His bathroom. His toothbrush in the holder, blue. His razor on the shelf. His towel on my body. I pull my makeup bag from my overnight tote and set it on the counter next to his razor, and the image of my things beside his things in this small, private, one-person space hits me harder than any resort luxury ever could. Honeymoon suites are designed for two. This bathroom wasn’t. And I’m in it.
I start getting ready. Put on my green dress from our dinner on the beach. Then mascara, a little bronzer, lip gloss. My hair is doing the thing it does when it air-dries in humidity, which is whatever it wants, and I’m negotiating with it using my fingers and willpower and losing on both fronts.
Ten days ago I was refilling coffee mugs at Red Rock Diner. I had a winning lottery ticket, a suitcase that never traveled farther than my parents’ house, and the audacity to book aluxury vacation because my gut said it was time to stop being careful.
Now I’m standing in a brownstone bathroom in Brooklyn Heights getting ready for dinner with a man who flew me to New York because he wasn’t ready to say goodbye. My heart is so full I can feel it in my throat.
I’ve spent most of my adult life monitoring how much I let myself want. Keeping the hope at a manageable level so the drop wouldn’t kill me. Smiling through the wanting so nobody, especially me, could accuse me of caring too much. Jake taught me that. Not the lesson he meant to teach, but the one that stuck: don’t be the one who needs more than the other person is offering.
I’m done with that lesson.
I’m done rationing hope. Done keeping one eye on the exit.
I turn off the bathroom light. I can hear Alec moving somewhere in the brownstone, the quiet sounds of a man in his own home preparing for our evening together.
One last thing I need from my suitcase. The scarf he gave me. Every time I touch the turquoise silk I think of him, of us. Not only the week behind us. The part that hasn’t happened yet. More mornings with him. More of his hand finding mine like it already knows the way.
Just more ofhim.
I’m ready. For dinner, for New York, for whatever comes next.
For all of it.
CHAPTER 25
ALEC
Ishould have told her in the shower.
The thought has been circling since we left the brownstone. She was leaning against my chest under the hot water, her guard completely down, her body still warm from mine, and it was right there. The words were right there. But I wanted the quiet restaurant, neutral ground. I wanted to control the context, the framing, to show her proof that my life actually is the life she thinks it is. I wanted the security of a public place where the odds of her getting up and storming out were tipped in my favor.
Selfish, I know. Normally I’m not afraid of delivering difficult news. But with Ella, I need all the advantages I can get. So instead of saying what needs to be said, I kissed her shoulder and kept the truth sitting in my chest like a stone I swallowed on purpose.
Her hand rests on my forearm while I drive, her fingers warm and idle on my skin. The turquoise scarf is draped loosely around her neck. She’s talking about the neighborhood, and her voice has that easy warmth it gets when she’s happy and relaxed.
I’m going to tell her tonight. Over dinner. And then I’m going to tell her I’m in love with her, because I can’t build one on top ofthe other and I won’t say I love you until she knows who’s saying it.
“So where is this place?” She shifts in her seat to face me. “You said it’s your favorite.”
I nod. “Lucia’s. Family-run Italian. I go there about once a week when I’m in town. The owner, Gino, has been there since before I moved to the neighborhood.” I stop at a light. “The décor hasn’t been updated since probably the mid-nineties. The menu is handwritten. The bread is the best I’ve ever had, and if Gino likes you, he brings out his grandmother’s limoncello after dessert.”
“Sounds amazing.” Ella’s face does the thing I’ve come to recognize. The brightening that starts in her eyes and works outward, the specific delight she takes in details that tell her who someone really is. She looked at my cast-iron skillet the same way. My running shoes. The bookshelves.
“I’ll bet Gino knows you by name,” she says.
“He knows my order.”
“Which is?”
“Pappardelle al cinghiale. Wide ribbon pasta with slow-braised wild boar ragu. It’s one of the specialties. I order it every time.”
She laughs. “Wild boar? I’m going to need to have a talk with your cardiologist, Alec Beckett.”
I shoot her a wry look. “You’d actually snitch on me?”
“Purely in the interest of saving your life.”
I almost smile. Almost. But the weight behind my sternum doesn’t shift, and even Ella’s laugh can’t reach it.
