“Joe! Hey! Hey!”
I’m aware of the dozens of pairs of eyes looking at me in amusement. Every longshoreman around who isn’t Joe has caught up on the fact that I am trying to grab his attention. I continue jogging in the same line as Joe, my eyes on him, until I collide with a huge crate and fall on the ground.
“Aww.”
That, of all things, gets his attention. Maybe it was the thud I made as I hit the metal crate. Joe pushes one headphone down and turns his head. He squints, then frowns. I don’t think he is too happy to see me. My heart sinks.
“Ever?” he asks coldly.
“Joe!” I moan.
I’m still lying flat on the ground. Joe turns off the forklift but doesn’t make a move toward me. I have a feeling he still suspects I came here just to tell him in another creative way that we can never be together. I get up and dust myself off, ignoring our growing audience and the embarrassment I must be causing him.
“Joe, I came back.” I open my arms in the air, smiling like an idiot.
“I can see that.” His expression is grim.
“Can we talk?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Are you not going to run off on me in the middle of our chat? It seems to be your expertise.”
“Burn.” The woman who gave me trouble laughs.
I shake my head, knowing I deserve all of this and more. “I promise not to run away unless you try to kill me, which . . . honestly? I wouldn’t blame you for doing. Even then, I’d give you a head start.”
“The bad news is you’re not out of the doghouse. But my interest is piqued.” He hops off the forklift, knotting his arms over his chest.
He sounds cold. Distant. Gone. I can’t blame him. I have been an absolute nightmare to love. And he loved me anyway.
“I bought a first-class ticket here.” I chuckle awkwardly, covering my face with my hands.
“All right.” He quirks a brow. “Brownie points for determination. Why?”
“Why!” I laugh to myself, frantic, and desperate, and so far gone for him. “Because I love you. Because I don’t want to lose you again. Not ever again. I read about that Curt Richter experiment on my way here,” I tell him. “And I know all about the rats. The wild rats fought for their survival. They were savages. They didn’t give up. You’re my rat, Joe. I want you to be my rat. I promise not to land you in deep water ever again. From now on we’ll swim together.”
I’m searching his face. All I care about is his reaction, not the massive public declaration I’ve just made. He blinks a few times, taking me in. He is still by the forklift. A good twenty feet away from me, at least.
“How is this time different from all the others?” he insists. “How do I know you won’t walk away tomorrow? Or the day after? Or in a month? I can’t do this anymore, Ever. I can’t put my heart in your slippery hands.”
“They’re no longer slippery!” I half beg, throwing my arms upward. “I swear. Sturdy as a surgeon’s. My only hang-up wasn’t about loving you—there was never any doubt in my mind that I loved you. It was about sparing you from the heartache of being with me. I thought I was cursed or something and didn’t want you to . . . I don’t know, I didn’t want anything happening to you, I guess. Like Mom and Dom.”
Every single person staring at us looks lost, entertained, and a little disturbed on Joe’s behalf. Joe, himself, looks mostly exhausted.
“Ever, you’ve put me through hell.”
“I know.”
“And you chose my brother over me.”
“No. No, I didn’t. I never would have moved forward with the wedding; I can see that now. I know this in my bones, Joe. It was always you. Always.”
“You’ve been flaky, indecisive, and torn about me from the get-go.”
“Whoa.” I lift my hands up in the air. “That part’s not true. I’ve always loved you. I was just not always sure that love was enough to get over our obstacles. But I am now. I’m sure.”
“One hundred percent?” he asks.
“One hundred and ten,” I assure him.
There’s a beat of silence. Clipboard Guy throws his hands in the air. “For Pete’s sake, kiss her already. We have three more deliveries to unload before ten!”
With a rush of laughter, Joe runs toward me, and I run toward him—yes, trespassing—and we crash together, our lips finding one another. The kiss gets salty, fast. With my tears. With his tears. We laugh into it, our teeth knocking together. I haven’t brushed my teeth in twenty-four hours, but I doubt he cares. Being awkward and a little gross around him seems to be the theme, and I’m embracing it.