Текст книги "A Lover's Lament "

Автор книги: K. L. Grayson

Соавторы: B. T. Urruela
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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

“Existentialism on Prom Night” – Straylight Run

ANOTHER DAY HAS PASSED AND I still can’t get Katie out of my head. Visions of her dance in my head the moment my body hits the cot. She claims my dreams and then consumes every bit of my mind every second I’m awake. And not only has she infiltrated my brain, she’s reclaimed the empty spot in the center of my chest too.

If I had a hard time sleeping before Katie came back into my life, then I’m a complete insomniac now. As of late, I’ve been finding myself at the communications center on nights like these—nights even a thousand sheep couldn’t cure. Katie’s emails have provided a link to my past life, to memories of childhood mischief and young love. Fuck, I miss those days … so much simpler.

As my fingers settle against the keyboard, I think about the improbability of it all. Never in a million years did I want to join a fucking pen pal program, and I have absolutely no explanation for why I did. And for Katie to find me amongst the thousands of other names … I’m just one lucky son of a bitch.

But I can’t help wonder whether luck played a hand in this at all, or if it was something more … something bigger than all of us. I never once believed in a God—not with the upbringing I endured. But when you see the delicacy of life and how quickly it can be snatched right up, you start to yearn for a higher power. You begin to feel His presence and see it in ways you can’t begin to understand: a dud mortar round landing undetonated just before you, a sniper’s bullet that pierces your body armor and travels its way around your back but leaves you unscathed, a piece of shrapnel lodged in the side of your helmet that could have been in your brain. A second chance at love …

Not many people find what Katie and I once had, and even fewer get another shot at it. I know she isn’t thinking in terms of rekindling what we had before, but if she thinks that “restarting our friendship” is enough for me, she couldn’t be more wrong. Of course I want to be friends again, but I want it all. I want her back. Baby steps, I remind myself.

To: Katie Devora

From: Sergeant Devin U. Clay

Subject: Nice subject line!

Katie,

Talk about coming right out of the gate … then again, I wouldn’t expect anything less from you. So to answer your question—no, I’m not married. There is no wife, girlfriend or family at home, so you can rest easy tonight. And I’m not gonna lie, I really like knowing that you’re becoming emotionally invested, because I’m already there. Your letters have the same effect on me, and this connection … it’s not just nostalgia. It’s real, and in case I haven’t already made it clear, I feel it too.

You mentioned that this—the prospect of us—scares the shit out of you because I have the power to hurt you. Don’t let it scare you, Katie. I know that’s easy for me to say since I’m the one who walked away, but I didn’t just rip your heart out that night—mine was shredded as well. And knowing that I hurt you is something that I’ll have to live with every day for the rest of my life. So trust me when I say that I won’t hurt you—not now, not ever. Never again will I walk away from this or from you. My word means shit right now, as it should, but I’ll prove it to you. Just give me the chance.

Now, since you managed to completely avoid my not-so-subtle way of asking you what I don’t really want to know but I need to … are you seeing anyone? Married? Boyfriend? Little ones? This works both ways, you know ;).

Okay, enough with the … what did you call it, awkward stuff? Hahahaha yesssss! A nurse! How good am I, huh? I can’t even imagine what kind of challenges that sort of profession presents, but it sounds like you have an amazing job. Every day you get to see the instant bond between child and parent, and that must be pretty incredible.

I am so damn proud of you, Katie. And I think it’s okay that you used work as an escape for a while because that’s who you are. You’ve always been one to bury yourself in some form of work when you get stressed out or pissed off. Hell, I can still remember you getting in fights with your mom or Bailey, and what’s the first thing you’d do? Stomp your tight little ass—yes, I was always looking, and no, I’m not sorry—straight out to the barn and start mucking stalls. You’d crank up that song I hated … what the hell was it? Oh yeah! That “Bye Bye Bye” song by the Backstreet Boys, right? I knew as soon as that song came on that it was my cue to leave. And from the sounds of it, you haven’t changed all that much. But I have to ask … do you still listen to that song? No, really, I want to know!

Now, if my memory serves me correctly, you’d always walk away from the barn refreshed and ready to face your mom or Bailey head-on … hopefully that hasn’t changed. And speaking of your mom, I’m so glad you’re not listening to her about getting rid of the horses, especially knowing how special they were to your dad. You should never be sorry for wanting to hold on to that. But I do think it was a good idea to get some help on the farm, and it sounds like you could use a little time to yourself.

