Oh my God, I forgot I made this bucket list one night after I had a glass or two of Zinfandel more than I should have had.
See the Northern Lights wrapped in a ridiculous fur coat.
Eat my weight in pizza in Tuscany. Maybe live there for a while.
Have my stories published.
Finally give up the bistro.
Be held like someone’s first and last choice.
Forgive my mother (maybe).
Fly first class without guilt.
Find a way to matter outside of duty.
I stare at the list, my heart pounding. I own an island. I’m in Tuscany.
Now we eat our weight in pizza.That’s what he said when he brought the cats.
My stories are about to get published. I gave up the bistro. I flew first class. I write, and I oversee C.O.R.A., not out of duty but because I want to, because it matters and fulfillsme.
And all of it… because of a man whose first and last choice I have been.
Has he read this list? One I forgot about but he made happen, regardless? Because so often, he knew what was better before I found the courage to face it.
With trembling hands, I open the messaging app.
I got a publishing deal.
Xander
I always knew you’d slay it.
Thank you for the flowers.
Xander
Are you missing the pastries? (winking emoji)
Missing you.
I don’t get any answer, but somehow I don’t worry. I just walk outside and sit on the porch, knowing he’s on his way.
Sure enough, his large, expensive truck pulls up in front of the house shortly after. He practically falls out of it, tripping to get to me.
I don’t even try to stifle my smile, watching him lose all the swagger and grace he usually carries too confidently.
He stops at the base of the steps and looks at me with such intensity, I’m glad I’m sitting.
“I miss you, too, Coraline, very fucking much.”
“Do you want to go for a walk?”
“With you, I would watch paint dry.”
I roll my eyes. “Enough with the poetry, young man; I want to enjoy the sunshine.” I stand up and bounce down to join him.
