Reaching for his right hand, I curl my pinkie around his and smile back. “Yeah.”
“Come here,” he says, giving my finger a gentle tug.
Then I’m in his arms, inhaling his scent. His warm breath fans my forehead as he pulls in my scent, too. He kisses my forehead, then leans back to look into my eyes. His gaze drops to my mouth, and they darken with hunger. His body sways toward me, and mine leans into him without my permission. Sol is the north pole to my south. We can’t help but be pulled into each other, despite everything that has happened.
Sol squeezes his eyes tight as though he’s fighting a losing battle and mutters something under his breath. My hands clench around his coat, and I count to ten, then breathe out the need to just slam my mouth on his.
He sighs and opens his eyes. “Drive safely, okay? If you get tired, take a break.” His warm breath fans my hair, sending a shiver down my spine.
“It’s not a long drive—”
“Just promise me.”
“Promise. Take care of yourself, okay? Don’t try to be a superhero.”
He laughs softly and scratches the back of his head. “Um . . . I’ll try.”
Sol wraps his arms around me, hugging me to his chest. I relish being this close to him for a few minutes before pulling back.
After saying goodbye, I head to my car, feeling the warmth of his gaze on my back the whole way. Right before I get in, I glance over at Sol. And sure enough, he’s watching me. I lift my hand and wave, then jump into the car.
My heart squeezes in my chest, and hot tears pool in my eyes as I stare at him in the rear-view mirror as he watches me driving away. What’s wrong with me? Why am I acting as if I’ll never see him again? God, I’m hopeless. Hopelessly in love with the boy I almost destroyed.
It might be the best thing for us right now, but crap. It feels like my heart is literally being dragged over jagged pieces of wood on a string.
Reaching forward, I grab some tissues from the dashboard, then pull down the visor. After dabbing away the tears—and most of my mascara—I toss the tissue on the passenger seat, then grab my phone and send MJ a text to let her know I’m on my way.
By the time I hobble up the path leading to my current living quarters after Luke drops me off, I’m ready to collapse on the floor. Once I’m inside, I lower myself to the recliner, then elevate my leg on the special leg rest Luke made for me.
I take deep breaths until my heart rate returns to normal. I press my hand on the spot on my chest, still feeling Grace’s presence lingering there.
God, when she hugged me . . . it took all my strength to refrain from asking her to stay another week. She may be tiny, but the sheer strength I felt when she held me like she missed me already, even though she was standing there, imprinted on me. Just. Incredible.
I remind myself she needs time. And for her, I have all the time in the world.
Monday midmorning after my first class of the day, I grab a soda from the vending machine down the hall before heading outside. Thank God the sun is out today.
I lift my face toward the warmth and take a sip of my soda.
My next class, Fundamentals of Marketing, doesn’t start for another hour and a half. MJ is in class, and I haven’t heard from Zulakya or her grandmother since before winter break. When I walked by the bookstore to check for any news on my way to class, the sign on the door said it will be open on Wednesday.
I pull my cell from my bag and send MJ a text, letting her know she can find me at the Waffle House when her class is over. Then I take off down the street, a bittersweet feeling sweeping over me. Memories of Levi and me are stamped on corners and open spaces. I hold my breath as my eyes land on the blond-haired man in a black truck idling at the traffic light. He turns to look out the window, and I exhale through my mouth. It’s not Levi.
I walk past counseling and psychological services and halt mid-step. I hover at the doorstep to read their hours printed on the glass door, then push the door and step into the building. My feet move on autopilot down the hallway until I find Dr. Dorothy Taylor, Campus Counseling Services on a copper plate stuck to the door.
Snap out of it, Grace. Turn around and leave.
But I can’t. There’s a reason my body’s autopilot brought me here. I need to talk to someone who is not MJ or my mom. I wipe both hands down my coat and knock on the door.
A woman’s voice answers, “Come right in!”
Deep breath. In. Out. Open door. Walk in. The woman sitting behind a tidy desk looks up from the laptop keyboard, watching over the rim of her glasses.
“Is this a good time?”
“Yes.” She waves me over, smiling. “I’m Dr. Dorothy Taylor.”
“Grace Miller.” I hurry forward and hold out my hand. After she shakes it, she ushers me to the chair across from her desk.
“What can I do for you?”
“Good question,” I mutter. She frowns, and I clear my throat. “Sorry. I’m nervous.”
“Why don’t you take a deep breath, Grace?”
I do as I’m told. Once. Twice. Then I flash her a smile that makes me feel like my face is cracking. “I’m good.”
She doesn’t look convinced. “Okay, then. Would you be more comfortable taking off your jacket?”
I nod, shrugging it off and hanging it behind my chair. I lower myself on it and hug my bag to my chest. After several moments, Dr. Taylor asks, “First time to student counseling?”
I laugh nervously. “Yes.”
Nodding, she takes off her glasses and sets them on the desk. “The first visit is never easy. Take your time.” Shit. She’s still staring at me expectantly. I need to say something. Thank God she breaks eye contact and moves her laptop forward and starts clicking something on the screen. “Give me a few seconds. I need to pull up your file.”
I nod, then glance at the clock on the wall, watching the second hand of the clock and hoping to find some kind of anchor.
“Ready?” Dr. Taylor says, and my gaze snaps back to hers.
I swallow hard, mastering the courage to talk. “I can tell you anything, right? I mean, I’ve been to a therapist before. I’m just nervous, I guess.”
Her smile is kind, understanding, and professional. A shrink’s smile. “Would you like to talk about why you are nervous?”
I worry my bottom lip between my teeth. Where do I even start? It’s like her question launched an avalanche of issues I never thought to voice because they seemed unimportant before. “How much time do you have?” I joke, but she doesn’t crack a smile.
She looks at her wristwatch. “A little over an hour.”
I laugh nervously. “I, uh, didn’t mean it literally.”
She leans back in her chair and clasps her hands. “Oh. Okay. You came here for a reason. Whatever it is, I’m here to help. What’s going through your mind right now?”
I drop my bag on the floor, then kick off my boots and pull my legs up. I prop my chin atop my knees. “I have these recurring dreams . . . Something happened over winter break, and I can’t . . . I can’t seem to stop dreaming about it.”
“What happened over winter break?”
I bite the inside of my cheek, contemplating how to start the story. Gathering the courage I need, I tell her what happened on New Year’s Eve. Tell her about Levi and Sol.