Before today, I would've caved in a heartbeat. Pulled her into my arms without a second thought.
But those words—plant two cabbages—were lodged in my skull like a needle.
No matter what I did, I couldn't pull it out.
I looked at her.
She was still beautiful.
Soft eyes, lips pressed together in a slight pout, that hint of playful petulance she always wore so well.
I'd looked at this face for five years. Knew it so well I could trace every line with my eyes closed.
But now, with her pressed against me, she felt like a stranger.
A wave of nausea surged up from my stomach.
I pushed her away before I even realized what I was doing.
Her hand slipped off my arm. Her whole body went rigid.
A few seconds of silence. Then she lifted her head, her voice still impossibly gentle.
"Honey, what's wrong?"
"Long ride home. I'm wiped out. Not in the mood. Next time."
I lay down the moment the words left my mouth. Turned my back to her.
She didn't press. Just turned off the lamp.
The sheets rustled for a moment, and then she was there, curled against my back, her arms wrapping around me from behind. Her chin settled into the hollow between my shoulder blades, her breath warm and steady.
"Next time, then."
She murmured it right against my ear. Soft. Sweet.
In the darkness, her arm circled my waist, her palm flat against my stomach, holding me like a gentle lock I couldn't break.
She was asleep in less than ten minutes.
I didn't close my eyes all night.
Every memory I had played on a loop behind my eyelids, over and over.
Marjorie and I met in college.
She was a sophomore. I was a junior.
One afternoon in the library, she sat down across from me and checked out the exact book I'd been reaching for.
She said sorry for the trouble. I said no trouble at all. One thing led to another, and we got close.
When she smiled, her eyes curved into little crescents. She spoke softly, gently. She was the kind of girl who made you want to protect her.
I fell hard.
After graduation, I stayed in Riverport for her. She landed a government position in the city.
By our third year together, I'd bought us a place. I got down on one knee.
She cried and said yes.
On our wedding day, Rufus Gilbert stood right beside me as my best man.
Crisp suit, handing me the ring.
He was my childhood friend. We'd grown up together, tearing through the same neighborhood since before we could tie our own shoes.