“There’s no music,” I point out.
“I’m not singing again.” He chuckles as his fingers tighten around mine.
“You faked being a terrible singer at karaoke.” I gasp as the cold rain soaks through my sweater.
“So?” He spins me away from him, and my face naturally tilts toward the sky. “We don’t need music, Honeybee. I’m always tuned in to the beat of you.”
He spins me back, and I slam into his chest with a thud and a dull roar from our audience.
“Dance with me.” It’s not a request. It’s a dare. A prayer. A hope.
His arm snakes behind me, pulling me close. One hand at my waist, the other cradling mine against his shoulder.
We sway in the rain-soaked driveway of my best friend’s inn. It’s clumsy and awkward and the very best moment of my entire life.
“This is crazy,” I say, my laughter loud, rising above the torrential rain.
“Completely.” He smiles down at me with more love than I ever hoped to receive shining in his gaze.
“We’re going to catch pneumonia.”
“Probably, but I think that’s a myth.”
“Is it worth it?” What I really mean is, am I worth it, and he knows it. But it’s not insecurity he hears in my tone—it’s forgiveness. It’s satisfaction. It’s love.
He holds my gaze, cutting through the darkness, the rain, the fear I’ve lived in. “It’s worth everything, Clover.”
He kisses me this time, and it’s to the sound of sniffles and choked tears of the family supporting us.
I spent so long being afraid. Afraid of being found, of being known, of loving someone and losing them. I built walls andcounted rituals and convinced myself that safety meant being apart.
But safety isn’t being alone—that’s what he’s taught me.
Safety is this. Dancing in the rain, surrounded by love, wrapped in the arms of a man who chose his happiness…and mine.
And now, we’ll build our forever home—together.
EPILOGUE
CLOVER
One Year Later
The Happiness town fair has always been my favorite event of the year, but after last year’s explosive ending, I can’t erase the sense of dread following me like a raincloud.
It’s chaos, even if it’s in the best possible way—cotton candy and carnival games and the entire town crammed into the park like sardines in a very festive can.
Agnes does tarot readings in a purple tent that glitters with moons and stars. Betty runs a pie-eating contest that Chief wins every year, despite his doctor’s increasingly desperate warnings to actually chew his food. Pops operates a dunk tank that has a suspiciously high success rate, and I’m willing to bet that the target is rigged—though no one has ever been able to prove it.
But even with the trauma of last year, this one feels…different.
I drove here.
Idrovehere.
In Valen’s truck, with the windows down and the radio playing too loud, and I only white-knuckled the steering wheel twice.
Last month, I left the bathroom light off when I got up in the middle of the night. Last week, I forgot to check the locks before bed—forgot, not chose to skip, but forgot—and when I woke up the next morning, I didn’t spiral. I just shrugged and made coffee.
