“I'll do whatever you want me to,” he says, his sad, soulful eyes making me wish I could write a different ending to this story.
I place a folded-up piece of paper in his hand. “It looks like…chicken scratch, but I…don't have a…lot of…control over my hands these days.” I take a few more breaths, then meet his gaze. “Look, if Desi…and Wyatt ever…get together, please make…sure Trip gets this. That…he knows…I’m giving it my…”
Oh, what’s the word? What’s the goddamn word? It’s the most important part of this whole damn thing.
“Blessing?” Warwick supplies, gripping his shirt collar.
I nod, a tear slipping down my face.
His hand shakes as he reaches out for the letter, tucking it into his wallet. “I can’t imagine Wyatt will ever love anyone else.”
I can’t tell what tears me apart more: Wyatt falling in love with someone else or that he’ll never fall in love again. In the end, though, I can’t stand the thought of his big, beautiful heart wasting away.
“I hope that…isn't the truth. I hope he…finds love again. And Desi loves him…so much.”
Wick slips his wallet back into his pocket, nodding. “It would be nice for Desi to find his true love in Wyatt. But anyone who loses you…that's not something you get over. It's not something the heart recovers from.”
“Francis…” Words fail me, so I open my hand to him.
He steps back, practically folding in on himself. “I hope you understand why I can't keep visiting you here. It doesn't mean I don't care. I promise.”
We look at each other for a few more precious moments, and then he turns to go.
“Warwick?”
He stops but doesn’t turn around.
“I have to know,” I breathe out. He cocks his ear toward me, giving me his profile. “Do you…regret it?”
He shakes his head almost violently. “No. Never. Hell, I was shocked to find I was even capable of it.”
It being love, I assume.
He turns to me, his eyes bright with tears. “But to finally know my heart isn’t just this dead thing in my chest? To know that it can beat for somebody the way it beats for you? I can't regret that.”
I hold out my hand to him again, and he hesitates before stepping forward to take it. His rough-hewn hands feel warm and strong against my papery skin. I pull him toward me, tilting my face up toward his. He hesitates.
“Warwick, please.”
He leans forward, pressing a gentle kiss to my lips, his tears falling to my cheeks. I reach out to stroke his beard, my fingers landing on the scars it hides. He covers my hand with his.
Touching his forehead to mine, he whispers the broken words he’s never said out loud. “I love you, Renée. I'll always love you.”
Despite his crying, the words are steady.
“I love you too. And…I have…one more favor…to ask.”
“Anything.”
I take a few breaths, determined to say this the right way. “If you were capable of it once…you are capable of it again. Promise me, Wick…when the grief passes…promise you’ll let yourself be open to love.”
He pulls away, tipping an imaginary hat. “Sorry, milady. I can make no such promise.”
“Promise totry,” I insist.
He takes a deep breath, and I know, even now, he won’t lie to spare my feelings. His face crumples for a split second, but he pulls it together.
“Okay. I’ll try. When it stops hurting so bad, I promise to try.”
