But can we work together like we need to? That’s yet to be answered.

I down most of the bottle of water. The cool liquid helps lower my still-heated emotions. Just because I survived the day and completed my typical daily tasks doesn’t mean that everything is going to be fine. My workload is about to double, maybe even triple, and there’s nothing I can do about it if I want a job.

My head pounds. Pain radiates from my temples through my skull. I’m headed to the bathroom to find a Tylenol when I hear a knock at the door.

Cole.

In the chaos of the day, I’ve forgotten he was coming over. And our date. And our conversation.

I yank the door open, desperate to see his face and feel his arms around me. His face lights up when he sees me, as if a joke is on the tip of his tongue. All it takes is one quick look for his humor to fade.

“Palmer?”

I’m not sure why seeing him on my front porch brings tears to my eyes, but it does.

He steps inside as I propel myself toward him and bury my face in his chest. He struggles to shut the door behind him before wrapping me up in his arms and squeezing me so tight that I think I might burst.

This is what I needed.

I breathe him in, letting the spiciness of his cologne cart me away from the troubles of my day. I lean into him and absorb the sturdiness of his body, which I appreciate today more than ever.

I pull back. He wipes my tears with the pads of his thumbs. His touch is tender yet intentional—just like his presence in my life.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, his voice full of concern.

“I bet I look like a disaster, huh?”

He bends down and kisses me sweetly. “You couldn’t look like a disaster if you tried.”

It’s a lie. I know that. But it’s a lie I’m willing to take.

I take his hand and lead him downstairs. He sits on one end of the couch as I put my phone on the coffee table. Then he pulls me onto his lap, as if he knows I need the contact—that somehow having him here eases the stress of the day. It does. It so does.

“Okay,” he says, getting us situated. “What’s going on?”

“Kirk’s wife, Charlotte, has cancer. He came into the office today to get a few things and told me.”

“That’s . . . that’s horrible.”

“They’ve been married forever, and now she has a year to live. How do you survive that?” I ask, my voice breaking. “I don’t know which side would be worse—Charlotte’s, because it’s her life that’s ending, or Kirk’s? Because his life is ending too.”