I stand in the doorway, rooted to the spot, watching him disappear up the stairs. The fallen jar has rolled to a stop against the baseboard and the bag of pastries lies crumpled at my feet. The afternoon sun pours through the windows and gilds everything in warm, honeyed light, so cheerful, as if my heart and my pride haven’t both just been scooped out with a melon baller.
Like I could. Like there’s anyone else who makes me feel the way he does.
He doesn’t stop when I call after him. He’s at the top of the landing and turning toward his bedroom, showing no signs of slowing down.
“Don’t you dare walk away from me!”
That, of all things, gets him. He pauses with one hand on the doorknob. His shoulders are a mountain range beneath his shirt.
“Go to your room, Rae.”
“No!” I reach the top
