Chapter 8
At seven P.M. Vee texted that he was on his way, and I spent the time it took for him to arrive in the kitchen, staring out the window, trying to come up with a game plan. My fingers played on the countertop.
Despite the revelation I’d had that day, I still had a lot of questions. I needed him to tell me the reasons for leaving in the first place. And what made him decide to come back. So, taking it slow was on the agenda. No throwing myself headfirst into anything I would regret later.
My brain agreed; it was reasonable. The mature thing to do.
But apparently my heart was of a different opinion, because when his car finally pulled into my driveway, I ran. Through the house and out the door with no shoes on—only socks, I never used shoes when I played the piano—and flew into
