I smiled. "I'd like that."
Later, after pot roast and mashed potatoes and Daisy showing me every single one of her stuffed animals (I'd been promoted from "okay hugger" to "pretty good hugger," which was apparently high praise), Dixie walked me out to my truck.
The evening had gone cool, February reasserting itself after the warmth of the afternoon. Somewhere down the street, kids were playing. A dog barked. Life went on, ordinary and unremarkable and somehow exactly right.
"So," Dixie said.
"So."
"You passed the Daisy test. And the Della test."
"Your mom's scarier than mine. I respect that."
She laughed. Then her face went serious. "Hunter, are you sure about this? Really sure? Because once Daisy gets attached—"
I pulled her into my arms. "I'm sure. About you. About her. About all of it."
"It won't be easy."
"Good thing I'm not looking for easy." I kissed her forehead. "I'm looking for you."
She buried her face in my chest. I held her there, breathing her in, feeling like I'd finally stopped running from my own life and started actually living it.
"Dixie?"
"Yeah?"
"I think I'm going to like Sundays from now on."
She pulled back, confused. "Sundays?"
"Sunday brunch at your mom's house. Sunday mornings with you and Daisy. Sunday dinners with my family — all of us,including you two." I smiled. "I'm claiming Sundays. They're ours now."
She laughed. "You can't just claim a day of the week."
"Watch me."
I kissed her — right there in Della's front yard, where anyone could see, where May was probably already composing a blog post about it.
Let the whole town talk.
Hunter Massey had finally found something worth holding onto. Something worth living for.
And I’d never let them go.
