“Are you sure? Because we said we’d wait until it was October, until you were sure about everything.”
I think about the email I sent an hour ago, about the door I closed and the door I opened.
“I’m sure,” I say. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”
He doesn’t wait for me to say it again.
His mouth finds mine, and everything else falls away.
The kiss starts soft, tentative. His lips brush against mine like he’s asking permission, like he’s giving me one final chance to change my mind. But I don’t want to change my mind. I want this. I want him.
I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him closer, and the kiss deepens into something else, something hungry and desperate and full of everything we’ve been holding back for months. His hands slide into my hair, angling my head so he can kiss me deeply, and I make a sound against his mouth that I might be embarrassed about if I were thinking clearly—but I can’t think clearly. All I can do is feel. Feel his hands in my hair, his chest against mine, his heart pounding fast, matching mine, the scratchy stubble of his chin, the taste of him, coffee and something sweet underneath.
When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard.
“Wow,” I manage to say.
“Yeah.” He rests his forehead against mine, his hands still tangled in my hair. “Definitely worth the wait.”
“Definitely.”
We stand there for a moment. The sun is fully up now, painting the mountains in golds and pinks, and somewhere I hear a bird in a tree singing.
“Come inside,” Wyatt says. “I’ll make breakfast.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You need to eat. You’ve been up all night making life-altering decisions.” He pulls back just enough to look at me. “And then you can tell me everything. The whole story. No more secrets.”
“No more secrets,” I agree.
He takes my hand and leads me into the cabin.
We eat eggs and toast at his table by the window, and I tell him everything about Genevieve’s email and how I felt when I read it, about the two weeks of agonizing over my decision, about the responses I never sent, about lying awake at night trying to figure out what I wanted, about the conversation with his grandmother in the garden and how afraid I was, and am, of choosing the wrong thing. He listens without interrupting, just eats his eggs, and watches me with those steady blue eyes.
“Your mom really did a number on you, didn’t she?” he finally says when I’m done.
“She loved me, in her way.”
“I know, but love isn’t always healthy, you know? The way she raised you to value achievement over happiness, to perform instead of actually having feelings, to see everything as a ladder to climb.” He shakes his head. “That’s a lot of stuff to unlearn.”
“I’m trying.”
“I know you are.” He reaches across the table and takes my hand. “And I’ll help you, however I can. Even when it’s hard. Even when you make me want to tear my hair out by the roots.”
“That might be often.”
“Probably. But you’re worth it.”
I squeeze his hand. “So what happens now?”
“Well, now we finish breakfast, and then you’re gonna go home and get some sleep, because you look like you’re about to fall over.” He grins. “And then tonight we celebrate.”
“Celebrate what?”
“You choosing this life, choosing to stay here.” He stands up and starts clearing the dishes. “I think we should tell everyone. Make it official. Let Dolly spread the gossip so the whole town knows by tomorrow morning.”
“Everyone’s going to have opinions.”
