“You’re right. I did.” She’s quiet for a moment. “But I also understand why you hid. I’ve been hiding too, in my own way. Building walls and telling myself they were protection when really they were just prisons.”
“We’re quite the pair.”
“Two people who are excellent at hiding and terrible at actually connecting with other humans.”
“We should start a support group.”
She’s smiling now, really smiling, and I feel like I’ve won something important even though she hasn’t actually answered my declaration yet.
“I don’t know if I’m ready to say it back,” she says quietly. “What you said. I want to be honest about that.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
“I know. That’s part of why I’m sitting here.” She looks down at her coffee, then back up at me. “David told me he loved me too. For ten years, he said it while making me smaller. I didn’t even realize it was happening until he left and I had to figure out who I was without him constantly telling me who I should be.”
“I’m not David.”
“I know that.” She says it firmly, like she’s arguing with herself as much as with me. “I know you’re not. But the fear doesn’t care about logic. The fear says everyone leaves, everyone disappoints, everyone has conditions attached to their love even when they promise they don’t.”
“So what do we do?”
“I don’t know.” She reaches across the table and takes my hand. Her fingers are cold from the coffee cup, but the touch sends warmth spreading through my chest. “But I want to find out. I want to try. I’m terrified, but I want to try.”
I turn my hand over, lacing my fingers through hers. “That’s enough. That’s more than enough.”
“I might be difficult.”
“I’m counting on it.”
“I might panic and push you away.”
“I’ll push back. Gently. With excellent boundaries and a lot of patience.”
“I might need time.”
“Jessica.” I squeeze her hand. “I’ve been waiting for you since before I knew I was waiting. I can wait a little longer.”
She blinks, and her eyes are bright. Not crying, but close. “That’s a very V. Langley thing to say.”
“I’ve been told I have a way with words.”
“Your early work was better.”
I laugh, surprised and genuine. “There she is. The woman who keeps me humble.”
“Someone has to.” But she’s smiling, and she hasn’t let go of my hand.
We stayin the booth for two hours.
The morning rush comes and goes around us. Michelle refills our drinks without comment, though the third time she gives me a thumbs-up that Jessica definitely sees.
“Your friends are not subtle,” I observe.
“Our friends,” she corrects, and the word settles into my chest like it belongs there.
We talk about the reveal event—five days away now. She’s nervous about it, about standing in front of the whole town while I announce that their beloved reclusive author has been hiding in plain sight. I tell her she doesn’t have to be there if it’s too much, and she gives me a look that suggests I’ve said something particularly stupid.
“I’m not missing it. I want to see their faces when they realize the grumpy landlord writes love stories.”