Maybe you should think about a vacation … say, to Maui, when I come home on leave? I mean, I’m cool with the Bahamas too (that wasn’t subtle at all, was it?). So you just mull it over, and we’ll come back to it later. How about that?

My fingers pause as I decide which part of her letter to address next. I don’t want to talk about the fucking military right now any more than I have to. Living it day in and day out is enough. And I sure as hell don’t want to talk about my mom. What I really want to talk about is Katie. With a smile on my face, I decide to answer her last question.

So you want to know something about me that you don’t already know … hmmm … you realize that’s going to be hard, right? Okay, got one! Before my first deployment, I bought an acoustic guitar to bring with me because Jax played. He was crazy good and I begged him to teach me. He finally relented and we used to practice together every chance we got. Well, you spend a year playing with a guitarist as amazing as Jax, and you get pretty damn good yourself. Grace—that’s the name I gave my Fender—is with me on this deployment as well.

So what about you? Tell me something I don’t know. And while we’re at it—getting to know each other again and all—how about you tell me your biggest fear in life. I don’t recall that we ever talked about that.

Okay, it’s late as hell here and I have an early mission tomorrow. I hope you have a great day and I can’t wait to hear back from you.

Always,

Dev

Tired as all fuck, I shut down the computer, push away from the table, and make my way toward the porta-shitters to take one final piss before passing out. As I get closer, I hear muffled cries coming from inside one of them. I tiptoe until I’m just outside the door, where I hear a loud snort accompanied by more stifled weeping. I lightly tap on the door and the crying immediately stops.

“I’ll be out in a minute.” I recognize Thomas’s voice as it bounces against the plastic walls.

“Thomas, it’s Clay. You alright, man?”

“Yeah. I, uh … I just need a minute.”

“I got ya.” I take a leak in the shitter next to his and then walk around the corner to wait for him to exit. When the door squeaks open, I see Thomas slink out, his eyes fixed on the ground. “Hey,” I call out without moving, “come have a smoke with me.”

He doesn’t face me and continues in the opposite direction. “I’m good, Sarge,” he says, waving me off.

Taking a step toward him, I reach out with a cigarette and lighter. “That wasn’t a request, Thomas. Get your fucking ass over here.”

Thomas stops and slowly faces me. Without making eye contact, he takes the cigarette and lighter from my hand. He flicks the Zippo twice before it sparks to life, and then he lights the cancer stick and tosses my lighter back to me.

“You need to talk to me because I know this shit is eating away at you.” I take a drag. Thomas doesn’t look at me or touch his own cigarette, but I don’t miss the quiver in his chin or the tick in his jaw. He’s fighting to hold something back, and I need to get him to open up.

“I’m good, Sarge,” he says through gritted teeth. I can tell by the way he’s shifting on his feet that he wants nothing more than to get the hell away from me.

“Was it the car bomb? The girl?” Nostrils flared, he sucks in a sharp breath. I’m pushing him, I know it, but this is what he needs. “Was it the body? All of it?” I ask.

“I said I’m good, Sarge!” His eyes snap to mine, hard and unyielding, completely inconsistent with the tears that are pushing against the confines of his lashes. He’s like a child trying desperately to be a man, and I want to take him in my arms just like I would a child. But that’s not what we do here …

“Thomas, we will stand here all fucking night if that’s what it takes to get you to talk. I’ll have you know I was in a three-day firefight with no sleep while you were still a fucking senior in high school, so you don’t wanna have that contest with me. Now, tell me what’s on your mind.”

He rubs at the tears with his palms, but whatever is going through his head must be too much—too powerful. I watch as his chest heaves several times. When he finally looks up, his glassy eyes find the sky, and for a moment I see peace. Only for a moment. And then he looks to me and shakes his head.

“It’s not the body. I could give two fucks about that motherfucker. I back the team in this shit one hundred percent, just like we agreed before we got here.”

“So, what is it?” I ask, already knowing the answer. Like most of us here, it’s not any one thing, just a big pile of bullshit.

“The girl. The IPs. Fucking everything, man. I thought I wanted this, I really did. But if we lose one more fucking guy—” Thomas cuts himself off, tears welling in his eyes once again. I can tell he wants to let it all out, but he can’t in front of me. He won’t. It’s the infantry way … and sometimes I hate it. “I don’t know how I’m gonna hang.” His voice quivers with each word as if he wishes for anything but for them to escape. He drops his head, embarrassed.

