Read When I Was You for Free Online

Queen.
    Every closet.
    Every room.
    Every window.
    Every door.
    Every latch and lock and screen.
    When this house was first built nearly a century ago, it was designed with a servants’ entrance and servants’ quarters.
    If you ask me, there are entirely too many points of entry in this place, but boarding any of them up would ruin the historical accuracy this street is known for, not to mention all the guff I’d get for turning this place into an eyesore.
    It’s half past one when Niall comes out of his office. I have a rag and a can of lemon-scented Pledge in my hand when he passes the dining room. Might as well wipe down the windowsills while I’m making my rounds.
    “Hi,” he says, stopping and resting his hands on his hips. “Need help with anything?”
    “I’m good.” I turn my back to him, running the cloth along the dusty wood. “What do you have going on today?”
    “Going to meet up with a friend for coffee,” he says.
    A friend.
    I wonder if that’s code for his estranged wife. Will they be discussing a reconciliation over coffee? That’s something classy Niall would do. He’s so sensible, allergic to drama. It’s one of the qualities I admire most about him.
    Trying to get a rein on my thoughts, I force away any miniature nightmare I have of Niall packing his things and moving out because he’s decided to try to make it work again with his wife.
    I’m getting ahead of myself, an old childhood habit of always assuming the worst-case scenario. My mother only had custody of me for eight years, but in those eight years, it seemed like anything that could go wrong always did. Evictions. Repo’d cars. Empty cupboards. My mom disappearing for days at a time . . .
    My grandparents insisted on placing me in therapy to quell my anxieties, and it took years to undo that early damage. I fear the attack might be bringing those thoughts to the surface again.
    “Want me to bring you back anything?” he asks. “We’re going to that new café on Carter. I could grab you a scone or something. Blueberry, right?”
    I love scones. Blueberry scones to be specific. He remembered because that’s what good friends do.
    I turn to him, fighting the urge to grin like a schoolgirl. “That would be amazing.”
    “Consider it done.” He fishes in his front pocket, producing his key. “See you in a few.”
    I offer a casual wave and watch from the dining room windows as he backs out of the driveway a minute later, the flash of his shiny silver Volvo glinting in the sun.
    Glancing toward the stairs, I realize I haven’t been in his area in months. I generally try to avoid his space, but his bedroom and study are the only rooms with windows I haven’t checked today, and I could use this opportunity to run up there and look real quick.
    With the rag and cleaner tucked under my arm, I charge the stairs and trek to the end of the hall. He has the last two rooms on the left plus the bathroom that separates them.
    My heart undulates in my chest, heavy and in slow motion almost, and my fingertips tingle as I curl them around the black doorknob of his study.
    The door swings open with a faint creak, and the scent of leather and old books fills my nostrils.
    Two double-hung windows take up most of the east wall, and I make a beeline in that direction.
    I check them twice.
    Locked and latched.
    Good, good.
    Turning, I find myself face-to-face with one of his bookshelves. Tracing my fingers along the spines, I read the titles in my mind: The Bethesda Handbook of Clinical Oncology , AJCC Cancer Staging Manual , Cancer Pharmacology and Pharmacotherapy Review , Skeel’s Handbook of Cancer Therapy . . .
    And then the classics: The Odyssey , The Canterbury Tales , David Copperfield , The Count of Monte Cristo . . .
    I love how traditional his tastes are. I love how he isn’t the type to sit in front of a TV all night, a beer in his hand, passing out to an ESPN highlight reel.
    Moving past his bookshelf, I take a seat at