She nods, points to a photo album on the coffee table. “And keep my pictures by your bed so you recognize me.” She yawns with a wide-open mouth, eyes squeezed shut. “Do you want to come with me to make doughnuts? It’s tomorrow morning before school.”

I write it down and add it to my phone. “I’d love that.”

“Good night, Ms. Claire.” She smiles at me above a wool blanket she’s pulled to her shoulders. It’s a sweet smile that deepens a dimple in her chin. I reach down, tuck a piece of hair behind her ear, touch the dimple lightly.

“Good night, Maree. I’m glad you’re here.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Friday, February 22

The next morning, I find a pan of cinnamon rolls outside my door along with a note. This was our favorite weekend treat. Do you remember how it filled our entire apartment with the smell of sugar and dough? Dad said it smelled like family. I love you, Claire, and I hope this batch tastes as good as you remember. Love, Mom (I live in Whittier and I’m sober.)

I bring the rolls inside, stick her note to the refrigerator, which is covered with note cards similar to this one, from her and—my face warms—Tate Dunn. I do remember her cinnamon rolls. The scent would pull me out of bed on the coldest and darkest of mornings, and we’d sit around the table, my parents with mugs of strong black coffee, me with a glass of milk.

Maree and I eat the rolls, which are as good as I remember, and she entertains me with her near-constant stream of chatter. I love it. She’s in the bathroom taking a shower when there’s a knock at my door.

I open it to a handsome dark-haired and older version of Tate. My knees go weak, and I touch my hair, wondering whether I’ve bothered to pull a comb through it yet.

He’s smiling. “How did Maree do?”

I tilt my head, try to come up with an answer.

“My daughter, Maree, stayed the n . . . n-ight with you because I missed the tunnel. Oh, here.” He hands me a note card, which I read, feeling the blush spread up my cheeks, before I attach it to the fridge with all the others.

But my apartment is empty, and just as a panic starts to spread, I hear a whooshing sound from the bathroom pipes and smile. “She’s in the shower.”

“Perfect.” Tate takes my hand, pulls me toward him, and the contact startles me even if it feels familiar and comfortable. He’s everything I remember, except different and more, his chest hard and solid, arms firm around me, and then he kisses me like it’s the most natural thing in the world, pressing his lips into mine, hands spanning my hips.