“You’re gonna fucking hang, Thomas. You know why?” I don’t give him time to respond. “Because of the other one hundred and fifty hard dick motherfuckers in those tents.” I jab a finger in the direction where they’re all sleeping. “You will keep fighting, because they would keep fighting for you. You think I don’t feel what you feel? I do, man. Every. Fucking. Day.” Stepping forward, I wrap my hand around the nape of his neck and pull his face closer to mine. “I need you to fight for me. I need you to fight for them. I need you to make sure these guys get home. This is what we signed up for, and I’ll be God-fucking-damned if I’m gonna let you quit on me now. You’re a fucking warrior, you hear me?” His eyes have strayed from mine, back to the ground, so I tighten my grip on his neck. “Look at me!”

When he does, my heart clenches at the tears now falling freely down his cheeks.

“Can you find a way to get through this? We have your back, brother. We just need you to have ours. Now, do you?”

“Roger, Sarge,” he says, his voice barely audible.

“I can’t hear you, Thomas. Do you have our backs until we get out of here? That’s all I’m asking.”

Thomas looks me in the eyes, wipes away his tears and straightens his back. “I will always have your back, Sergeant.”

“Good. Now get some fucking sleep. I know you need it.” I pull him in close and throw one arm around his shoulders before letting him go and pushing him toward the tents. He stumbles a bit but catches himself, and I see a grin pull at the corner of his mouth.

Lighting another cigarette, I watch him walk inside his tent, and when I’m certain he’s gone and no one else is around, my shoulders slump forward, my head hanging low, and I give in to my own pain. The tears come quickly, running down my face before being absorbed by my uniform. There’s rust forming on my armor.

“Breathe Again”—Sara Bareilles

“HI, KATIE.” SEAN BENDS DOWN and kisses me sweetly on the cheek. “I haven’t seen you in a while. You’re looking good.”

“Hey!” Maggie protests, slapping his arm playfully. “What am I, chopped liver?”

“Damn it, woman,” he laughs, rubbing at his arm. “No slapping. What did I tell you about that?”

“That it’s for the bedroom,” Maggie croons, pushing from the chair, stepping directly into Sean’s arms. He scoops her up and tosses her over his shoulder. Maggie squeals, reaching to me for help, but I bat her hand away, laughing along at their playful antics. “Where are you taking me?” she says as Sean turns to walk down the hall.

“Where else? To the bedroom.”

“We have company,” she screeches, wriggling around, trying to break free.

“Damn.” Lowering Maggie to the floor, he keeps a firm hand on her waist until she has her footing and then backs her against the wall. An image of Devin gripping my hip as he slams into me pops in my head, and I blink my eyes several times. Where the hell did that come from?

“I thought I was going to get away with it.” Sean’s voice is low and gravelly, his lips grazing Maggie’s when he talks.

I sit, stunned silent by the amount of sexual energy coursing through the room. Looking away is probably the polite thing to do, but for some reason I can’t. The chemistry between these two is fucking hot. It’s palpable. It’s exactly what I want. My eyes follow Sean’s hands as they slide up her body. He cups her neck, pulling her mouth to his, but instead of kissing her sweetly like I expect him to do, he devours her, plunging his tongue into her mouth. They’re instantly dueling for power.

“You taste so fucking good, Katie.” Devin’s eyes, shining with lust, are pinning me to the bed, holding me hostage.

The memory slams into me so fast that I don’t see it coming, but I’m quickly drawn back to the present when the faint sound of moaning catches my attention.

My jaw drops at the sight of Maggie and Sean. Their hands are everywhere, exploring places that they certainly shouldn’t be exploring in the presence of another human being. I glance away, my eyes bouncing around the room, but maybe I’m a voyeur at heart because curiosity gets the best of me, and I can’t help but look at them.

Maggie tangles her fingers in Sean’s hair, holding him to her, and when a faint whimper falls from her mouth, warmth settles low in my belly. Heaven help me, this is like watching live porn, and coupled with my random flashbacks of losing my virginity to Devin … well, let’s just say I’m certainly worked up.

Sean pulls back. Maggie’s eyes flutter open. “I have to meet a client for dinner,” he says, linking their hands together, “but I wanted to stop in and tell you ‘I love you.’ That was your be-waiting-for-me-when-I-get-back kiss.”

“That was one hell of a kiss,” I mumble. Both Maggie and Sean’s heads snap toward me. “Well”—I shrug unapologetically—“it was. I could seriously go for a stiff drink and cigarette after watching that.”

Maggie’s eyes widen with amusement. “You don’t smoke.”

“Exactly.”

Sean grins and kisses Maggie one last time before heading out the door.

