Andrew Kelly

Painful, the way his heart beat at a clip when he heard her on the farmhouse stairs, the way his breaths went unsteady, his head electric. He’d blink up at her from the wide old willow outside her window and think she looked just like spring was meant to look, her hair the color of rusted orchids, pink peonies in her cheeks, her smile a bold dahlia red.

“You always wait up for me.”

The place where they’d grown, even if what they’d grown into were strangers.