You Make Me by Erin McCarthy

want to text and have to do the whole what’s your address thing. It just seemed like then I was eager. Which was ridiculous. But that’s the way it felt, rational or not.
    Fortunately he texted me with his address as I was drying my hair. I knew that it was risky to meet him alone, at his place. But I didn’t want to have a private, potentially emotional conversation with him in front of a bunch of random people at the coffee shop or wherever. We would get interrupted if I ran into anyone I knew and it was entirely possible someone would say something to Ethan.
    But most of all, I didn’t want to cry in public.
    Because I was pretty sure I was going to at some point.
     
    As I walked up to the place Heath was living in, I was sick to my stomach from nerves. I hadn’t been able to eat anything because I was so tense, and the coffee felt like it was curdling in my gut. I had messed around with my hair for half an hour and had put on makeup, only to wipe the eyeshadow off. I wasn’t trying to impress him. I threw my hair up in a messy bun and wore jeans, a basic sweater, and fuzzy boots. It was Sunday. Effort on a Sunday looked like you were trying too hard.
    My palms were clammy in my gloves and I wasn’t sure what was going to come out of my mouth, but the second Heath opened the door and gave me a small smile, I forgot to be nervous.
    “Hey,” I said.
    “Hey.” He opened the door wide and gave me a searching, sincere look. “Thanks for coming, Cat. Seriously.”
    I moved past him, curious to see where he was living. It was a studio in an old house and he had almost no furniture. Just a futon couch that had blankets on it like he slept there, and a rickety chair in the corner. No TV. A suitcase propped open, clothes spilling out. The kitchenette was mostly bare. It was cold. Sad. There was nothing homey about it, but I figured he had just moved in. He wasn’t going to bust out the framed photos on day one.
    “When did you get out of the Marines?” I asked, pulling my gloves off and standing in the middle of the room.
    “A year ago. I stayed in Afghanistan working for a private contractor and I banked a ton of money. Just got back a few weeks ago.”
    So he had some money saved. That was good. I worried. Which was ridiculous. He didn’t need or want me to worry about him. “It sounds… scary.”
    He shrugged. “Yeah. At times. But the bank account is looking good. It was worth it.”
    “Not if you had been killed.”
    Heath crossed his arms over his chest. He was wearing a Marines t-shirt actually and jeans with a tear in the knee. He was definitely more muscular than he’d been at eighteen.
    “And who would there have been to give a shit if I’d been killed?”
    Anger surged through me. “You know I would care if you died! How could you say that?” The emotion of the last two days boiled up and over and I threw my gloves at him. They bounced off his chest and fell to the floor.
    He raised his eyebrows. “Well, you haven’t changed, despite your sorority makeover.”
    I was breathing hard and I knew he was right. Feisty Cat, who ran across the island barefoot, still simmered under the surface. It didn’t surprise me that it had taken him sixty seconds to draw her back out. “Don’t put this on me. You left. We were together…” My voice cracked. “And you just fucking left, without a word. Do you know how many nights I spent wondering and worrying about you? I was sure you were dead and I would never know what had happened to you. So don’t stand there all fucking casual and act like it wouldn’t matter if you lived or died.”
    “So what you’re saying is that you would have cared if I died?” He came towards me, his stride slow, determined. His eyes had darkened.
    Oh, shit. My anger evaporated. I knew that look. That was a look that couldn’t happen. I fought the urge to take a step back. “You know I would. I won’t say it again.”
    He had reached me and he stood so close, his chest