There are shiny stones pressed into the concrete, laid out in the shapes of hearts, running the full length of the walkway.
“Plain was boring. So we decorated! They’re like that day we used chalk on the driveway at the main house!” Luke exclaims.
I peek up at Cade. “Like Valentine’s Day threw up everywhere?”
His lips twitch and he just nods.
“And then up here”—Luke drags me toward the house—“we wrote our initials inside the hearts.”
“I love that!” I exclaim, giving him a firm side hug.
He nods happily, biting at his lip, and looking so damn proud. “And this one is yours.” He points at a heart that’s right next to one with the initials C.E., except this one says W.E.
“My initials are W.G., bud.”
I give him another squeeze and he giggles. Cluelessly. “I know. But dad made that one. I told him the same thing.” My head snaps around to Cade, who still hasn’t moved but is staring at me like I might disappear if he blinks. “But he said they wouldn’t be for long.”
A sob that could pass as a laugh bursts from my lips as I blink furiously, desperate to not fall apart right here in front of them. “I love it, Luke. The whole sidewalk is just beautiful.” I hug him again, sucking in air through my nose and trying to compose myself.
“Good. I’m so happy you’re back! If you didn’t come back today, Dad said he was going to drive into the city and get you.” I almost chuckle. That’s such a Cade thing to say.
After one last hug, Luke bounds up the stairs to the front door. But just like he’s done once before, he stops and looks back at Cade and me with a pleased smile on his face and says, “See, Dad? I told you not to be sad. I told you she’d come back. Our wishes came true! She loves us too much to leave.”
The screen door slams and he’s gone.
And I’m crying, hands covering my face. I’m overwhelmed. Relieved. And, okay, possibly hormonal.
“Hey, hey.” Within seconds Cade is reaching for me, gathering me into his strong arms and holding me tight against his chest. “Baby, don’t cry. You don’t need to cry. I think if you cry, I might cry. And I’m not a crier.”
“I’m not a crier either!” I sob, nuzzling against his shirt and taking deep pulls of his pine scent that I missed so badly these last few days. “But I swear I haven’t stopped crying since I left this place.”
He rocks us gently, like a soft, quiet dance. The only music is the chirping of birds and gentle breeze across the hay field out back. He doesn’t talk. He just holds me until my breathing evens out and the stress has melted from my limbs.
Eventually he tips my chin up so that I’m forced to look at him. His chiseled, masculine features are a welcome sight. “You paying attention right now, Red? Because I’ve spent days thinking hard about my life, and I’ve got some things to tell you.”
I nod and press my lips together, a silent promise to listen to him and not just talk at him.
With a deep sigh, he starts, “Thank you. Thank you for being the first person in my life to put me first, to give me options. I’m not sure I deserve that gift, but I know that I’ll never forget it for as long as I live.”
His thumbs stroke along the peaks of my cheekbones, and he holds my head between his palms. Reverently. Delicately. With so much love. “You’re right that I did this once out of obligation. But I’m a thirty-eight-year-old man who has taken years to trust someone again. I’ve had a lot of time to think about where I went wrong. You are not a decision I made lightly. And tying myself to someone I don’t love out of some misplaced sense of duty is not a mistake I plan to make twice.”
A tear slips out of my eye, and he thumbs it away instantly, stroking at my hair now like he always does. “I’m glad you aren’t sad about the baby because I’m not either. But I want to be clear that you have options. All the options in the world. And I’ll be here with you, no matter what. I want to come home to the sound of you and Luke laughing. I want to listen to you play the guitar while I cook dinner. I want to leave you Post-it notes for a long time. I don’t want you to feel stuck with me.”
More tears slide down my cheeks, and he catches every single one. Always sturdy and reliable.
“I do really love your Post-it notes,” I whisper.
“Then I’ll keep writing them.”
“But I still think I’m a better cook.” I huff out, and I know I’m trying to cut the tension with humor, it works for me though, and I’ll probably never stop.