he clamps his teeth together, popping the muscle in his cheek.
“Oh.” I clap my hands together. “I have this great sci-fi book that you’d love. Every time I read it, I’m reminded of you. Hold on.” I jump up and jog to my car, clutching my skirt in hand so I don’t trip. In the car, I snatch up my purse and rummage through it until I find the book. I simultaneously pull it out and back away from the car before I jog back to Will.
“Here. It’s fabulous.” I toss the book in his lap and plop down next to him.
He holds it up and turns to face me. “You really liked it?”
“Yeah, crazy good. It’s not worn because I bought it secondhand or anything.” I lovingly caress the heavily creased spine and dog-eared pages. “It’s worn because I read it that much.”