“He’s my lobster,” she says with a sigh, dropping next to me on the couch. Maggie is a Friends addict, and one of her favorite episodes is the one where Phoebe tries to convince Rachel that Ross is her ‘lobster’ because lobsters mate for life. So, being a Friends addict myself, I know right off the bat what she’s talking about.

“Can I have a bite of your lobster?”

Maggie snorts and smiles over at me. “Sorry, sister. We need to find you your own.”

“I don’t think I have a lobster,” I say, feeling a twinge of discomfort in my chest. In a few years I’ll be thirty, and although I know I’m not in the best place right now to start up a relationship, it’s still something I long for.

“You have a lobster,” she affirms. “He’s just still out there swimming around, trying not to get eaten.” Pulling her knee up on the couch, Maggie angles her body toward mine. “Okay, I’m seriously starving so we have to stop talking about food. What do you want to do tonight?”

“What are my choices?” I ask, mimicking her position on the couch.

“Do you want to watch a movie?”

“Nah, I watched a movie this morning.” I worked the past three nights, which means I have the next couple of days off. This morning was spent watching The Breakfast Club, and when I went to start it over, I decided once was enough. So I invited myself to Maggie’s where I’ve spent the better part of the afternoon.

“We could get dolled up and go have a few drinks.”

I look down at my yoga pants, t-shirt and tube socks. The thought of replacing them with skintight jeans and heels makes me want to cringe. “Pass. Next option.”

Maggie looks around, making a clicking noise with her tongue. “I got it!” Jumping from the couch, she darts down the hall, and a couple seconds later she runs back with her laptop in tow. “Power that baby up,” she says, handing me her computer before she walks into the kitchen.

By the time I turn the computer on, Maggie comes strolling back in with a pint of vanilla ice cream, a bottle of chocolate syrup, and two spoons.

“Sorry.” She shrugs, sitting on the couch next to me. “I only have vanilla, but we can totally coat it in chocolate.”

“Don’t ever apologize for feeding me ice cream or chocolate.” Handing the laptop to Maggie, I grab the ice cream and peel open the lid, then pour the syrup all over it. Grabbing the spoons, I hand one to her, snuggle against the couch and we both dive in.

“What’s the laptop for?” I ask, shoveling the first bite of creamy deliciousness in my mouth.

A slow grin spreads across Maggie’s face. “We are going to find you a lobster.”

“Oh no. Nonono.” Shaking my head, I make a move for the computer, but she pulls it out of my reach.

“Oh yes. Yesyesyes.”

“Maggie—”

“Oh, come on. Loosen up. This could be fun,” she quips.

“I don’t even know what this is.” I scowl, dipping my spoon in the container for another bite.

“Marry me dot com.”

“Absolutely not,” I mumble around the ice cream in my mouth. “I will not do a dating site.”

“Why not?” she whines, giving me her best puppy-dog eyes.

“Well, first, because I just don’t want to. Second, it’s too soon. Wyatt and I just broke up.”

“Semantics,” she says, waving her hand through the air dismissively. “You were over Wyatt long before you cut the cord. Moving on will be a good thing. How about Mark from the surgical floor?”

“He has a boyfriend.”

“Oh,” Maggie says with a pout. “How about—?”

“How about you drop it?” I say, licking my spoon.

Maggie gives me the stare-down, and I return it with a cheeky grin. “Fine. Your loss,” she says, shrugging.

I watch quietly, eating away at the ice cream as Maggie pulls up the Internet and logs into her MySpace account. My eyes bounce around the screen, watching her click through several people’s profiles. Eventually, I get bored and grab the remote. I don’t know how she has time for all that. I certainly don’t. Well, I didn’t until now…

Turning on the TV, I find the news and drop the remote, listening as the anchor talks about yet another shooting in the city. “What is this world coming to?” I whisper.

“Katie?”

“What?”

“You need to update your MySpace page.”

“I know,” I answer, my eyes glued to the TV.

“No, seriously.” I glance over at Maggie and she points to her computer. “Your profile picture is from like two years ago, and there are a massive amount of pictures of you and Wyatt. Oh, look! According to your profile, the two of you are engaged.”

“Who cares?” I shrug, turning my attention back to the TV. “It’s not like I’m ever on MySpace anyway, and I don’t interact with anyone on there. I should probably just delete it.”

“You will not delete it,” she protests, poking me in the side. Laughing, I bat her hand away. “Awww, there’s Bailey … when she was sweet,” she mumbles. “Speaking of Bailey, how did things go the other night?”

