Chapter 5
He doesn’t tell me when he’s coming.
That’s the first thing that goes wrong.
It all hits when my mom mentions it over dinner like it’s casual. Like it’s not a bomb.
“There’s a young man staying with the Andersons,” she says, passing the salad. “Helping out with church work. His name’s Josh.”
I choke.
Isolation locks my throat tight. I don’t look up. Don’t react. Don’t exist.
“Oh?” I manage.
Hope flickers in the way my dad nods. “Nice kid. Very polite.”
He’s here.
And I didn’t know.
I see him the next day at the grocery store stacking apples.
Of course I do.
It slams into me so hard I almost turn my cart around. He’s in the cereal aisle. Plain shirt. Jeans. Hair shorter than when he left. Same posture. Same careful stillness.
He looks… older. Tighter around the eyes.
But taller. More masculine. His shoulder broader.
New circular glasses. More beautiful. More Josh.
It freezes me in place.
Then he looks up.
And everything else drops out.
What ever it is between us detonates.
He smiles before he can stop himself. Not the mission smile. The real one. The one that only shows up when he forgets who’s watching.
“Chloe,” he says softly. Bursting with us.
I remember where we are. Who might see. Who already does.
An older woman from church nods at him. Looks at me with polite curiosity.
Josh straightens instantly.
“Hi,” he says. Louder. Neutral. “Good to see you.”
I mirror him. Just enough distance. Just enough restraint.
“Yeah,” I say. “You too.”
The moment cracks.
He pushes his cart away first.
That night, there’s a knock on my door.
My parents are home. The walls are thin.
I open it anyway.
Josh stands there on the porch, hands empty. No bag. No excuse prepared.
“I shouldn’t be here,” he says immediately.
We don’t hug. Don’t touch.
Quiet. Charged.
“I didn’t know how else to see you,” he adds.
I close the door behind me and step onto the porch.
The festive lights from ten years ago still hang around our family home.
I look at him.
He looks at me. And smiles.
“Wait here” I say and step back inside the house.
I lift up my bedroom window and signal for him to climb through.
We sit on opposite ends of my bed.
This feels teenage. Secretive. Risky.
I realize how much he’s still holding back.
“They don’t know about you,” he says. “Not really.”
He looks at me directly. No filter. No script.
“But I do,” he says. “I know what this is.”
It all lands in his next breath.
“I can’t stay long.”
My chest tightens.
“How long is not long?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer right away.
“That depends,” he says carefully, “on how much damage I’m willing to cause.”
We don’t kiss.
That’s the second thing that goes wrong.
We sit there. Close enough to feel it. Close enough to want it.
Embarrassment thrums under my skin. Like I’m waiting for permission that isn’t coming.
I realize how practiced he is at restraint.
He reaches out. Takes my hand. Just holds it.
“My dad checks in every night,” he says. “Asks who I talked to. Where I went.”
I swallow.
“So why are you here?” I ask.
He looks at me like the answer costs him something.
“Because I couldn’t stop writing to you,” he says. “Even when I wasn’t supposed to.”
He leans forward and kisses me.
My whole world shifts.
Like nothing before.
I feel my toes like I’ve never felt them before.
My body is warm.
His arms wrap around me and he just holds me.
His strong body protecting me.
“I don’t know what to do” he whispers.
We kiss again and he slips out into the night.
I watch him disappear down the road.
No idea of what we do next.
