Lyla
* * *
After landing on the red-eye at Dallas-Fort Worth the next morning, the address takes me forty minutes south by Uber.
For the plane ride, I was a nervous wreck. Being in the Uber, I’m even worse. The sooner I get there, the better.
I spend most of the car ride with the envelope in my lap and the photograph face-up on top of it, watching the city give way to quieter roads and wider skies—and trying not to think too hard about what I'm going to say when I get there.
But what do I say? Scott, I know I told you to fuck off, but I was wrong. I love you.
Oh, god, that’s awful.
I’ve always been the woman who prepares every word before she speaks. I built a business on planning ahead, knowing exactly what to say and when to say it. And right now, heading toward a small house on the outskirts of town, with a photograph in my hand and ten years of unfinished business, my mind is too muddled to think straight.
Not too long ago, I was ready to leave all my deepest emotions and desires in the past. Ready to live a life with someone safe and compatible rather than someone I burned for and deeply still loved. I thought that would be enough. Now I know, as I head toward the man I know I can’t live without, I couldn’t have been more wrong.
I’m scared out of my mind. What if this doesn’t work out? What if he changes his mind? All the what-ifs scroll through my mind. I have about a million reasons to have the driver turn around and head for my apartment instead. But I only have one good one that’s keeping me moving forward.
I don’t know what the future holds, but I know I’d rather not live it without him.
The Uber slows at the edge of the property. The house sits just on top of a small hill.
There it is.
It looks exactly like the photograph—modest, quiet, a covered porch facing a large lake and open land beside it, with the last of the early morning light catching the windows and turning them gold. A black truck is parked in the driveway.
He’s there. He has to be.
When the driver stops, I climb out and stare at the place before me.
A part of me tells me I should wait, think this through. I don’t know what I’m going to walk into. But the pit in my stomach tells me to move.
I’ve had ten years of being cautious alone. Now all I see is him.
I stand there for about three seconds, luggage in hand, before every instinct overrides every last bit of thought.
At first, I walk, then move faster. Next thing I know, I’m running across the open ground toward the front door. Even though I’m running faster than I ever have in my life, I still feel like I can’t get there fast enough.
The front door isn’t locked when I reach for the door handle.
With no hesitation, I push it open and rush inside.
The house is stark as I walk farther in, closing the door behind me. No pictures. A kitchen with gray countertops and white backsplash is to my left. There’s no other furniture in sight.
“Scott—” I call him. “Scott.”
He appears from an empty space to my right, wearing a plain white T-shirt and jeans. He looks relieved to see me.
I freeze in place. My pulse jumps. He’s here—in front of me. And this moment is just for us. No cameras or producers in sight. It’s the first time in ten years a point in time truly belongs to us.
He stops, too.
We look at each other from opposite ends of the hallway. The house is quiet around us. No production hum, no carefully engineered atmosphere. Just me, just him, and the irreducible fact that it’s only us.
I close the distance first. No more running. No more second guessing. All I want, all I need, is him.
I stop just in front of him, only a few feet apart. I’m close enough that I have to tilt my face up to look at him properly. He towers over me as he looks down. His body heat radiates onto me.
