She laughs, as I knew she would, and my soul lightens. “Go figure. I can totally see that.”
I slide my arm down to her waist. It’s impossible to move her any closer, but if I could, I would. “Strange how we had such different dreams but ended up in the same place. Must be fate.”
She snorts, and even though I can’t see in the dark, I imagine she rolls her eyes. She doesn’t say anything though, and we lie together as the minutes slip away. I feel restful and at peace, but not at all sleepy, and based on the way her breathing doesn’t even out into a slow rhythm, I’d wager she’s in the same situation.
“I love you.”
Her words are soft but echo like a gunshot in the silence. My pulse accelerates, spiking me into full wakefulness. I open my mouth then close it, uncertain how to respond, and praying that I heard her right.
“I love you, Devon,” she repeats, more clearly.
Twisting around, I kiss her, nearly missing her lips. Oh, my God, I can’t believe she said it. She wouldn’t, unless she were one hundred percent certain, which means that she truly loves me. Beyond a doubt.
“I love you, too,” I reply as I separate my lips from hers. “So damn much.” My arms tighten around her. “Thank you. You’ve given me something wonderful, and I swear I’ll take care of it.”
“I know you will.” She kisses my jaw, and I swallow, her proximity and confession wreaking havoc on my self-control. I want to kiss her senseless and then fuck her until she screams how much she loves me while she comes. But I hold back.
“When did you know?” I wonder aloud.
“Honestly?” Her hand settles over my heart, which is beating steadily for her. “When you fixed the faucet.”
I burst out laughing, and she shoves a hand over my mouth to hush me. I kiss her palm, and she recoils.
“That is such a you thing to say.” It’s practical, and a little odd, which only makes me adore her more. How many people could say they fell in love watching someone manhandle their mother’s wrench?
She pouts. “Don’t make fun of me.”
I stop dead. “I’m not. It’s perfect.” And then, because I can, I add, “I love you.”
When she replies, “I love you, too,” I could shout with joy.
I’m jubilant, and I want to demand she pack her things and officially move into my place as soon as we get back. But because I’m mostly sane—despite what some people think—I press my lips together and keep the demands to myself. I’ll wait for a better time, when she won’t feel like it’s too much, too fast.
But hopefully, it’ll be sooner than we both expect.
Harley
In the morning, after having breakfast with Mom and hugging her goodbye, I show Devon around Cedar Bend. First, we drive past the school. In my memories, the brick buildings ringing the sports field are larger and more intimidating. Prison-like. In reality, they’re drab and worn but nothing scary. My imagination must have inflated them because of the dread I felt coming through the gates each day.
“So this is where the Isles siblings learned their ABCs,” Devon remarks, craning his neck out the window as we slow to a crawl.
“Yep. The one part of Cedar Bend I’d happily never enter again.”
He gets the hint, and puts his foot on the gas. “I want to see the gym you told me about. Does the man who coached you still work there?”
“He does.” Don and I haven’t really kept in touch, but he’s sent me a few messages over the years to see how I’m doing, and I’ve worked with a couple of teenagers he shipped over to Thailand for a muay thai vacation. I give Devon directions to the gym, and he parks outside. My old home away from home is a squat concrete building with faded text across the wall above the doorway that reads, “Cedar Bend Martial Arts.” Several cars are parked along the curb and music filters out through the open door. There’s a class in session.
Devon turns to me, eyes sparkling with excitement. “Should we go in?”
“Let’s do it.” With determination, I climb out of the vehicle and stride toward the entrance. He jogs to catch up. Inside, I pause to take in the scene. Equipment lining the walls and filling the corners of the room, boxing bags hanging from the ceiling, and people spaced around the room in pairs. There’s no ring. Nothing fancy. Just grassroots stuff. A sense of being home washes over me, and I inhale the familiar leather-and-sweat scent.
“Fake jab, low right,” a man’s voice booms, drawing my attention. He’s older, his face worn and crinkled, his hair more salt than pepper and thinning on top, but I’d recognize Don anywhere. The pairs do as he says, one person throwing punches while the other holds pads. We pause in the doorway, watching. As if he senses us, Don glances over. Then, slowly, a smile transforms his face.
“Body kicks until the beeper,” he calls, his legs eating up the distance between us.
“Hey, Don,” I say, right before I’m yanked into a crushing hug. “Oomph.”
He thrusts me back and holds me at arm’s length, examining my features, apparently cataloging the scars I’ve accumulated over the years. “Harley fucking Isles.” He shakes his head like he can’t believe I’m here. “What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?”
