Every day I come home from work and find myself sitting on the sofa for hours with the television off, listening to the sound of the neighbors walking across the floor in the upstairs apartment.
I expect tonight to be no different, but the second I close my apartment door and slide the chain over, I burst into sobs. Sitting against the front door with my back pressed against it and my legs drawn up, bent at the knees, I drag my hands through the top of my hair and sniffle back my tears. Minutes pass—it feels like an hour—and I’m still sitting on the floor in the same spot, torturing myself with memories of Hawaii, of Luke. I let my head fall back against the door and I gaze up at the ceiling, watching the blades on the ceiling fan move around and around, hypnotizing me, but still all I see is his face.
Finally I get up and storm my way into my bedroom, nearly tripping over a laundry basket, tears streaming down my cheeks, tears of anger and guilt and fear. I yank open the desk drawer and take Kendra’s letter into my fingers. And I stare at it. My eyes burn and I feel sick to my stomach and my head throbs.
Biting down hard, I slip my finger behind the tiny opening at one corner of the envelope and drag it harshly across, ripping it open. My tears get heavier, burning my nostrils and sinuses, blurring my vision. The envelope falls to the floor beside my shoes. The folded paper in my hand feels like the weight of the world. It’s so heavy, so painfully heavy.
I start to open it, but stop just as my fingers disappear behind the top fold. Choking on my tears, I crush the single sheet of paper in my hand and hold it against my chest, screaming to myself under my breath, close-lipped, teeth gritted, until I can’t see straight and my eyes slam shut.
I rip the paper to shreds without reading it and let each piece fall to the floor.
I need air. I can’t breathe.
I run out of my room, down the hall, through the living room, and out the front door into the cool night air.
I stop cold in my tracks, and what breath I have left is knocked right out of me when I see Luke staring back at me from the end of the sidewalk, his hands buried in the pockets of his jeans.
THIRTY-FOUR
Sienna
For a time that feels like forever, I can’t speak. I don’t blink. I feel like I’m hallucinating. Are my feet moving? I never realized I had been slowly walking toward him. Maybe he was walking toward me. I don’t know.
Luke smiles.
I shake my head over and over again, racked by overwhelming disbelief and relief and a hundred other emotions I can’t name.
“Sienna—”
Dashing across the sidewalk, I sprint toward him and fall into his arms.
“You’re OK!” I cry into his chest, his arms wrapped tightly around me, squeezing me nearly to death. “You’re not dead!”
“No, baby, no. I’m fine.” He kisses the top of my head.
“But … oh my God, I can’t believe you’re here.” I can’t think straight. My head feels swollen with emotion and questions and stuffy from the tears.
I pull away from his chest, but I don’t let him go and keep my arms wrapped around his waist.
“But I thought—” I look down, the black lettering on his brown T-shirt blurring in my vision.
“Luke,” I say, looking back up into his eyes, “how are you here?”
He smiles softly. “I know I said I’d wait for you,” he begins, “and I did for a while, but I couldn’t wait any longer. I had to see you.”
I’m confused. I’m not sure he is answering my question. I was asking how he’s alive. Because of Kendra’s letter. But the feeling of being wrapped in his arms again takes over and I don’t care about that right now.
“Sienna,” he says, and our eyes meet, “you’re all I’ve thought about since you left. I need you in my life.”
My gaze strays again.