Chapter 12: Not Like This

I did not go back to Jo's.

I texted Jo that I'd be late.

I sat in a diner on Rosecrans until the light went flat and the waitress stopped refilling my coffee.

Jo wrote back, "Is he dead or are you just thinking?"

I wrote, "Thinking." She sent a single heart.

At seven I paid the check, and walked until I reached Point Loma, and found the house I had never been to.

A small gray bungalow, with a porch light on.

A wind chime hung by the door, and a pair of boots sat neatly on the mat.

I stood on the walk for a long time with my hand on the gate.

I could still turn around.

Nolan opened the door before I knocked.

He had showered and wore a plain white T-shirt.

He looked like a man who had spent the afternoon bracing for impact.

"You walked," he said.

"All the way from the diner."

"Hannah."

"Don't talk."

I put both hands flat on his chest and pushed him backward into the hall.

He went, without a word, until his shoulders hit the wall.

Then I kissed him.

This time it was nothing like the truck.

I kissed him furiously, with all the heat and hurt of eight months.

I bit his lower lip until he grunted.

I slapped my palm against the wall beside his head.

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