Somewhere Between Water and Sky (Shattered Things #2) (45 page)

I stare at the page again.

“
I remember when I wrote this,
”
I whisper, running my finger along the lines.
“
It was right after I got here, on New Years Eve
—
I was so drunk on this champagne I stole from a couple down the hallway and really, really missing him.
”

They say that wounds

need air to breathe -

that the reliance of bandages and

gauze only weaken the skin.

They say to rip it off
—

one quick painful second and then

healing is on its way.

But what of the bandaid?

What of the adhesive that

held the wound in tact?

Where does it go to heal?

Where does it go to find

that sometimes

open air and separation

can cleanse

almost anything?

Jessa leans her head on my shoulder and I swallow.

“
It was the only poem I wrote that even remotely suggested that we may have a future
—
that this separation and me leaving was only temporary. These words? They
’
re me admitting that we
’
re meant to be together; we just need some air to breathe.
”

Jessa lets out a big sigh.

“
So you
’
re saying
…
.
”

I fold the paper and then place it in my hands, close to my chest.

“
I
’
m saying this is him letting me know he
’
ll be back. That him leaving is only temporary.
”

“
The promise still rings true,
”
she breathes, just loud enough for me to hear. I smile hearing The Boss
’
words in her mouth.

“
The promise still rings true,
”
I repeat, hope blossoming into a ripening flower and taking my breath away.

Chapter Twenty-Six

He shows up a week later, right in the middle of my shift at work. It
’
s a slow day, a rainy one
—
rare in Southern California. Apparently, on days like this, most stay inside to protect their glistening tans from humidity and rain.

I
’
m sitting a table in the corner reading
East of Eden
when I see his shadow pass in front of me. I glance up and nearly spill my coffee.

There are no words for this. Shit. What do I say? What do I do with my hands?

Jessa walks out of the kitchen then, gasping and catching my eye before turning back into the kitchen, the double doors swinging behind her. I silently thank her for the privacy.

I swallow and keep staring and he smiles, pointing to the book.

“
That
’
s easily one of my top five pieces of literature. Do you love it? What do you think of Cathy?
”

My breath catches at the familiar line and I blink.

“
I hate Cathy. She
’
s the only character in literature I
’
m legitimately scared of
…”

He laughs.
“
Seriously. She
’
s batshit crazy. And that takes a lot for me to say that
—
I
’
ve known some crazy-ass people in my life.
”

I crack a smile and he leans his hands on the table.
“
Can I sit?
”

“
You left me,
”
I whisper.

He nods and scrapes at something invisible.
“
I did.
”

“
You promised.
”

He looks at me then, his eyes narrowed.

“
I can
’
t explain why, Steph. I just
…
it made sense at the time. In my own way, I had to make sure this promise could stick.
”

I raise an eyebrow.

“
Like a test?
”

His head shoots up and his eyes go wide.

“
Oh God no. Not that. I just
…
I freaked. I bolted. I thought
…
I thought you really did need space.
”

“
Bandaids,
”
I say and he smiles, understanding.

“
Yes. Bandaids.
”

He looks at me then
—
really looks at me
—
and I see the way his eyes are haunted now in a way they weren
’
t before. I motion for him to sit in a chair next to me and he falls into it.

“
How many of my poems did you save?
”
I ask.

He scratches at something near his ear.

“
Just that one. It seemed
…
the most hopeful.
”

“
It
’
s the one where I allowed myself to picture us together again.
”

“
And now?
”

I watch him and lean back in my chair.

“
I think it
’
s possible.
”

He rests his chin in his hand and stares at the window.

“
I think possible is good. Possible can turn into a promise.
”

I cross my arms against my chest and tilt my head.

“
Will you leave again?
”

He levels me with a stare.

“
Will you?
”

I run my fingers through my hair and he watches me. I place my hands on the table between us, palms down, and I stare at the way my fingers reach for him. I want to reach over and kiss those lips. I want to kick his shins. I want to grab his hands and take off for somewhere completely
other
—
a place where we can just be. One of my fingers curls under and I chance a glance at him.

“
Where do we go from here, Kevin?
”

My thumb has taken to tapping the table beneath it and he reaches over and places his hand above my own, quieting the movement.

“
Kevin
…”

His other hand comes up and he rests his fingers on my lips and I resist the urge to lick his skin.

“
I
’
ve missed you,
”
he whispers.

I close my eyes.

“
You didn
’
t answer my question.
”

And then he
’
s kissing me, his lips overtaking my own and his tongue searching me and I have to grab the sleeves of his sweater to keep from climbing on top of him.

We pull away from each other, panting, and he rests his forehead against my own.

“
I think here is a good place to start.
”

Acknowledgments

In March of 2014, I sat in my living room with Kelly Simmon talking about writing. She looked at me and asked,
“
and are
you
writing? Or are you just, you know
…
helping other people.
”
I couldn
’
t answer her. She shrugged and said,
“
you know what you
’
re supposed to do, Elora. So do it.
”

We all have those moments where a question some asks unlocks something inside and pushes us to the next level of our purpose. Something unlocked when Kelly reminded me of my purpose, and it lit a fire under my ass to write this book. So Kelly, thank you.

There were so many other people who helped me during the crazy few months of penning the continuation of Stephanie
’
s story. These are just a handful of those who made it happen.

Russ, there really are no words for the support and belief you give me. Thank you for putting up with the countless hours of me writing or talking about what I
’
m writing or lamenting about what I
’
m writing or wondering about what I
can
write. It
’
s not easy being married to an author, and you shine. I love you.

Blanche, I hope you know how many stories I stole from your life. I love you, sister. Christina had
Every Shattered Thing,
and you got book two. Thanks for telling me the crazy-ass abandoned hotel story (I
’
m still mad at you). And tell Erika thanks for tell me the catching the sunrise story at your bachelorette party. Your life is print-worthy, girl.

Teresa, you told me to
just write the damn thing
and I did. Thanks for wearing the white hat and reminding me to get the poison out, even when I didn
’
t think I had any more words.

Sarah, you held my hand and got serious when you knew I needed it. You are my person. So much of Stephanie
’
s relationship with Jessa reminds me of us. Now we just need a trip to the ocean. Thank you for taking the risk on me.

Ritz, thank you for saving my wrists and shoulders and back from certain peril. But more than that, thank you for seeing the intricacies of Stephanie and Kevin
’
s relationship and helping me flesh them out. From the very beginning
—
even before I started writing this story
—
we spent hours discussing the issues they would face as they tried to work out the past. Thank you for being a sounding board of realism. This story is better for it.

Rachel, thank you for reminding me to write dark chocolate.

Lisa, thank you for helping me untangle all of the crazy-ass messes this manuscript was in the beginning. You saved me from about a thousand reader eye-rolls. I
’
m certain. Also, I think it
’
s kind of perfect that you were sitting in the chair watching me as I finished this book. I
’
m grateful for you, friend.

Shelby, thank you for believing in Stephanie and seeing her strength. You two are fellow-warrior spirits.

Lindsay, your attention to detail saved my ass. Thankful for your edits that won
’
t be noticeable because they
’
re so damn good.

Stacey, thank you for believing in these words of mine. Thank you for reading Stephanie
’
s story and seeing the possibility between these pages. You
’
re a kick ass agent and I
’
m thankful to be in your care.

Finally, to the ladies of Story Sessions: this book is for you. Thank you for the nights spent sprinting and the laughter involved with Teaser Tuesdays. You guys breathed life into this novel.

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