I’m distracted by the water pelting my head that I almost miss the noise. A shuffling in the hallway. Followed by a soft thud. A deep voice curses. Then, more shuffling.
What is Spencer doing out there?
More importantly, what time is it? Because he’d had a plane to catch today, in the afternoon.
There’s a hollow sense in my chest. I’ve for sure missed my own flight by now. When I’d woken to my entire body aching this morning, I’d texted my parents I’d caught the bug floating around campus and wouldn’t be able to make it home. They’d understood. Mom had even offered to fly out and take care of me. I’d turned her down, since Brigid has a wedding dress fitting scheduled in a couple of days.
I wrap my arms around my knees. I was supposed to go, too. To try on my bridesmaid dress. And to help her and Aileen and Deirdre make centerpieces. Not to mention celebrating my birthday. Dad wanted to teach me his recipe for corned beef. A week of plans, down the drain because of a stupid cold.
Spencer’s feet stomp on the stairs. Geez, he’s loud. Stomping up. Then down again. Up. Down. Finally, my curiosity gets the better of me—and my head doesn’t feel so foggy, so I stand, quickly wash, and shut the water off. Towel dry and pull on clean clothes. Take out my retainer and brush my teeth. After running a comb through my hair, I leave it down to air dry and open the bathroom door.
The first thing I notice as I walk down the hallway is the smell. Probably because after spending all morning with my nostrils clogged, the shower’s helped clear my congestion. The aroma floats up from the stairs, savory and mouth watering and—is that soup?
I pause outside my door, my eyes on the staircase. Do I go down there and see what Spencer’s up to? I turn to look in my room. Or do I go back to bed and wait for Spencer to leave—
My bed is gone.
The mattress. It’s missing. So are my blankets and pillows, leaving only an empty box spring. When the tableau looks oddly barren, I realize it’s because the wall behind my headboard is also missing the lights I’d strung behind it.
What did Spencer do to my room?
There’s only one way to find out. Slowly, because my body’s weighed down with fatigue, I make my way down the steps.
On the last step, I call out in a raspy voice, “Spen—”
But his name dies on my tongue.
My living room is gone.
Of course, it can’t be gone. The walls, the foundation, they’re still there. But it’s not my living room. Sure, the couch and the arm chairs and the coffee table all look the same. And those are my blankets and pillows. That’s my bed.
Except the bed’s in the middle of the floor. Furniture’s been shoved to the side to make way for a valley of pillows. Blankets hang from the ceiling, as do the lights from my bedroom. They’re paired with shamrock-shaped lights, casting a soft green and yellow glow that glitters against shiny garlands. Paper streamers and cut-outs of shamrocks and rainbows and leprechauns hang from every available surface—lamps, the television, even the coat rack by the front door.
There’s a soft shuffle of feet behind me. I hold still, afraid to turn around and face the man who, as of last night, I’d completely written off.
“Food’s almost done,” he says.
“Spencer.” That’s not my voice. It can’t be. Ragged and thick and so full of emotion.
“Movie’s on the TV. Just press play.”
“Spencer.”
“Don’t fucking cry.”
And I cry. Ugly tears. Blubbering and sobbing and nasally whining and wiping snot on my sweater sleeve.
“Y-You built a blanket fort.” For me. He made me soup and bought me tampons and even now, I see the movie he’s chosen on the TV, and I laugh through my tears because it’s Mean Girls.
My knees tremble. They’re weak. From being sick, I’m sure. But when I turn around and finally look Spencer in the eye, I can’t lie to myself anymore. He wears sweats and that cozy shirt I’d tried to steal from him. A hand towel’s draped over his shoulder, and behind him, I see the pot simmering on the stove.
His face is soft, no scowl, though his mouth lays in a frown. Cautiously, like I might bite, he steps closer to me. His hand hovers between us, stalled between deciding if it should drop to his side or reach out and touch me.
And I need to ask him. Before he touches me, I have to know.
“Have you been with anyone else?”
Spencer’s dark eyes stare into mine, making sure I have his full attention when he tells me, “Not since before Valentine’s Day.”
I swallow the lump in my throat.
“Kennedy, last night—” He sighs. Tears his eyes from mine and runs a hand through his hair. He closes his eyes, breathes deep through his nose. “I don’t know definitions off the top of my head like you do. If I did, I’d say something fucking smart. But all I can say is that I’m sorry. I’m really fucking sorry.”
I nod. Because his apology, what he’s done here, it’s not enough. But it’s a start.
“Spencer,” I say, glancing down at that undecided hand between us. When I look back up, he watches me, frown even deeper, like he’s worried.
I take his hand in both of mine. Run a thumb over his knuckles. Turn his hand over and trace the lines of his palm. It’s larger than mine. Larger and warmer and I squeeze it comfortingly all the same. “I went on a few dates with Elijah. Nothing more than that happened. When I’m with you…” I stare at our joined hands, my face warm at what I’m about to say, the vulnerability I’m about to admit. “You’re all I think about.”
His hand squeezes mine back, and I meet his eyes again. “I need trust,
