“It was a disaster.” But she’s moving toward the tree as she says it, and I’m following. “I didn’t care though. I thought it was perfect.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
We stop at the base of the tree. The exact spot. I can feel it somehow—the weight of that night, that summer, those two kids who had no idea what was coming.
“I’m done running,” she says. “I mean it this time.”
“Third time’s the charm?”
“That’s what I keep telling myself.”She looks up at me. The firelight catches her face, her tears, the hope in her eyes. “I made a promise to myself. Twenty years ago. That if I got scared and ran, I’d come back. Eventually.” She laughs softly. “I just didn’t think it would take me this long to keep it.”
“And you keep your promises?”
“I’m learning to.”
We’re close now. Close enough that I can see every shade of brown in her eyes, every freckle the sun has kissed onto her cheeks. Close enough that when she breathes, I feel it.
“Levi?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you going to miss this time?”
I almost laugh. Almost.
Instead, I cup her face in my hands—gently, like she might disappear if I’m not careful—and look her in the eyes.
“Not a chance.”
And I kiss her.
Not the corner of her mouth. Not awkward or clumsy or unsure.
I kiss her like I’ve been waiting years for this exact moment. Because I have.
She tastes like hot chocolate and salt and something that feels like coming home. Herhands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer, and she makes a soft sound against my mouth that undoes something I didn’t know was still locked up tight in my chest.
I kiss her until I forget we’re standing under a pecan tree, that there’s a fire crackling behind us and her mother somewhere inside.
I kiss her until I forget everything except her—the warmth of her, the way she fits against me, the twenty years of longing that’s finally, finally being answered.
When we break apart, we’re both breathing hard.
“Hi,” she whispers.
“Hi.”
“That was...”
“Yeah.”
She laughs—a wet, overwhelmed, happy sound—and drops her forehead to my chest. I wrap my arms around her and hold on like I’m never letting go.
Because I’m not. Not this time.
Above us, the pecan tree rustles in the breeze. The fire crackles warm and steady. And from inside the house, I hear Eleanor’s voice, not even trying to be quiet:
