“I’m a surprisingly deep person.”
“You’re a dork.”
“Your dork.” He pulled me close and kissed my forehead. “Come on. Let me show you the rest.”
He led me through the house—the kitchen with its ocean view, the guest rooms for when family visited, the master bedroom with French doors that opened onto a private balcony.
That’s when I saw the envelope on the nightstand. Cream-colored, my name written across the front in Michael’s handwriting.
My breath caught. “Is that—” I looked at him. “The letter? The one you wouldn’t let me read?”
He rubbed the back of his neck, a flush creeping up his jaw. “I was going to throw it away, but…” He trailed off.
“But?”
“But then I thought maybe you should see it. Now that we’re here. Now that we made it.”
I picked it up, the paper soft and slightly worn at the edges like he’d held it too many times. “You’ve been carrying this around.”
It wasn’t a question. He didn’t answer, just watched me with an expression that made my chest ache—nervous and hopeful and so deeply vulnerable I wanted to wrap myself around him and never let go.
I opened it carefully.
Claudette,
If you’re reading this, you made it. You fought, you won, and you’re still here.
I’ve been thinking about all the things I want to do with you when you’re better.
I want to cook you breakfast and show you the new recipes I’ve learned.
I want to read more books to you in bed until you fall asleep on my shoulder.
I want to dance with you in the kitchen to good music.
I want to take a bath with you—candles everywhere, music playing, your back against my chest.
I want to take my time with you. Touch you slowly until you’re shaking. Make you fall apart in my arms and then put you back together again. I want to love you until neither of us remembers what it felt like to be afraid.
I want a thousand ordinary days with you. A million ordinary moments.
I want forever, Claudette—however long that is.
Yours always,
Michael
I didn’t realize I was crying until my tears hit the paper.
“Hey, careful.” Michael reached out like he might snatch the letter away, protect it from water damage, and I laughed through my tears and held it away from him.
“I’m not ruining your letter.”
“You’re absolutely ruining my letter.”
“It’s my letter. My name’s on it.”
He abandoned the rescue mission and pulled me into his arms instead, letter crumpled between us. I pressed my face into his chest and let myself cry—happy tears, overwhelmed tears.
