I've seen her every Saturday for the past two months, but this is different.
This is permanent.
After today, she's not going back to that room with its narrow bed and its institutional walls.
She's coming home with me.
At 9:45, I can't wait anymore.
I head inside, sign in at the front desk, and take a seat in the lobby.
The minutes crawl by.
I watch families come and go, watch staff members move through the hallways with purpose, watch the clock on the wall tick closer and closer to ten.
And then I see her.
She's walking down the hallway with Patricia beside her, a small duffel bag over her shoulder.
She's wearing jeans and a soft sweater, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. Simple. Normal. Beautiful.
But it's not the clothes I notice. It's her.
She's filled out more.
The sharp angles of her face have softened, her cheeks round and pink with color.
The dark circles under her eyes are gone.
Her skin glows instead of looking gray and paper-thin.
And her body—God, her body.
She's put on weight, probably fifteen pounds at least, and it looks incredible on her.
She looks healthy. She looks alive.
She looks like my Vanna.
Our eyes meet across the lobby, and her face breaks into a smile so bright it makes my chest ache.
I'm on my feet before I realize I'm moving, crossing the distance between us in a few long strides.
"Garrett." She drops her bag and crashes into me, and I catch her, lifting her off her feet and holding her so tight I'm probably crushing her.
"Van." I bury my face in her hair, breathing her in. "God, I missed you."
"I'm right here." She pulls back just enough to look at me, her eyes shining with tears. "I'm right here, and I'm coming home."
Home.
The word hits me like a punch to the chest.
I set her down but don't let go, keeping my hands on her waist.
My thumbs trace circles on her hips, feeling the new softness there.
"Look at you," I say, my voice rough. "You look incredible. Watching you look healthier week by week was great, but seeing you right now takes my breath away."
