I start speed-limping toward him, and he rushes to meet me. We stop right in front of each other.
It’s the first time we’ve been face-to-face outside of a book. I search my mind for the right first words.
“You’re a real person,” I blurt.
“I know,” he says. “I knew the moment it ended. I opened the gate and then the key just disappeared from my hand.Right out of my damn hand.” He shows me his empty palm as if to display the disturbing evidence.
“Yeah. Wow,” I say dumbly, still trying to catch my breath. My heartbeat shows no sign of calming, and it occurs to me that it won’t until I say what I really came here to say.
I’ve never said these words to anyone, barely let myself think them. And yet they’ve been forming on my tongue for some time, creeping forward despite my attempts to swallow them down. Now that I’m here with him again, looking up into his expectant and vaguely concerned eyes, I have to tell him. Out loud. For real.
“I’m scared,” I say.
My heart is hammering and my throat might be closing up. “I’mreallyscared. But I’m here,” I say. “And I think that might be the whole point.”
He gives me that knowing half smile of his, then reaches up and pulls a twig out of my hair. “I think you might be right.”
In the midst of this dramatic, heart-stopping moment of confession, the lady on the street has marched up to the fence to shout at us.
“Get out of there! This garden is for residents only!”
Ignoring her, the fears start tumbling out of me, tears pricking my eyes.
“I’m not going to know what I’m doing,” I say.
“Me neither,” he says. “When has that stopped us before?”
The lump in my throat is slowly easing, melting like a swallowed ice cube, but the ache is still there. The old woman at the gate screeches on, chastising us about theheight of rudeness.
“What if we mess this up?”
“Have you met us?” he asks. “Of course we will. Then we’ll figure it out, because that’s what we do.”
“But what if you only like me because you’ve only seen me at my best?”
He narrows his eyes quizzically. “When I first met you, you tried to throw up in a city trash can, missed, and then stole a car.”
“Stolen car!” hoots the woman from the street. “Did he saystolen car?! Next thing you know, they light the whole park on fire!”
“Look,” says Grant, stepping closer. “I know we met under extreme circumstances.”
“I AM CALLING THE AUTHORITIES,” shrieks the woman.
“And it was horrifying, and bizarre, and incredible,” Grant continues. “And I’m not going to stand here and pretend that watching you punch a guy in the face wasn’t unbelievably sexy.”
I sniffle. “Right?”
“Oh myGod, yes. But this?” He lays his hand flat on my chest, right over my heart, warm and grounding. “This isyou. That’s all I want. Who you are, whether you’re throwing punches or doing terrible accents or folding laundry. I want real life with you.”
Standing there, my heart almost literally in his hands, I begin to be aware of how steady I feel. How that voice urging me to run away has fallen to a hush. It’s not that the fear is gone, but it’s melting down into something I can carry. And if it never goes away completely? Somehow, I think I’d rather be afraid with Grant by my side than fearless alone.
“I want that too,” I whisper.
I finally let myself sink into him, pressing myself to his real, live heartbeat. His arms come around me, rubbing my back, his chin resting on my head. I can’t think of a single thing better than this, until he threads a hand into my hair, tipping my head up until our noses brush, bringing his mouth to mine.
“ThankHEAVENS,” cries the old lady. “Constable, these scallywags are trespassing in a private garden.”
Grant freezes and then pulls back, his eyes meeting mine under a furrow of confusion.
