I’m just terrified the distance will be too much.
What happens then?
Heartache.
That’s what happens.
But I refuse to think about that. I can’t. Instead, I focus on getting through the next two hours. What happens after that will just have to wait.
We pull down the long driveway in my Honda, Ford behind the wheel, and our fingers entwined on my thigh. Neither of us have said much since we started to get ready for the day. It’s as if neither knows what more to say. We have, however, said plenty with touch. There have been dozens of lingering traces and stolen kisses. It’s as if we’re saying more with our hands than we are with our mouths.
“Ready?” he asks, shutting off the car and turning to face me.
“Yep.” The word comes out in a high pitch, as if I didn’t speak it.
He gives me a small smile and squeezes my hand before slipping out of the car. Ford meets me at the passenger door, places his warm hand at the base of my back, and escorts me to the front door. As we approach, I’m wrapped in the familiarity and comforts of this farmhouse. The cows in the pasture, the delicious scents floating through the doorway, and the deep boisterous sounds of my uncle telling a joke to whoever is in the kitchen.
And now, I’ll always associate this entrance with the final time I walked in with Ford.
The sadness makes it hard to breathe.
“Hey!” I holler chipperly as we push through the doorway.
“Hey!” a chorus of voices replies from the kitchen.
Kicking off my shoes, I follow the laughter and smile as I step over the threshold. “Chad was just telling us about the time he and Ford sang karaoke their first night off base,” Aunt Joan says, wiping a tear from her cheek.
“Ugh,” Ford groans behind me. “Why?” he asks his friend, the humor evident in his question.
Chad just laughs. “Because it was horrible. And funny.”
I take a seat as a glass of freshly squeezed lemonade is placed in front of me, anxious to hear more.
“That was the tequila talking,” Ford states, taking a quick sip of his own drink.
Chad nods. “And the dare.”
“Dare?” I ask, my eyes completely focused on the man sitting beside me.
“One of the other recruits dared us to sing.”
“One hundred bucks each,” Chad replies.
“What did you have to sing?” I ask, catching the glance between Chad and Ford.
“Nothing,” Ford mutters, casting his eyes downward.
“You have to tell her,” Cassie adds through her fit of laughter.
“No, I don’t. I have to maintain some sort of dignity on this trip,” Ford argues, though there’s a hint of a grin on the corner of his lips.
“Tell her or I will,” my cousin demands, her hair pulled up high on her head and a humorous glint in her eyes.
“Nope.”
“It’s okay,” I state, reaching over and squeezing his hand. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”
He sags into the chair and sighs. “Good. Thank you. If I told you, then there’s a good chance you’d think less of me, and I don’t think I could handle that today.”
Something inside me cracks. My heart. It bleeds with affection for this amazing man. How he thinks I could think anything less of him is beyond me. He’s perfect.
Everyone is silent for a minute before Cassie blurts, “‘It’s Raining Men!’”
And the room bursts into fits of giggles.
I can’t hold it in, and I follow suit. Even after I glance at Ford and see the color drain from his face. Clearing my throat, I whisper, “That’s what you had to sing?”
He nods, mortification clearly written across his handsome features. “I needed those hundred bucks. There was also a lot of liquor involved. I’m just glad you weren’t there to see it.”
I give him a reassuring grin and place my hand on top of his. “It’s okay. I don’t think any less of you.”
Ford lets out a long sigh of relief as Aunt Joan places bowls of food on the table between us. Everyone digs in, filling their plates with homemade macaroni and cheese, asparagus from the garden, and grilled beef tips. A delicious homecooked meal for their last one in Kentucky. We all dive in, my mouth full of creamy mac and cheese, when Chad drops the bomb on the lunch table.
“I have it all on video.”
“Wanna go for a quick walk?”
I finish loading the dishwasher for Aunt Joan, trying to ignore the time on the clock above the stove. Thirty minutes. They’re leaving in thirty short minutes, and I am not okay.
“All right,” I whisper, my throat dry and my heart trying to rip out of my chest like the Hulk. I take another quick glance at the clock on my way to the back door.
Twenty-eight minutes.
The sun is bright in the sky, the complete opposite of my mood. It should be gray and dreary out here. Then it would be just like my mood.