Depressed. Frustrated. They are the ones with sick children to cure. They have it much harder than me right this very moment. Meanwhile, I can still go to the concert if I want to, right? Alone?
No one will even know if I got home safely afterward.
That’s never really bothered me before—and it doesn’t bother me now.
It’s just that lately I feel a little left behind. Like everyone is checking off the boxes of life, and my pencil is broken. Or I didn’t bring one to class at all.
Sluggers used to be the place I felt happy. Safe. Competent.
I’m not sure when going there began to feel like a chore, but lately when I turn off the lights, I don’t feel as much contentment as I used to.
I’m restless.
Still, I send an upbeat text to the group, wishing Trish and Kelis good luck battling the germs and offering to pick up groceries or medicine, if needed. Then, despite the tears that seem determined to hover in my eyes, I rally, heading for the bedroom to change into the concert outfit I’ve been planning for weeks. It’s a purple strapless minidress and cowboy boots— My doorbell rings right as I’m pulling the garment over my head.
Frowning, I leave the bedroom and stop in front of the front door buzzer, holding down the button to talk. “Hello?”
A brief pause. “Hey, it’s me. It’s Sumner.”
“Oh.” It’s nothing short of drastic, the way my skin heats at the sound of his deep baritone, my pulse pumping in my ears. There’s no mistaking the happiness that jumps inside me, like popcorn popping in a microwave bag. “Welcome back, big guy. Come on up.”
I hold down the button to open the door.
“That didn’t sound remotely casual,” I mutter to myself.
He has only been to my apartment once, before our immigration interview, just in case they asked about the layout of our “primary residence.” Most of the time, I was careful to keep all our meetings in neutral territory so he wouldn’t get the wrong impression. There’s no use for it, though; I’m excited to see him back here, among my things.
I’m excited to see him, period.
I run to the kitchen barefoot and shove a pile of dishes under the sink, swiping crumbs into my hand and dusting them off into the trash can. A firm knock on the door shoots my heart rate to the moon, but I order myself not to fuss with my hair on the way to let in Sumner.
But I find myself wishing I had taken a few minutes with my hairbrush when I open the door, because yeah . . . there’s no pretending he doesn’t look really, really good, despite the black wrist brace on his right hand. The injury might even enhance his ruggedness quite nicely?
For all the sense that makes.
His black hair is still wet from a shower, messy, his plain white T-shirt clinging to all sorts of thick muscles. He’s got that pale hockey player complexion that makes his dark eyes look wildly intense, the veins in his biceps starting a flutter beneath my belly button. The jeans he’s wearing are ancient. Worn. Tucked into untied boots.
Extremely large boots.
Don’t think too hard about that.
I have to remind myself to not think about Sumner’s, ahem, attributes a lot. But my resolve is pretty weak thanks to the memory of its generosity between my thighs in the parking lot over two months ago. Yeah, that recollection has remained firm. Just like Sumner.
“Hey—oh. Shit,” he rumbles now, bracing his forearm on the doorframe and sweeping me head to toe with a thirsty look. “Britta, you look . . .” His swallow is audible. “Jesus.”
A pleasureful blush sweeps into my cheeks before I can play it cool.
Which is not like me at all. Men in the bar compliment me regularly, and I feel exactly zilch. Maybe I’m just relieved to see him after two long, confusing months. He’s my friend, after all! “Thanks.”
When his eyes find mine again, they’re darker than before. He’s visibly drinking me in, ounce by ounce, and he’s doing a very poor job of hiding it. “You’re not going out on a . . . date. In that little purple dress. Are you, Britta?”
“No.”
His hand is still wrapped around the doorjamb like he’s contemplating ripping it off. “Good.”
“We agreed not to,” I remind him, flashing my wedding band.
He does the same. “Oh, don’t worry, I remember.”
“Has it been . . . hard for you?” Why am I not breathing? “Not to date?”
A muscle dives sideways in his cheek. “Not remotely. You?”
“No,” I admit.