“Ruffy, don’t look. Give them some privacy.”
Delilah groans. “Mother.”
“Your mother has excellent timing.”
“My mother has been waiting forever to meddle in this exact moment. She’s probably taking notes.”
I laugh. I can’t help it. After everything—the years, the misunderstandings, the heartbreak—we’re standing under her mother’s pecan tree, and Eleanor is narrating to the dog.
“I love your family,” I say.
“You’re going to regret saying that.”
“Probably.” I kiss her forehead. “Worth it.”
She smiles up at me—that smile I’ve been dreaming about for two decades—and for the first time in years, everything feels exactly right.
“So what happens now?” she asks.
“Now we figure it out. Together.”
“Together,” she repeats. Like she’s testing the word. Like she’s letting herself believe it. “I like the sound of that.”
“Me too.”
The fire pops behind us. The stars are coming out overhead, visible through the branches of the pecan tree. Somewhere down the beach, I can hear the ocean doing what it always does—pushing and pulling, constant and sure.
And here, in this backyard, standing over the spot where two seventeen-year-olds buried their promises, I finally feel like I’ve come home.
THIRTEEN
DELILAH
Iwake up smiling.
This is suspicious. I am not a morning person. Most mornings, I emerge from sleep like a cave creature, squinting at the sunlight and growling at anyone who speaks to me before coffee.
But today I’m grinning at my ceiling like it just told me a joke.
Ruffy lifts his head from the foot of the bed.
“I kissed Levi last night,” I tell him.
His tail thumps once. He was there. He saw.
“Under the pecan tree. It was disgustingly romantic.”
Another thump. My mother narrated the whole thing to him. He’s aware.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, and I grab it fast enough to pull a muscle.
Good morning. Last night was perfect. Can I take you to dinner tonight? A real date. The kind where I pick you up and you wear something nice and I spend the whole meal trying not to stare at you.
I read it twice. Three times. Then I screenshot it because apparently I’m sixteen years old now.
I would love that, I type back.Pick me up at seven?
His response is immediate:I’ll be there. Wear whatever you want. You could show up in a garbage bag and I’d still think you were beautiful.
