There’s a shadow behind her eyes now. A hesitation.
She’s already grieving what we haven’t even lost yet.
“I know what you’re thinking.” I kiss her forehead.
She turns her face into my shoulder. “Do you?”
“That this—whatever we are—won’t work long distance. That it’ll fade or break.”
I hear her exhale a long, ragged breath. “Won’t it?”
I shift to look at her, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. “Long distance can work. Will work. Because it’s us.”
She looks up at me, her eyes soft and unsure.
Moving for either of us is not a possibility right now.
It’d be a step down for me to go anywhere else. She has two years remaining on her postdoc. She can’t leave Boston either, not that I will even ask her. Maybe once we’re on solid ground…but, even then, it won’t be fair to her.
“You say that now.” Her voice is barely a whisper. “But time changes things.”
“So let it,” I cajole. “Let’s see what time does. But don’t write the ending before we know more.”
She watches me. I can see her walls shifting, just a little.
“I’m not going to disappear, Em,” I promise. “Not again. I’ll fly to you. You’ll fly to me. We’ll figure it out.”
A pause, and then, with eyes shining with emotions, she pleads, “Ransom, don’t make me regret hoping again.”
“Never,” I vow.
And just as I press a kiss to her lips, a loud knock sounds on the bedroom door.
Margot’s voice slices through. “Ember! Ransom! Get dressed. I need help with the New Year’s Eve Ball. We’ve got balloons to inflate and decorations to put up!”
Ember groans, burying her face in my chest. “She’s worse than a general with a bullhorn.”
“And she knows we’re in here together,” I remind her.
“Oh God!”
I laugh, hold her tighter, and for just a while longer, we just lie there.
Together.
Not in the past.
Not in the future.
But in the now.
When we arrive at thegrand salon, yes, the chalet has one of those, we find Margot directing two florists in rapid French.
“Good, you’re here,” she says, then immediately launches into assigning us our tasks and responsibilities. “Freja and Jonathan are taking care of the fireworks.”
“Not Freja,” Ember says, panicked.
“Remember when she lost her eyebrows?” I add.
