But Pat only grins, holding open the door to the porch. “It will now.”
I hadn’t noticed earlier, but Pat has replaced not only the rusted chains but also the swing itself. I can smell it before I really see it—the scent of fresh sawdust. I run my hand over the back of it, freezing when I see what’s carved into the wood.
“Pat and Lindy,” I whisper.
He sits first, hooking his arm over the back, careful not to cover up the words. “Told you it had our names on it. It’s a wedding gift.”
I sit down next to Pat. Not close enough, I guess, because he drags me closer, keeping an arm around my shoulders. “From whom?”
“James.”
“James? The brother who spends all his waking hours glaring—he made us a wedding gift?”
“He’s not so bad once you peel off the grumpy exterior,” Pat says.
“I’ll have to write him a thank-you note. So, he does beer-making and wood-working? Sounds like a regular Renaissance man.”
Pat smirks a little at that, then pushes his toe gently against the porch, sending us in a gentle swing. “Yes. Both very good gifts for a man who seems to have a life goal of being a hermit.”
We’re quiet for a few seconds. But Pat doesn’t do quiet well. “This is nice,” he says.
“Nice but weird.”
“Why do you keep saying that?” he asks, an edge of frustration creeping into his voice.
“It’s weird because it’s so normal. Think about it. You and I had a whirlwind romance in college, a rough goodbye where we both hurt each other, then, like a week after seeing each other for the first time in over five years, we’re married and sharing a house. We’re doing dishes together. You’re cooking for us and tucking in Jo. Now we’re swinging on a porch swing with our names on it.”
I can’t explain why the tears come. But they do. So hard and fast I can’t keep them in. Thankfully, because my head is resting on Pat’s shoulder, he can’t see them. And I just keep going, like something inside me has been uncorked.
“You’re paying for plumbers and installing a new driveway and fixing the broken porch step and replacing the screen door and rehanging the crooked shutters.”
“You noticed all that?”
“It’s hard not to. You’ve probably finished half the list by now.”
“More like a third. It’s a long list.”
I groan. “Not to mention looking up hairstyles for Jo. I’m sorry I haven’t said thank you. It’s hard to know how when it’s so … much.” The emotion becomes too thick in my throat then, and I close my mouth, swallowing down a sob.
Pat leans in, pressing a kiss to my hair. His lips move, and I feel his breath on my cheek. “I don’t expect that. I don’t even want a thank you note.”
“What do you want?” The words burst out of me, sounding like an angry accusation rather than a question.
The swing’s gentle motion is soothing, even as I wait impatiently for Pat’s answer. “I want you, Lindybird. Only ever you.” He must feel me starting to protest because he gives my shoulder a firm squeeze. “Hold on, now. I want you, but I also want things for you. I want to see you get your shine back. You’ve shouldered a lot of burdens for a long time. You gave up your dreams and aren’t even bitter about it. But I think in the process, you’ve lost the will to hope. The ability to let yourself dream. I want to help you get that back.”
There’s that h-word again. Only this time, help doesn’t sound so bad. I can’t argue with anything Pat said in his assessment of me. I haven’t had room to hope or to dream. Having Pat around, having a partner, someone to shoulder the responsibilities with me has been life-changing. We feel like a team.