Myron sat very still and listened.
The front door opened.
Whoever it was, they were trying to keep quiet. Myron crept to the wall next to his bedroom door. He waited, listened some more. The intruder had gone through the front door. That was odd. The lock was old. It could be picked. But to be that silent about it—just one quick click—it meant whoever it was, or whoever they were, they were good.
He waited.
Footsteps.
They were light. Myron pressed his back against the wall. The gun tightened in his hand. His leg ached from the bite. His head pounded. He tried to swim through it, tried to focus.
He calculated the best place to stand. Pressed against the wall next to the door, where he was now—that was good for listening, but it wouldn’t be ideal, despite what you see in the movies, if someone entered his room. In the first place, if the guy was good, he’d be looking for that. In the second place, if there were more than one of them, jumping someone from behind the door would be the worst place to be. You’re forced to attack right away and thus expose your location. You might nail the first guy, but the second one would lay you to waste.
Myron padded toward the bathroom door. He stood behind it, kept low, the door almost closed. He had a perfect angle. He could see the intruder enter. He could shoot or call out—and if he did shoot, he’d still be in a good position if someone else either charged in or retreated.
The footsteps stopped outside his bedroom door.
He waited. His breath rang in his ears. Win was good at this, the patience part. That had never been Myron’s forte. But he calmed himself. He kept his breathing deep. His eyes stayed on the open doorway.
He saw a shadow.
Myron aimed his gun at the middle of it. Win might go for the head, but Myron zeroed in on the center of the chest, the most forgiving target.
When the intruder stepped through the doorway and into a bit of light, Myron nearly gasped out loud. He stepped out from the behind the door, still holding the gun.
“Well, well,” the intruder said. “After seven years, is that a gun in your hand or are you just happy to see me?”
Myron did not move.
Seven years. After seven years. And within seconds, it was like those seven years had never happened.
Jessica Culver, his former soul mate, was back.
CHAPTER 27
They were downstairs in the kitchen.
Jessica opened up the refrigerator. “No Yoo-hoo?”
Myron shook his head. Chocolate Yoo-hoo had been his favorite beverage. When they lived together, he’d always had plenty on hand.
“You don’t drink it anymore?”
“Not much.”
“I guess one of us should note that everything changes.”
“How did you get in?” he asked.
“You still keep the key in the gutter. Just like your father did. We used it once. Do you remember?”
He did. They’d sneaked down to the basement, giggling. They’d made love.
Jessica smiled at him. The years showed, he guessed. There were more lines around the eyes. Her hair was shorter and more stylized. But the effect was still the same.
She was knock-you-to-your-knees beautiful.
Jessica said, “You’re staring.”
He said nothing.
“Good to know I still have it.”
“Yeah, that Stone Norman is a lucky man.”
“Right,” she said. “I figured you’d see that.”
Myron said nothing.
“You’d like him,” she said.
“Oh, I bet.”
“Everyone does. He has lots of friends.”
“Do they call him Stoner?”
“Only his old frat buddies.”
“I should have guessed.”
Jessica studied him for a moment. Her gaze made his face warm. “You look like hell, by the way.”
“I took something of a beating today.”
“Some things don’t change then. How’s Win?”
“Speaking of things that don’t change.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“We going to keep this up,” Myron said, “or are you going to tell me why you’re here?”
“Can we keep this up for a few more minutes?”
Myron shrugged a suit-yourself at her.
“How are your parents?” she asked.
“Fine.”
“They never liked me.”
“No, I don’t suppose they did.”
“And Esperanza? Does she still refer to me as Queen Bitch?”
“She hasn’t so much as mentioned your name in seven years.”
That made her smile. “Like I’m Voldemort. In the Harry Potter books.”
“Yep, you’re She-who-must-not-be-named.”
Myron shifted in his chair. He turned away for a few seconds. She was just so damn beautiful. It was like looking into an eclipse. You need to look away every once in a while.
“You know why I’m here,” she said.
“One last fling before you marry Stoner?”
“Would you be willing?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
He wondered if she was right, so he took the mature route. “Are you aware that ‘Stoner’ rhymes with ‘boner’?”
“Making fun of someone’s name,” Jessica said, “when yours is Myron.”
“Throwing stones, glass houses, yeah, I know.” Her eyes were red. “Are you drunk?”
“Tipsy maybe. I had enough to get my courage up.”
“To break into my house?”
“Yes.”
“So what is it, Jessica?”
“You and I,” she said. “We’re not really through.”
He said nothing.
“I pretend we’re done, you pretend we’re done. But we both know better.” Jessica turned to the side and swallowed. He watched her neck. He saw hurt in her eyes. “What was the first thing that went through your mind when you read I was getting married?”
“I wished you and Stoner nothing but the best.”
She waited.
“I don’t know what I thought,” he said.
“It hurt?”
“What do you want me to say, Jess? We were together a long time. Of course there was a pang.”
“It’s like”—she paused, thought about it—“it’s like, despite the fact I haven’t talked to you in seven years, it was always just a question of time before we got back together. Like this was all part of the process. Do you know what I mean?”
He said nothing, but he felt something deep inside him start to fray.