Quiet evening in Coldwater

It is 71 degrees outside here in Coldwater. A gentle breeze is fluttering the curtains in the lobby. Harvey is snoring on his back in front of the door; Nash and Young are piled up next to him, a silent confusion of calico and gray tabby fluff with little paws and ears and baby-pink noses sticking out in random directions.

Joey is sitting in my bubble chair, reading The Spaceship Under the Apple Tree all by himself — which makes me so proud I don’t know whether to burst into tears or smile until my face hurts — and I am trying to type this very quietly so as not to wake Grant, who has fallen asleep here on the couch with his head on my shoulder.

I hate to see Grant so exhausted, even if he has assured me that it’s a temporary and completely normal condition that will correct itself in a couple of weeks, but he is so very cute when he’s sleepy that I can’t help relishing these peaceful moments when he is dozing beside (or on) me with his soft, dark hair tousled and his impossibly handsome face relaxed except for an occasional twitch at the corner of his mouth as he dreams.

Earlier tonight, I was looking back at the blog entry I wrote the day after I met him. Did I really think he looked ordinary? How did I miss the movie-star smile, the carelessly perfect hair just beginning to flirt with a trace of silver, the gentle eyes, the commanding presence, the beautiful complexion darkened but somehow undamaged by 10 years of rough-and-tumble weekends in the Arizona sun? Is he this stunning everywhere, or are my eyes the only ones that see it?

I should wake him so he can get home and go to bed, but I’d rather sit still and study his face for just a little longer. Beautiful boy; selfish, selfish girl.

— Sierra


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