The words are weighty, but I mean them, and I think Luke does, too. And, strangely, for their heaviness, I feel light. This feels easy.
We lie here, Luke and I, inhaling each other’s breath and listening to the ticktock of the clock, when a very unpleasant gurgling growl erupts from the depths of me.
“Was that your stomach?” Luke asks, looking down at my abdomen.
“Yes!” I blurt out, before launching into a fresh wave of delirium. “I… told… you… I… was… hungry!” I manage to say between gasps for breath. He shakes his head at me and then slowly stands up. The sight of him towering above me in all his gorgeousness steals my giggles.
“Let’s get you a grilled cheese,” he says, offering me his hands.
“Finally!” I say back, allowing him to pull me from the floor. Once I’m standing, I shiver: the cold from the tile beneath the rug made it through me.
“Cold?” he asks.
“Yep. I’m going to go grab a sweatshirt. You make yourself comfortable in the kitchen.”
I run up the stairs and search my bedroom for something fuzzy and warm. Nothing in plain view, I hit the closet light and start pulling folded items from the shelf. I evaluate my options and settle on a tan hoodie that I know from my notes is Luke’s.
Checking my reflection in the mirror, I decide to take the extra minute to pull my hair back into a ponytail. As I wrap the hair tie once, twice, then three times, my eyes scan the room, seeing it as Luke might.
If I let him come up here tonight.
The bed is beautifully made: Mom must have tidied up after we left for the dance. The throw pillows are lined up just so.
There is a photo of Luke and me in a dark wooden frame on the desk. I don’t remember when it was taken.
In the corner, the hamper is empty.
On the nightstand are the lamp and an empty coaster where a used tea mug sat earlier. My mom really must have cleaned….
Wait.
For a blink, I look back to the nightstand in the mirror. Then I turn around on the stool to see it firsthand.
It looks so… bare.
Because it is.
Because it is!
My pulse quickens as I quiz myself.
Where are my notes?
Did Mom move them? Did she put them away?
No, she wouldn’t do that. Or would she? I stand and rush across the room. I check the nightstand drawer and the desk drawers, too.
I chew my pointer fingernail, thinking. I turn slowly around the room, scanning every surface.
Did I take them somewhere?
Where would I take them?
Where did I have them last?
My breath sucks in almost before I fully realize what’s happened.