On Monday morning, I park the Caddy in the school parking lot. Sabine and I head up the sidewalk and step inside. It feels like any other day. Teachers arriving. Kids milling around the hall, leaning against lockers, and chatting. Spirits seem high, despite the absence of Ronan.
I wonder where he is, if he woke up with the same sense of loss I did. I touch my hair as I catch my reflection in one of the lockers. It’s clean, but I let it dry on its own last night. Untamed, it hangs around my face in chunks. Sure, I brushed it, but it’s unruly. I prefer to wear it straight with a flat iron. Maybe I should put it up in a messy bun—
“Nova?”
I stop, blinking. “Yeah?”
Sabine cocks her head. “I’ve been talking to you about New Zealand. You’re just staring off into space.”
I ease out of the way of a passing student. “I do that sometimes.”
“You did it all day yesterday.”
I wince. “Sorry. I love New Zealand. Isn’t that the place with the caves lit by worms?”
“Correct. Waitomo Caves. That glowworm species is only in New Zealand. People take boat rides to see them.”
“I hear the beaches are amazing too. We could check out the caves, then scuba dive?”
“We’d need classes for scuba.” She points at my black silk blouse. “You didn’t button it right.”
I look down at the pearl buttons. Dammit. I skipped one. I quickly fix it, brush down my slightly wrinkled red skirt, and then smile at her. “How do I look?”
“Sad. Messy. Kind of out of it.”
I make a fist and pump it. “Just the look I was going for.”
“Funny. I’m going to find Toby.” She pauses. “If you need me, you know where my classes are. Pull me out, and we can talk or go home. We can hang out, and I’ll sing ‘Little Sparrow’ for you.”
My heart swells. “Go find him. I’m great. Or I will be. It just takes a minute to recalibrate.”
She nods, and I head to the lounge. I don’t see anyone I want to talk to, so I grab my coffee and leave.
“Morning, Ms. Morgan,” comes from a few students who’ve come early, and I wave as I walk to my desk. I get ready, pulling my canvas off the wall and propping it on an easel so the kids can see it. It’s a blurred landscape painted in shades of gray, brown, and green. In the center is a lone unisex figure, standing at the fork of two narrow roads. A forest of sparse pine trees lines the paths. I wince. It’s kind of dark for me.
“I like it,” Caleb says. “It makes you think.”
“Thanks! What did you pick for the assignment?”
“I compared Emily Dickinson’s ‘Because I could not stop for Death’ to Green Day’s ‘Wake Me Up When September Ends.’ It’s a lot of death and stuff, but . . .” He waves a typed paper at me. “I liked it. Pretty cool. You’re not a terrible teacher at all.” He blushes. “Um, I don’t think that came out right.”
“It’s fine,” I say with a smile, then pause. “Hey, I was wondering if you and your grandmother wanted to come over for Thanksgiving. Toby and his mom are coming, and we’d love to have you guys too.” It goes unsaid that I know how hard this first holiday will be for him.
“Ah, yeah, I’ll check with her.” He turns to leave but turns back. “Um, thanks, you know, for everything . . .” He trails off, and I think I know what he means. Just for showing up at his house. Everyone needs to know that someone cares.
“Just no Dairy Queen, right?” I give him a thumbs-up.
“Yeah.” He laughs as he takes his seat.
By the time my classes are over and lunch rolls around, I’m less fuzzy but tired from pretending. I said the right things in class. I took up homework and gave assignments.
I’m on autopilot. Maybe the kids know. I noticed the questioning, almost careful looks they sent me.
I try to shake it off as I walk to the vaping closet, but Sonia and Skeeter stand in the back, fingers laced together as they kiss.
I exit quickly, then pass the lounge, my silver stilettos clicking.
I do not want to see Melinda’s “I told you so” face.
Remembering that my satchel is in the field house, I focus on getting there. That’s it. It will be nice and quiet, and I can gather myself before Skeeter and the players show up.
With hands that slightly shake, I put the key in the lock and open his door. The phone is eerily silent. I glance around for my satchel but don’t see it. Frowning, I ease into the closet.
