I kiss the top of her head. “Me either.”
“It’s bittersweet, though, isn’t it?” she asks, her voice carrying that fragile mix of joy and grief we’re all drowning in.
I hum into her hair, breathing in the fresh smell that clings to her. Her mint shampoo is invigorating and calming all at once, sharpening the warm air around us.
“What do we do now?” she murmurs quietly, as if she’s speaking to herself.
The obvious answer is we go home. We take care of our kids, plan her sister’s baby shower, her friends’ wedding. We go back to work, back to our lives. But there’s something deeper there.
“What do you want to do?” I ask.
The corner of her mouth ticks up as she ponders this then exhales. “I don’t know.”
“Wow, that’s a first.”
She elbows me gently, laughing. I catch her wrist and bring her fingers up to my lips, pressing a kiss to her ring finger. Her diamond ring catches the sunlight, tiny sparks dancing across her skin.
“I think I want to go to Paris,” she whispers, like she’s embarrassed to say it out loud.
“Paris, eh?” I shimmy my shoulders. “Oui oui, mon amie.”
She doesn’t smile but chews on her lip, her eyes on our linked hands. “I know that’s selfish. And I’ll wait—”
“Let’s go.”
Her head snaps up, eyes suddenly bright with possibility.
“Let’s go next month,” I tell her. “You and me.”
“What about the kids?”
“We have an entire village at our disposal.”
She hesitates, scraping her teeth back and forth over her bottom lip. I tug at it with my thumb, brushing against the soft curve. Her mouth slackens as I move to her upper lip, tracing along the edges. A trail of perfection at my fingertips.
I lean in close and whisper, “Let me take you to Paris, Emma Jones.”
Her breath catches, and her gaze flicks to my mouth. “Okay,” she whispers, “take me to Paris.”
“Then we’ll do Disney.”
“Deal.” She beams as I pull her into a kiss, and she whispers, “I love you.”
I can feel her smile against my own, and what can only be described as euphoria courses through me, settling deep in my chest. It flutters, an actual fluttering, like wings beating against my ribs. She places her hands over my heart, and her eyes widen. She can feel it too.
I shrug. “You still make me wild.”
She blushes, placing my hand over her heart. It races beneath my palm, the same way when she’s having a panic attack. She senses my worry andlifts my chin with her fingertips, an ease of warmth washing over me at her touch.
“Do you feel it?” she asks, her smile so wide it’s infectious.
“I do.” I eye her skeptically. “Are you okay?”
“Do you remember?”
I purse my lips. My memory situation has turned into a running joke at home. The boys have become relentless.Do you remember where the front door is? Do you remember how to pour milk?And Sawyer’s favorite:Do you remember where your butt is?
She laughs, realizing what I’m thinking. “Not a joke. Do you remember what you said… what you called this…” She presses my hand more firmly into her sternum. Her heart thumps hard against my palm. “This.”
