“This is emotionally approved,” he replies.
“That’s not how recovery works.”
“That’s how dating works.”
Somewhere between the gate and boarding, he reaches for my hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“You excited?” he asks.
“I am trying not to be too excited.”
“That’s impossible. It’s Nashville,” he reminds me.
“That’s fair.”
On the plane, he falls asleep almost immediately after takeoff. It’s not surprising considering how much rehab he has been pushing himself through the last two weeks. It makes something soften quietly inside me because even asleep, he reaches for my hand again without waking up fully, like some part of him has already decided that is where it belongs now.
“You’re very clingy,” I whisper.
He doesn’t wake up. Just tightens his fingers slightly.
Somewhere over Kentucky, he wakes again and immediately looks out the window, as if he expects Nashville to appear beneath us if he checks often enough.
“How much longer?” he asks.
“You’re worse than me.”
“I like road trips.”
“This is not a road trip.”
“This is an air trip.”
By the time the plane starts descending, the sky outside has turned that soft golden color that only exists right before evening settles properly over a city. The thought that we are actually here, not planning this trip, not talking about this trip, but living inside it, feels bigger than I expected it to feel.
“Ready?” he asks as we stand up in the aisle.
“No,” I answer honestly.
“Good.”
“Why good?”
“Because the best trips start when you’re not ready.”
The Nashville airport smells like coffee, music, and humidity the second we step outside the terminal doors. Before I can even say anything, Blake reaches for my hand again like this whole trip has already decided what it wants to be before either of us fully understands it yet.
“Welcome to Nashville,” he says.
And just like that… we’re here.
Chapter 27
Blake
There’s something dangerous about watching someone get ready for a night they’ve been dreaming about. Especially when you’re the one who brought them there without telling them until the last possible moment. The excitement doesn’t stay contained inside them the way you expect it to, it spills into the room, into the air, into everything they touch. It spills until, suddenly, the entire hotel suite feels brighter than it did an hour ago, and you’re standing there, pretending you’re adjusting your jacket when, really, you’re just watching her smile at her own reflection like she can’t believe this is actually happening.
“You’ve looked in that mirror at least twelve times,” I tell her from the doorway.