Once there, oh fuck, I’m lost.
The entire space smells like him.
I touch his dress shirts, sliding my fingers over the fabric, then move to the practice polos. I go back through them, picking my favorites, taking shirts off the hangers, and then tossing them on the floor. I find the maroon shirt he wore Friday night on the table. I rub it through my hands as I picture him running down the sideline, yelling for his team.
He is magnificent. A king.
A beast.
A sexy, beautiful lover.
Generous. Funny. Crazy smart.
I want him to be happy. I do, I do, but . . .
My chest hurts, and I wonder if it’s possible for a heart to break for real. A pained sound comes from my throat, and I plop down to the floor among his shirts. I lie back on top of them, arms spread, my vision blurring with wetness.
The fog in my head, the exhaustion. Depression. That’s what this is. It’s okay. Totally fine. I’ll get over it. Right?
I pick up his pale-blue dress shirt, the one that matches his eyes, and push my face into it, inhaling a deep breath. God. I’ve lost it. This level of hurt can’t be normal—
The office door creaks open, and I jerk up to sitting, swiping my face as I wonder who’s here.
“Nova?”
My breath hitches. “Ronan?”
“Are you in the closet?”
I stumble up, wobbling on my heels. “Don’t come in here!”
He opens the door and blinks at me as I cling to the table. God, he looks amazing—okay, maybe a little tired and haggard. There’re shadows under his eyes, and his hair is everywhere, messy pretty, accentuating his sharp jawline.
“What are you doing here?” My eyes eat him up, from the deep-blue shirt to his snug gray slacks.
I glance down. My blouse became untucked on the floor, my skirt is askew, and my hair spills out of my rubber band.
He steps inside. “Are you rolling around in my clothes?”
“No. Yes. For a second. Low blood sugar probably.”
His lips twitch.
“Don’t you say a word! I was just . . .” I sigh. “Sniffing shirts and plotting which ones to steal.”
“I’d like to see you wearing them.”
My hands clench. “You haven’t called or texted or—”
He comes forward and sweeps me up into his arms, bridal-style.
I squeal. “What are you doing?”
His eyes capture mine. “I missed you.”
My lips tremble. “I didn’t miss you.”
“Liar. I’ve been looking for you. The lounge, the closets, your room . . .”
“I wanted to be alone.”
“With my shirts?”
I exhale, trying to ignore him, but it’s hard with the adoring looks he’s giving me.
Without letting me down, he strides out of the closet, somehow manages to lock the office door, and then sits down on a small couch.
I wiggle and rearrange myself, straddling him near his knees, not caring that my skirt is up to my hips.
He lets out a long exhale. “We need to talk. First, I turned down the job.”
My mouth parts, and I slap him on the arm. “What? Why? That was what you wanted!”
A wry expression crosses his face. “A person can want something at one point in their life, then want something entirely different later, especially after they’ve realized what’s important.”
My heart flies, hope fluttering inside me that he’s not leaving, but . . . “Use real words.”
He chuckles as his fingers graze over my cheek and down to my throat. His hand rests at the base of my neck. “Where’s my necklace?”
I sniff. “I forgot it this morning.”
“I’m gone for two and a half days, and you’re already moving on? I can’t ever leave you alone again.” His hand goes around my nape, and he pulls me to him and kisses me hard. I gasp and cling to his shoulders, devouring his taste, the feel of his lips. He’s an invader, delving deep, his fingers digging into my scalp. We end with smaller, gentler kisses, soft brushes over and over . . .
Our breaths mingle when we part.
He holds my face and peers deep into my eyes. “I. Love. You. With everything inside me. I love your . . .” His voice thickens. “Wow. I had this whole speech planned out, but it’s up in smoke.”
“Do continue.”
He brushes his fingers over my swollen lips. “Princess, when I love someone, it’s with my soul. It’s full commitment. It’s a relationship that will grow, evolve, and change to fit us. I won’t ever stop trying to be the best man I can be. I won’t give up on us, through thick and thin.”
“Is that why you said no to the job?”
