Me:Anytime. I meant everything I said.
Jessica:I know. That’s the part I’m still getting used to.
I stare at the message, at everything it contains and everything it promises.
I’m getting used to being loved, to someone meaning what they say.
I can work with that. I can be patient while she learns to trust it. I’ve been hiding behind walls my whole life too. I understand how long it takes to believe someone when they see the real you and don’t run.
Me:Take all the time you need.I’m not going anywhere.
Her response is a single emoji—a small red heart.
It’s not an “I love you.” It’s not even close.
But it’s something. A crack in her armor. A sign that she’s letting me in, one careful step at a time.
I think about Vera, about what she’d say if she could see me now. Probably something about how it took me long enough. Probably something about how she knew all along that the right woman would see past my walls to the man underneath.
I hope she’s watching and knows I finally found someone worth being brave for.
Mrs. Sanders calls for me across the room—something about the podium angle being “three degrees off optimal”—and I pocket my phone with one last glance at that small red heart.
Five days until the reveal, until everything changes.
I don’t know what comes next. I don’t know if Jessica will be ready to say the words back by then, or next month, or ever. Love doesn’t work on a timeline, and neither does healing.
But she showed up this morning. She held my hand across a coffee shop table. She told me she wants to try.
For now, that’s more than enough.
That’s everything.
TWENTY-ONE
JESSICA
My day off starts exactly how it should, alone on the beach with a book, a bag of grapes, and zero emotional complications.
I’ve staked my claim on a prime stretch of sand near the pier, my ancient beach umbrella providing shade that’s only slightly lopsided. The umbrella has survived twelve summers, two hurricanes, and one unfortunate incident involving a seagull and a hot dog. It’s a crooked, faded warrior.
I’m halfway through chapter six ofThe Lighthouse Keeper’s Daughter—V. Langley’s best work, in my humble and absolutely correct opinion—when a shadow falls across my towel.
“You’re blocking my light,” I say without looking up.
“You’re reading my book.”
I look up.
Scott is standing there in khaki pants, a blue button-down shirt, and leather dress shoes. With socks.
On the beach.
“Did you come straight from a board meeting?” I ask. “Or do you genuinely not understand how beaches work?”
“I have beach attire.”
“And yet.”
