By the time I turn the computer on, Maggie comes strolling back in with a pint of vanilla ice cream, a bottle of chocolate syrup, and two spoons.

“Sorry.” She shrugs, sitting on the couch next to me. “I only have vanilla, but we can totally coat it in chocolate.”

“Don’t ever apologize for feeding me ice cream or chocolate.” Handing the laptop to Maggie, I grab the ice cream and peel open the lid, then pour the syrup all over it. Grabbing the spoons, I hand one to her, snuggle against the couch and we both dive in.

“What’s the laptop for?” I ask, shoveling the first bite of creamy deliciousness in my mouth.

A slow grin spreads across Maggie’s face. “We are going to find you a lobster.”

“Oh no. Nonono.” Shaking my head, I make a move for the computer, but she pulls it out of my reach.

“Oh yes. Yesyesyes.”

“Maggie—”

“Oh, come on. Loosen up. This could be fun,” she quips.

“I don’t even know what this is.” I scowl, dipping my spoon in the container for another bite.

“Marry me dot com.”

“Absolutely not,” I mumble around the ice cream in my mouth. “I will not do a dating site.”

“Why not?” she whines, giving me her best puppy-dog eyes.

“Well, first, because I just don’t want to. Second, it’s too soon. Wyatt and I just broke up.”

“Semantics,” she says, waving her hand through the air dismissively. “You were over Wyatt long before you cut the cord. Moving on will be a good thing. How about Mark from the surgical floor?”

“He has a boyfriend.”

“Oh,” Maggie says with a pout. “How about—?”

“How about you drop it?” I say, licking my spoon.

Maggie gives me the stare-down, and I return it with a cheeky grin. “Fine. Your loss,” she says, shrugging.

I watch quietly, eating away at the ice cream as Maggie pulls up the Internet and logs into her MySpace account. My eyes bounce around the screen, watching her click through several people’s profiles. Eventually, I get bored and grab the remote. I don’t know how she has time for all that. I certainly don’t. Well, I didn’t until now…

Turning on the TV, I find the news and drop the remote, listening as the anchor talks about yet another shooting in the city. “What is this world coming to?” I whisper.

“Katie?”

“What?”

“You need to update your MySpace page.”

“I know,” I answer, my eyes glued to the TV.

“No, seriously.” I glance over at Maggie and she points to her computer. “Your profile picture is from like two years ago, and there are a massive amount of pictures of you and Wyatt. Oh, look! According to your profile, the two of you are engaged.”

“Who cares?” I shrug, turning my attention back to the TV. “It’s not like I’m ever on MySpace anyway, and I don’t interact with anyone on there. I should probably just delete it.”

“You will not delete it,” she protests, poking me in the side. Laughing, I bat her hand away. “Awww, there’s Bailey … when she was sweet,” she mumbles. “Speaking of Bailey, how did things go the other night?”

“Not good. She’s mad at me. Again.”

“She has nothing to be mad about. It isn’t her decision. And she’s your sister; she should want you to be happy.”

Stabbing my spoon in the ice cream, I set the tub on the coffee table. “Can we talk about something else?” I ask. When I look up at Maggie, I see her eyes soften and she offers me a sympathetic smile.

“Sure,” she says, looking down at her computer.

A loud boom startles me, and I turn my attention back to the flat screen that is nestled against the wall. Flashes of bright orange light illuminate the screen. The horrific scene fades and a petite blonde comes into view, her high-pitched voice resonating through the speakers.

Four people were injured and two killed early Saturday morning when a roadside bomb struck a U.S. military convoy.

Devin. Oh my gosh, Devin!

My heart nearly explodes from my chest as I struggle to comprehend what she’s saying.

The attack occurred thirty kilometers south of Baghdad. This comes just two days after a string of bombings across Iraq have killed thirty-nine people, three of whom were American soldiers.

I place a trembling hand over my mouth as thoughts of Devin race through my head. Is that where he’s at? Is he okay? Are his men okay? My adrenaline spikes, pumping nervous energy through my veins, and I scoot forward on the couch. Dropping my hand from my mouth, I prop my elbows on my knees and listen carefully, each word causing my stomach to twist in knots.

A military spokesperson tells us that the four injured on Saturday were, in fact, American soldiers, and all are expected to make a full recovery. The two fatalities were not Americans but Iraqi civilians.

Several emotions hit me all at once with a force so powerful I feel it in my bones.

Fear.

Anxiety.

Relief.

He’s alive.

The breath whooshes from my lungs and I drop my chin, tangling my fingers in my hair. He could’ve been killed. His troops could’ve been killed. It’s possible that he was one of the four men injured, but knowing that all the soldiers will make a full recovery and no U.S. military deaths occurred helps to calm me down.

But my fingers twitch, the urge to write him and reach out to him stronger than it’s ever been. More than anything, I want to know he’s okay and that his men are okay, which terrifies the hell out of me because it means I’ve let him in. Somehow, in this short amount of time, I’ve allowed my feelings to come out of hiding and I’ve begun to care about him. You never stopped caring about him, I think to myself.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I push back the onslaught of emotions. How did this happen? Not only have I let myself get close enough to the one person who could hurt me again, but on top of that, he’s a soldier—someone who could easily be ripped away from me at any moment.

“Katie?”

The soft voice reaches through the fog, pulling me out, and I rub my eyes, determined not to cry. When I finally peek up, Maggie is watching me carefully.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” Straightening my back, I run a shaky hand over my face. “I’m good.”

“Really?” she asks, her eyebrows raised. “Because whatever that was”—she waves her hand in my direction—“it wasn’t okay.”

“Stop it. I’m fine. I just … that reporter …” Unable to get my words out, I finally give up and flop back on the couch. A couple of seconds pass and Maggie stays quiet, so I close my eyes, take a deep breath and say, “That news story scared the shit out of me. I’ve never paid much attention to the news. I’ve never had a reason to … until now.”

“Because of Devin?” she asks. I nod my head, listening to her fingers tap the keyboard of her laptop. “Remind me what his last name is? Devin what?”

“Clay. Devin Clay.” I pause, afraid to open my eyes because I’m sure I sound like a complete nutcase, and I don’t want to see it reflected in her eyes. “I know it’s silly. We haven’t talked in a decade, Maggie, but it’s like we never stopped.” My hand fists my shirt, right above my heart. “I can’t explain it, but I feel it … reconnecting with him was meant to happen.”

“Does he have really short dark hair?”

“No idea,” I quip, tossing my hand up in exasperation. I let it slump down covering my face. “I only know what he used to look like, and he hated short hair. It was always shaggy, but yes, it was dark.” Memories of threading my fingers through the curls at the nape of his neck flash through my head. “His hair was fucking sexy. It was rugged in a bad boy sort of way. I can’t picture him with short hair. I bet if he has short hair, then he’s probably not near as good-looking,” I rationalize, hating that I desperately want to know what he looks like. I want to know if his dark lashes still make his green eyes pop, and if the dimple in his left cheek still stands out the way it used to. “Yup”—my body relaxes—“I bet he hasn’t aged well. If I saw him, I probably wouldn’t feel a thing.”