“Baby, I always want you.”
She studies me for a second longer, but I keep my face stoic, refusing to let anything slip free and hint at what’s about to come.
“Fine,” she mutters, tying the material behind her head. “But if you make me walk into a tree, you’re sleeping on the porch for a week.”
“I’ve slept in worse conditions,” I mutter.
The tires bump over uneven ground, the truck rocking slightly as we make our way toward the back of the property. Toward our spot. A nervous energy radiates from my girl, but she keeps her lips sealed, not pressing for more information.
It’s been months since everything went down. Since I thought I was going to lose her again. Months since I ran toward her with everything I had and took a bullet meant for her. Fear like I’ve never felt coursed through me at the realization I might lose her forever, that our second chance was slipping from my grasp. Today, I’m taking the leap I’ve wanted to take since the moment she disappeared. But we weren’t ready. Life threw too many curveballs.
I pull the truck to a stop and kill the engine.
“Is this the part where you kill me?”
“Shit, Wren.”
She chuckles at her dark humor, which I don’t find funny.
“Too soon?”
“It’ll always be too soon.” I grit my teeth as flashes of that night play behind my eyes.
She reaches for me, her soft hand gripping my forearm to bring me back to this moment.
“I’m here, J. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Damn, right.” I lean over the console, cupping her cheek before bringing my lips to hers. “I’m not losing you again.” I tell her before hopping out of the truck. Circling the front, I open her door. The fall breeze rustles her hair as I reach for her hand.
“Easy,” I murmur, helping her down, one hand steady at her waist. “I’ve got you.”
“You always do.” Her hands reach out and graze my chest, and my body reacts to her touch.
I guide her forward slowly, careful on the uneven ground with her heeled boots. The sound of the river is faintly audible in the distance. The air smells like fallen leaves and our future.
“Are we…”
I hush her. “Don’t spoil the surprise.”
When we stop, I position her just right, exactly where I want her. It’s the same spot we used to sit as kids. I’d call her landline and ask Hannah if Wren could meet me at our spot for a picnic. Hannah would pack a basket with snacks and sandwiches, then send Wren on her way with her large plaid blanket. The two of us would spend hours in the sun, talking about everything we could think of, and be gone for hours. The older we got, the more we’d sneak kisses and stolen touches until our parents started growing more curious about our relationship.
“Okay, baby, you can take off the blindfold.”
Her fingers move to the fabric as she pulls it loose with slow movements. I watch as her whiskey eyes blink against the setting sun. A gasp slips free when she realizes where we are. Spinning, her eyes widen as she takes in the river rock outline and the space stretching out in front of us. The rocks create a large rectangle with small paths sprinkled throughout the big frame. It’s telling a story of something that doesn’t exist yet…but it will soon.
Wren’s gaze snags on the easels in the middle of the space as she takes tentative steps toward them.
“Jett…” she whispers.
Dainty fingers brush over the first easel where a large frame sits. A collage of our photos nestled together. Tiny versions with dirt on our hands and smiles too big for our faces. Bath time photos our moms gushed over. Tan lines and messy faces. High school dances and selfies. The collage showcases every version that led us here. Including the photo right in the center. The selfie Wren took from the top of the lighthouse on the Fourth of July.
Tears slip down her perfect cheeks as she turns to the next easel. It holds blueprints and mockups of the house we dreamed of. Every tiny detail she ever mentioned, brought to life. The wall of windows facing west and the oversized back porch so we never miss a sunset over the river. It’s all there. Every dream we whispered about in this place.
“I don’t know what to say.” Her voice quivers. “How?”
“Apparently, the land has been mine since I came home,” I tell her, my voice steady even though my pulse is anything but. “Your dad filled me in a few weeks ago.”
Her eyebrow quirks. “My dad?”
