“I really am sorry.” “So am I.” I can’t look at the top of his head without remembering how it felt to run my fingers through his hair. “I’ve pretty much been thinking about it every day for six years straight.” “Me too.” His head comes back up, eyes meeting mine. “I haven’t…I don’t ever, um, do that.” Oh, sweetheart. “Nobody since then?” He shakes his head and I blow out a soft breath. He deserves better than a quick grope against a brick wall. He turns around again, facing the stove, and I assume my thoughts were written loud and clear across my face.
