Besides, after seeing that wounded look in Nate’s eyes, I wanted to know him even more. Past the attraction, past the flutters in my stomach, I wanted to ask him what troubled him and then soothe any broken parts inside him. I wondered if he had ever been able to talk to someone—really talk to them. I had that—always had that with my parents. But maybe he hadn’t.

As I drove down the state route, Bridgeway looked like any other Podunk town, with a strip of motels and fast-food places off the exit. But then Nate had me take two right turns and then a left. Gradually the landscape began transforming into this pretty and charming part of town.

The houses were one or two stories with large porches. Given that the fall leaves were just beginning to turn, we’d been given a picturesque backdrop. It could have been a postcard of some coastal town in the eastern part of the United States instead of the ordinary and unremarkable Midwest.

“Is the house you grew up in around here?” I asked.

He hesitated a moment and then said, “Yeah.”

“Will we be passing it?” I wasn’t sure if that was a reasonable question to ask or not. Nate seemed different since we’d gotten off the exit. He was wound tight as a coil of rope—his hands clenched at his sides, even his knee had stopped shaking, as if all of his energy was needed to hold the pieces of himself in place.

It made my heart drop to my stomach because for the first time, I realized that Nate’s decision to come on this trip with me must’ve been huge. But he’d still agreed to do it, for me. I had no idea what memories this town held for him, but I knew they must’ve been heavy. Because that’s how the air in this car felt now—thick and substantial.

I was just about to voice my concerns out loud. To tell him that we could turn around or go a different route but then he said, “Another quarter of a mile, it’ll be coming up on your right.”

The houses were becoming larger, the yards roomier. We passed a few sprawling lawns that were well maintained before his arm flung past my shoulder and he pointed out the driver’s side window. “It’s coming up. Two more driveways. Right . . . there.”

For some reason, my heart was pressing against my chest, swelling and thumping. As if I was experiencing this right along with him. “Do you . . . do you want me to stop?”

“Please,” he said on an intake of breath.

I slowed the truck down and pulled over on the side of the road.

His eyes were bulging as he stared at the light yellow house with the huge wraparound porch and several tall willow trees in the front. It seemed modest in comparison to the way his family lived now—not that I’d seen his family estate, only heard of it—and I wondered if his parents had come by their wealth later in life. Or maybe this was just how country folks lived. You didn’t need much out here except fresh air and space. Even still, that house was larger than two of my childhood homes put together.

“Haven’t been back here in so many years,” he said, still staring at the house where he grew up. “It looks smaller somehow.”

“Probably seemed bigger when you were just a tot,” I offered.

“True.” He reached past me and pushed the button to unroll the window. Then stuck out his hand. “See the window on the far end of the house?”

I was still adjusting to the fact that Nate had leaned over me, brushing past my chest, and now was so close to me that I could scarcely breathe. I forced my eyes to follow his hand. “Uh-huh.”

“That was my bedroom.”

Undoubtedly without realizing it, he had propped himself even further over my lap to get a closer look at that section of the house. As his hair tickled my cheek, I inhaled his scent. It reminded me of something clean and citrus, like lemons or perhaps apples. Must have been his shampoo. I had spotted some generic drugstore brand while using his bathroom. I wanted to lean forward and run my nose along his hairline, but instead I held in a breath.

Nate straightened his torso just slightly as he continued to stare out my window. His shoulder was brushing my arm, his other hand resting on the ledge of my window. He turned his face slightly to glance at me and then his eyes focused in on his current surroundings. It was as if he’d dragged himself away from the collection of images flashing through his head.

As if he’d just realized how near his body was to mine. His face. His lips. So damn close. I inhaled a lungful of air through my nose, so it didn’t seem like I was bothered by his proximity and then I simply stared into his whiskey-colored eyes.

He sat there unmoving, seemingly mesmerized by my eyes as well. We’d never been this close before, outside of our bathroom collision, and the strangest, most astonishing thing about it was that it didn’t feel uncomfortable or even unnatural.

Neither of us moved away but we were definitely both hyperaware of each other. His breaths were short and choppy and I could feel the wisps of air against my lips. All he had to do was slant forward and our noses would meet, our foreheads, our mouths.

He studied my lips corner to corner and then his gaze slid up to my eyes. I tried to keep them wide open instead of closing them on a sigh. Because the intensity of his gaze was all consuming, devastating even. There was so much written there, behind those amber beauties. So much darkness and brightness, pain and splendor.

So much I wanted—and now, needed—to know. If only he’d allow me that privilege.

There was a flash of color in our peripheral vision and a blur of sound. We turned simultaneously to look at his childhood home.