“Not good. She’s mad at me. Again.”

“She has nothing to be mad about. It isn’t her decision. And she’s your sister; she should want you to be happy.”

Stabbing my spoon in the ice cream, I set the tub on the coffee table. “Can we talk about something else?” I ask. When I look up at Maggie, I see her eyes soften and she offers me a sympathetic smile.

“Sure,” she says, looking down at her computer.

A loud boom startles me, and I turn my attention back to the flat screen that is nestled against the wall. Flashes of bright orange light illuminate the screen. The horrific scene fades and a petite blonde comes into view, her high-pitched voice resonating through the speakers.

Four people were injured and two killed early Saturday morning when a roadside bomb struck a U.S. military convoy.

Devin. Oh my gosh, Devin!

My heart nearly explodes from my chest as I struggle to comprehend what she’s saying.

The attack occurred thirty kilometers south of Baghdad. This comes just two days after a string of bombings across Iraq have killed thirty-nine people, three of whom were American soldiers.

I place a trembling hand over my mouth as thoughts of Devin race through my head. Is that where he’s at? Is he okay? Are his men okay? My adrenaline spikes, pumping nervous energy through my veins, and I scoot forward on the couch. Dropping my hand from my mouth, I prop my elbows on my knees and listen carefully, each word causing my stomach to twist in knots.

A military spokesperson tells us that the four injured on Saturday were, in fact, American soldiers, and all are expected to make a full recovery. The two fatalities were not Americans but Iraqi civilians.

Several emotions hit me all at once with a force so powerful I feel it in my bones.

Fear.

Anxiety.

Relief.

He’s alive.

The breath whooshes from my lungs and I drop my chin, tangling my fingers in my hair. He could’ve been killed. His troops could’ve been killed. It’s possible that he was one of the four men injured, but knowing that all the soldiers will make a full recovery and no U.S. military deaths occurred helps to calm me down.

But my fingers twitch, the urge to write him and reach out to him stronger than it’s ever been. More than anything, I want to know he’s okay and that his men are okay, which terrifies the hell out of me because it means I’ve let him in. Somehow, in this short amount of time, I’ve allowed my feelings to come out of hiding and I’ve begun to care about him. You never stopped caring about him, I think to myself.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I push back the onslaught of emotions. How did this happen? Not only have I let myself get close enough to the one person who could hurt me again, but on top of that, he’s a soldier—someone who could easily be ripped away from me at any moment.

“Katie?”

The soft voice reaches through the fog, pulling me out, and I rub my eyes, determined not to cry. When I finally peek up, Maggie is watching me carefully.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” Straightening my back, I run a shaky hand over my face. “I’m good.”

“Really?” she asks, her eyebrows raised. “Because whatever that was”—she waves her hand in my direction—“it wasn’t okay.”

“Stop it. I’m fine. I just … that reporter …” Unable to get my words out, I finally give up and flop back on the couch. A couple of seconds pass and Maggie stays quiet, so I close my eyes, take a deep breath and say, “That news story scared the shit out of me. I’ve never paid much attention to the news. I’ve never had a reason to … until now.”

“Because of Devin?” she asks. I nod my head, listening to her fingers tap the keyboard of her laptop. “Remind me what his last name is? Devin what?”

“Clay. Devin Clay.” I pause, afraid to open my eyes because I’m sure I sound like a complete nutcase, and I don’t want to see it reflected in her eyes. “I know it’s silly. We haven’t talked in a decade, Maggie, but it’s like we never stopped.” My hand fists my shirt, right above my heart. “I can’t explain it, but I feel it … reconnecting with him was meant to happen.”

“Does he have really short dark hair?”

“No idea,” I quip, tossing my hand up in exasperation. I let it slump down covering my face. “I only know what he used to look like, and he hated short hair. It was always shaggy, but yes, it was dark.” Memories of threading my fingers through the curls at the nape of his neck flash through my head. “His hair was fucking sexy. It was rugged in a bad boy sort of way. I can’t picture him with short hair. I bet if he has short hair, then he’s probably not near as good-looking,” I rationalize, hating that I desperately want to know what he looks like. I want to know if his dark lashes still make his green eyes pop, and if the dimple in his left cheek still stands out the way it used to. “Yup”—my body relaxes—“I bet he hasn’t aged well. If I saw him, I probably wouldn’t feel a thing.”

I know that’s a fucking lie, because it wasn’t Devin’s looks that I fell in love with. It was his heart and his mind and so many other things that I’m not going to list because I am not interested in a relationship, damn it!

