The words hang there. All the hurt I’ve carried since I was eight years old.
“I’m sorry,” Delilah whispers. “I’m so sorry.”
“The point is,” I turn to face her, “you’re nothing like her. You know how I know?”
“How?”
“Because you came back. She never did. But you did. You moved to Twin Waves. You took over your mom’s shop. You stayed.”
“I almost didn’t.”
“But you did. That’s what matters.” I lift her hand to my lips and kiss her knuckles. “You’re not a runner, Delilah. You’re someone who’sbeen scared.”
She’s crying now. Quiet tears sliding down her cheeks.
“What if I get scared again?” she asks. “What if you go to LA and I convince myself you’re not coming back and I do something stupid?”
“Then I’ll show up anyway and remind you that I’m not going anywhere.” I cup her face in my hands, wiping tears with my thumbs. “You could run to Antarctica and I’d appear with a parka and a very confused penguin, asking what your plan was.”
She laughs. Wet and shaky, but real.
“A penguin?”
“For emotional support. They’re very soothing.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“I know.” I rest my forehead against hers. “But I’m here. And I’m coming back. That’s not going to change.”
She closes her eyes.
And then she kisses me.
It’s not like that first time, nervous and fumbling and over too fast. This one is slow. Certain. The kind that saysI’m starting to believe you.
When we pull apart, she’s smiling. Still uncertain. But smiling.
“Thursday,” she says.
“Thursday. But I’ll be back before you have time to miss me.”
“I already miss you.”
“That’s very romantic.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
I kiss her forehead. “Too late.”
We sit there on the pier as the sun starts to sink, her head on my shoulder, my arm around her. Neither of us says what we’re feeling. Neither of us needs to.
Not yet.
But soon. When the time is right.
For now, this is enough.
NINETEEN
