“Teamwork,” she agreed, and when he held up his hand for a high five, she rolled her eyes and slapped his hand down. “Dork.”

He bumped her hip. She bumped his back. He tried not to remember that moment outside when he’d said—God, he’d said so much wild shit, pressed up against that unbelievable body of hers, and her pupils had blown behind her glasses and her mouth had dropped slightly open and her breaths had coalesced quickly in the cold air between them, and he’d thought, high as a fucking kite, She doesn’t hate this.

But it didn’t matter if she had or hadn’t hated it. She didn’t want it. So Will shoved the memory firmly from his mind, and when it crept back, he shoved it again, and when it returned a third time, he had very stern words with it and decided it was best if he ignored his entire brain for the rest of the day. He was totally capable of that.

“Grapefruit,” he said, starting things off by blurting the first food his eyes landed on. “I like grapefruit. Grapefruit on the list, Abbie?”

“Mmm…” She frowned, scanning the sheet of paper. “Noooo, but grapes are.”

“Both,” Will said. “Let’s get both.” And then, before his brain could show him more shit he didn’t want to think about, he threw ten grapefruits and a few punnets of grapes into the trolley and moved on. “Mango. I like mango.”

“Christ. We should never have left the house before breakfast.”

Will frowned. “I thought you had breakfast. Didn’t you? Are you hungry?”

“I’m fine,” she said. “You’re hungry.” Her words were exasperated, but she was all warm and secretly fond again, killing him softly. Fuck.

Later, he told the longing in his gut. Later, later, later. And then he put it away, for now.

Five

two years ago

It was midnight, which meant it was Christmas, and Abbie was alone. Alone in a house full of family she couldn’t even talk to because her husband—her own husband—had abandoned her and she was wrapped up in pride and shame. She couldn’t allow anyone to know her feelings because those feelings were foolish and dramatic.

That’s what he told her, anyway. As if she was nuts. As if she couldn’t see and hear and feel him slipping away from her, frantically erasing the pencil he’d written his vows in. This was the second year in a row they’d spent Christmas apart, and when she tried to bring it up, he said, “Stop fucking nagging. You hate Christmas, anyway.” As if holidays like this one weren’t secretly worthwhile beneath the bullshit, as if religious festivals didn’t mean Find your family. As if family wasn’t everything to her.

He was supposed to be hers.