“Maybe you’d feel a little bit more than nothing,” she says suggestively. Flinging my arm off my face, my eyes fly open and I stare at Maggie. She glances down, smirking at me and then at her computer. “Because he sure as hell doesn’t look like a man that hasn’t aged well. Mmm-mmm-mmm. Nope, that soldier is sex on a stick.”

“Maggie,” I breathe, my eyes painfully wide. “You can’t look him up.”

She shrugs. “Too late, already did. Wanna see?” she asks, showing me her laptop.

“No!” Popping up, I quickly shut her laptop. Maggie’s mouth drops open. “Good Lord, Mags, he’s going to think I’m stalking him or something. You can’t just do that,” I say frantically. “You can’t just look someone up like that.”

“Why the hell not?”

“I … I don’t know. You just can’t. It feels wrong.”

“Oh, trust me,” she says, “It’s so not wrong.”

“Okay. Well, maybe I don’t want to know what he looks like anymore because that’s not what it’s about for me. I’m not interested in anything more than what we are right now, which is two old friends who have managed to—”

“Or maybe,” she says, pushing my hands off of her computer, “you need to stop worrying, stop thinking and just look. Maybe”—she opens her computer, which is still open to MySpace, and I cross my hands over the screen, shielding it from view—“the connection you feel toward Devin is strong, not because he’s an old friend but because he’s your lobster.” She waggles her eyebrows, a grin tipping the corner of her mouth.

“Oh good God, Maggie.” Pinching the bridge of my nose, I take a deep breath, fighting the urge to strangle my best friend. She can’t do this. She can’t plant these crazy notions in my head. “He is not my lobster.”

“Really? Your eyes light up when you talk about him,” she says. “He’s been able to pull things out of you with letters—fucking letters, Katie—that no one else could pull out of you. And just now when you were watching that news story, you nearly hyperventilated. Hell, I nearly hyperventilated just watching you.” She drops a gentle hand to my arm. “You two have a connection. I know you feel it because you’ve told me. And you’re right. It doesn’t matter what he looks like because that connection is there, and it’s real. But what if that connection has the potential to grow? What if that connection could blossom into so much more than friendship? What if you guys could not only get back what you lost, but gain so much more?”

Damn it. How does she always know the precise thing to say to get me to change my mind? Doesn’t she know I’m not ready for this? I mean, I’m not ready for this … right?

No, I know what I want and what I don’t want, and anything other than being friends with the only man to ever break my heart is something I definitely do not want. And if that’s the case, then seeing his picture won’t change anything.

But what if it does?

Shit.

Slowly, I drop my hands. Devin’s picture fills the screen, and every last image of the teenager-turned-man I had conjured up in my head falls to the wayside because the real him is so much more than I’d imagined. My heart races as my eyes roam over his profile picture, which was obviously taken at the beach.

His entire body is ripped, chiseled to perfection—much more so than the last time I saw him half naked. I can’t help but think that this is the type of body I read about in books. Board shorts sit low on hips. A thick, corded arm is slung over the shoulder of another man, equally as gorgeous in a rugged sort of way. As expected, Devin’s green eyes pop under thick dark lashes and pair perfectly with his straight nose and full lips, which are split into a breathtaking smile. He’s always had strong features, but they’re different now … more defined. And if that jawline isn’t enough to make any girl swoon, the single dimple in his left cheek—the one that I’ve always loved—would more than do the trick.

“Please tell me we can look at more pictures.” Maggie’s warm breath fans the side of my face, bringing me back to reality. I don’t even want to know how crazy the two of us would look to an outsider as we sit here drooling over a picture on a screen.

“Absolutely,” I say, nodding my head.

Maggie fist pumps the air. “Yes!” Clicking on the arrow, she slowly scrolls through pictures. There are several of Devin by himself, a few of him with some friends drinking beer and one of him with a girl. She’s a tall blonde with sparkling blue eyes. Her body is tucked in close to his, her left arm wrapped around his lower back. Devin’s arm is hooked around her neck in a kid-sister sort of way, but it does nothing to ease the tension in my stomach.

My mind drifts to my last email and the very important question that I asked him. Is this his girlfriend, or maybe his wife?

Suddenly, I want nothing more than to rush home and check my email. I know Maggie would let me use her computer, but my letters to and from Devin are just that … they’re mine.

Biting the inside of my cheek, I continue to take in the various photos when a thought pops into my head. “Maggie?”

“I know, I know.” She blows out a slow breath, her eyes glued to the screen. “You’re one lucky bitch.”