Hold Me (Love The Way #2) - W. Winters Page 0,49

there or Damon. Even Kamden has been coming more frequently, making arrangements for me to attend different social events if I want to, all of them already approved by Zander and Damon.

They say I’m getting closer to a new normal, but almost every night, I glance down the hall no one talks about. When we lie together in bed, sometimes I forget and I think I’m in bed with James down the hall, being held and kissed and loved by him. Then I wake up, and it processes slowly.

I haven’t told anyone. Not Damon, not Zander. Because if I said what I’m thinking, maybe they’d think I’m crazy. I think James wants me to go down the hall. I think he wants me to go back into our bedroom. Even if it’s just to say goodbye.

Maybe he wants me to know that he’s okay with everything that’s happened. Maybe he’s trying to tell me he still loves me, even if I’m in bed with another man. Maybe he wants me to know he misses me. Maybe it’s all in my head.

The low rumble of an approaching thunderstorm drowns out the rustling of the trash bag at my side. It’s easier to handle than the damn cardboard box I found in the garage, so I settled for it. The gray skies and increasing winds of the incoming downpour feel right for the occasion.

We loved the storms. One step at a time, one breath out and one in, I bypass the thin rope blocking off the west wing and flick on the light. Ignoring everything in front of me, I remember laying in James’s arms on the porch of his uncle’s house, under the tin roof, listening to the rain.

I can still hear him laugh as the bedroom door creaks open, the memories and the present moment colliding.

“One day we’ll have a tin roof porch,” he declared once. He said it like a joke until I told him I’d love that. I love the storms.

The next exhale is more difficult, because it hurts even though it shouldn’t. Simply existing shouldn’t cause pain like it does when you’re missing someone.

“You lied,” I speak into the quiet room. It’s colder in here. Unlike the hall, nothing in this room is covered. Roughly two years ago, I closed the door and told everyone not to enter it. And that’s how it’s remained. The heat clicks on as I drag my finger across the dresser. It’s dusty and musty. I suppose that’s what happens when a room is closed off for as long as this one has been.

With the trash bag still in my hand, I sit on the edge of the bed. It doesn’t protest in the least. A thought crosses my mind that I didn’t expect.

I wonder if Zander did this. If he cleaned out drawers he didn’t want to ever open. I wonder if he had someone else clean up the traces of Quincy, the ones we’re not supposed to leave around because it prevents us from “moving on.”

I’d ask him, but just like this bedroom door was a moment ago, I think that conversation is a place Zander doesn’t want to go. That it’s something that’s quite firmly locked up. Placing the bag on the bed, I focus on the other item that was balled up with it, the ancient phone that only texts.

I’m going to put some things aside.

It’s odd to feel relief and accomplishment, sitting in a room, proud not to be losing it.

What? Kamden texts back. What things? Do you need help?

His messages come quickly, one after the other.

Let’s just store them until I’m ready — My thumbs hesitate and I can’t type the rest of the sentence so I hit send. The idea of typing, to get rid of them, disrupts the small moment of ease, the hope that I am strong enough for this.

I hope he doesn’t ask, “Ready for what?”

Thankfully, he doesn’t.

Okay. We can store anything you want for however long or indefinitely. Can I come over?

Staring down at his question, I don’t know how to answer him. I think I want to be alone for this, but I don’t know that I can be.

I have a meeting but I’ll be done soon if you can wait.

No. The word is typed and sent before I can think twice about it. My breathing picks up as I push myself off the bed, taking in the abandoned room.

His texts don’t stop and with each one, I know he