I make it to my bed, fall in fully clothed and lie there, unsleeping, staring at the ceiling for hours. Maybe I should just leave. Go home. But something in me shies away from that. I went a week not seeing Nathan and I honestly hated it. I kept the depth of feelings buried under the ice, but it was lonely and not as fun and I missed him.

Now that I’ve had that date with him, it’d be even worse. I miss him right now, I hate that I’ve hurt him, made him sad, made him feel rejected.

I could feel it on the other side of the door.

I feel it from here.

I have to talk to him.

I don’t know what I’ll say, but…I have to see him.

I’m out the door before I realize I’m even on my feet. The weather has turned—a strong wind blows, whipping my hair and bending the trees, stirring the lake into frothing waves. There’s rain on the wind, drops here and there portending a downpour.

His lights are off, but I see a flicker of orange, smell smoke on the air; he’s lit a fire in the fireplace.

I don’t knock. I just open the door and walk in, like I have every right to, like he’s expecting me. He’s sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace, bare feet presented to the flames, wearing only his jeans. Bare chest, spackled with dark curly hairs, some silver here and there. Heavy chest muscles, heavy shoulders. Broad arms. Huge, leathery hands.

He has a book in his hands.

“Nadia,” he murmurs. Stands up. “Hi.”

I swallow. Not sure what I’m doing here. “Nathan, I…”

My eyes go to his hands. To the book held open by a big thumb. I can read the spine.

Redemption’s Song.

By Adrian Bell.

I know every book he ever wrote, including the half-begun, abandoned projects, the deleted chapters, the partly finished short stories and unpublished novellas and experimental sci-fi outline. That is not one of his books.

Yet there it is.

In Nathan’s hand.

“What is that?” I ask, my voice a hoarse whisper.

“Um…” He’s flummoxed. “I, it’s—” A sigh. “His last book.”

“Why do you have it?”

“That’s kind of hard to explain.”

“Try.”

“He…” Nathan trails off, licks his lips. “Shit.”

“Nathan, why do you have a book written by my dead husband that I’ve never heard of?”

“This is the only copy.” He slips a receipt out from between the last two pages, sticks it in his place and closes the book. Crosses the floor between us in a few long strides. “Here.”