“It affected it, yes. As soon as I left Texas, something wasn’t right. I wanted you. I missed Lois and Skeeter. I wanted my team. I wanted to be celebrating with them at Randy’s Roadhouse. Do I want to coach in the NFL someday? Maybe. Would I like it to be the Pythons? Sure. They’re a great franchise, and New York was my home—in a different life. The truth is I’m not ready.”
I trace his scar. “You can do anything you want. I believe in you.”
He smiles. “I need more experience; that’s for sure. I don’t know everything I need to know right now about coaching. I need more trophies and time with the Bobcats. More talks with you. If I took that job, it would take over my life. Life is too damn short to be lonely, Nova. It’s too short to give up on having something real with the one person I love.”
I sigh. “Oh.”
“My gut knew New York wasn’t the right choice.” He pauses and cups my face. “I knew exactly which road to take, and it was back to you, but I had to get past my fear of losing you, of letting you down . . .”
“Did you?”
He hugs me close to his chest, his hand running down my hair. “Honestly, I may never stop being overly cautious or a nervous Nellie about some things, but we can deal with it as it comes. I want love. It’s a gift. My heart is yours. You took a sledgehammer and beat the shit out of it.”
I pump my fist. “Score.”
He bites his bottom lip, a strange expression on his face.
“What?” I ask.
“So . . . I was on the plane, thinking about how to tell you all this, and I had this idea of getting on the intercom, maybe playing my guitar and singing ‘Jolene’; then I realized there’s a lunch lady named Jolene and I can’t sing. Plus, it felt cheesy—”
“Totally. Dorkish. Downright stupidly romantic—”
“Do you want me to get on the intercom and tell the whole school how I’m going to be your man until the end of time?”
I swipe away a tear. “No. We’d be those ridiculous people I roll my eyes at.”
He laughs softly. “Ah, then how about I sing ‘Say You Won’t Let Go’ now? I’ve been working on it. There’s no guitar, but . . .”
My heart soars as he sings the words softly, a song about a guy who meets a girl at a party—yes, there’s alcohol involved. The years pass, and he’s waiting for her to see him as he dreams of them growing old together.
He finishes the song. “I’m sorry I was a selfish dick from the moment we met.”
“I’m sorry I sneered at your necklace this morning, then rolled around in your shirts, then slapped your arm.”
He chuckles, then sobers, his eyes glinting with emotion. “My glow is not in New York, Nova. It’s right here with you. The team is extra. I’ve never loved someone like this.”
The enormity of his words settles over me, and I kiss him tenderly, then graze my lips over his scarred cheek to whisper in his ear. “Same, darling.”
We get sidetracked, our hands tracing each other, seeking solace from the days we spent wondering what the future held.
I lean back. “Have you told the players?”
“Principal Lancaster herded me in the office when I walked in. He announced it on the intercom: ‘Coach Smith turned down the Pythons to stay at Blue Belle.’ I could hear the cheers from the office. I guess you didn’t hear it because you were in the closet.”
“I was depressed.”
“Poor girl . . .” He brushes his fingers over my breasts, caressing my nipples through my blouse.
I ease out of his lap.
He grunts. “What are you doing?”
I unbutton my shirt and toss it off, exposing my black velvet bra. I unzip my skirt and kick it off. My shoes fell off earlier when he picked me up.
His chest rises as he watches me. “Is this a sex game? We only have about fifteen minutes before everyone gets here . . .”
“This won’t take long.” I sashay back, sit on top of him, and swivel my hips. “Would you like a lap dance, sir?”
“How much?”
He catches on quick.
“Twenty for the dance, fifty for a blowie, a hundred if you want to fuck, sir.”
“I have two hundred bucks in my wallet. Also, can you always call me sir?” He runs his nose up my neck, breathing deep.
My hips rub slow circles against the bulge in his slacks. “Sir, two hundred gets you dinner later. Definitely a walk with my cat,” I say as he unsnaps my bra, then throws it over his head.
A minute later, his pants are off and he’s thrusting inside me.
My hands tangle in his hair as emotion ripples over me. “I love you,” I gasp out.
He presses his forehead against mine. “My beauty. We’re gonna have the world.”
