Return To You - Leia Stone Page 0,2

back, searching my face. Concern pulls at her eyes, deepening the lines. "Did you get any sleep on the plane?"

"A little."

"How many wines?"

A smile tugs up one corner of my mouth. "It was a two-wine flight."

"No turbulence, then?"

Other than the turbulence of leaving my career behind to go and care for my sick mother?

I shake my head. "Not really." I'd been grateful for the smooth skies during the flight, but I had the second glass of wine because I couldn't shake my thoughts of him.

No matter how hard I try, memories of Owen Miller are on a tether, connected to me, and the slightest tug brings them bounding back.

I want to avoid him. It shouldn't be too hard, not in a town like Sedona. There are enough tourists, enough vacationers, and as long as I avoid the places frequented by locals, I won't be likely to run into him.

None of that will work though. He broke my heart, I broke his, and we walked away from the mangled remains of a love that had burned so bright it was blinding.

After what we went through, I should avoid him at all costs.

Too bad he's my mother's fucking oncologist.

That was karma giving me a big old kick in the ass.

Thanks, universe.

My mom knows I'm thinking about him. She can see it in my eyes, and I can see it in the pitying look on her face

Reaching out, she wraps an arm around my shoulder and steers me toward the elevator bank. "It'll be okay, sweetheart."

I'm not sure if she's referring to her cancer, or me being forced to have Owen Miller in my life again.

"Sure, Mom," I agree quickly, slipping my arm around her waist and dragging my bag behind me. My palm rests on her hipbone and I swallow the lump in my throat.

"Baggage claim?" she asks when we reach the elevators, even though she has already pressed the button.

I nod, letting my head tip to the side so I can lay it on her shoulder. My mom has different plans though. She lets go of my shoulders and takes a big step away from me. Her eyes light up, mischievous.

"Guess," she says, raising her eyebrows up and down twice.

Despite my anxiety, my fear and my sadness, I grin. Quickly I glance around at the numbers above the elevator doors. "Six," I say.

"One," she counters, her eyes on the small white number.

We've played this game as long as I can remember. Whoever guesses which elevator will open, or the number closest to it, gets a prize. When I was little, it was a stop for a donut before starting the long drive home from the airport. After I turned sixteen, it was who had to be the driver.

We wait, expectant, and then a ding fills the air. Our eyes swing toward the sound. Elevator five.

Mom makes a face. "I lost. I'll drive."

"No, I'll drive. I miss driving," I tell her, stepping on first and sticking out my hand to ensure the doors don't start to close before she can get on. I can’t believe she has even made the two-hour drive from Sedona to Phoenix in the first place.

She frowns. "You didn't get much sleep on the plane."

"I got enough," I argue. "A stop for some strong coffee and I'll be good to go."

She looks tired. There is no way I am making her drive.

Mom relents, and instead of relief I feel sadness. The mom I've known my whole life would insist on being the driver. She’d dig in her heels and order me to get in the car.

Not anymore.

After we collect my bags, I wheel them to her car and get in the driver seat. I turn on the air conditioning, but after fifteen minutes my mom reaches into the backseat and grabs a sweatshirt. When she pulls it on, I turn down the air with a frown.

"Nonsense," she argues, "that's why I'm putting this on."

"I was getting cold too," I lie. Does she not have enough fat on her bones to keep her warm? The thought completely freaks me out and my knuckles go white on the steering wheel.

I stop for coffee, ordering a double espresso for me, a tall morning blend for mom, and two breakfast sandwiches. The two-hour drive isn’t bad, but I want to get on the road before rush hour traffic, so I shoot the espresso as if it's tequila and we keep going. In between chatting, we eat our breakfast sandwiches as I point