TWENTY-SIX

CLAIRE

The midnight wind nips at my face, and a chill shivers up my spine, eliciting goosebumps on my arms. I pull my coat tighter around me. Lynette and Jenn are parked nearby, loading the last of the boxes into Lynette’s vehicle, and I’ve already traded heels for ballet flats.

“That went well, considering,” she announces, closing the hatch.

“She had to know he was hungover,” I say.

“He perked up around reception time. I don’t think anyone noticed,” Jenn, ever the optimist, says.

“Oh, she definitely noticed,” Lynette says.

“The reception was great, though. I didn’t see any tension there,” I point out.

“I did tell him absolutely no bachelor’s parties the night before the wedding, didn’t I?”

“You tell everyone that,” I say. “It’s practically written into your contracts.”

“I thought so.”

“But I don’t think this was the result of a bachelor’s party. Not the official one, anyway. That happened a few weeks ago, according to her,” Jenn says.

“So it was a night out for drinks with old friends,” I say.

“One last hurrah. I wish these grooms understood what their behavior does to my brides.” Lynette sighs. “Well, ladies, that’s another successful wedding in the books.”

“Did you get everything?” I ask, nodding toward our venue, keeping my arms folded tightly.

“I did. Clean-up crew is still inside. They’re going to lock up for us.”

“Then I am going home to soak my feet.”

“See you on Tuesday,” Lynette says.

I tell them both goodbye, climb into my car, and turn the engine, adjust the heater to get the chill off, then check my phone for any missed calls or messages. There is one from Jesse.

Text me as soon as you’re done.

I hit reply. All done. Heading home.

Within a few seconds, he sends a photo.

It’s of a large metal cutout—something like an old English crest with curves and swirls.

Bryant Hall.

“Bryant Hall?” I whisper, but the words are lost to darkness.

What is this? I ask him.

A few seconds later, another photo appears. It’s Jesse’s house at sunset, freshly painted, the sky casting long shadows across the lawn. And yes, there’s the sign.

I’m not quite sure I believe what I’m seeing, so I toss the phone to the passenger’s seat, back out of the space, wave one last time to Lynette, and head to Jesse’s. Because I’m not sure what’s happening, except a sign is planted in front of his house, and it says Bryant Hall, and my project—my whole idea—was Bryant Hall.

Even inside the city traffic is nothing at this late hour, so I reach our neighborhood quicker than I expect, and, sure enough, the sign gleams in the spotlights set up in the new landscaping on either side. I kill the engine and step back into the crisp air.

The cutting is larger and more beautiful in person. So many details. My fingers trace the leaves and curls, every letter.

My phone dings a new text message.

So? What do you think? he asks.

It’s beautiful, but what, exactly, am I looking at here?

A return text comes quickly. A new division of Lynette Sutton Events.

Lynette bought the house? I ask.

No. I still own the house. Lynette and I are partners. 50/50.

What?

We went in together. Renovations are done. Bryant Hall will be available for events starting in December.

“Oh my God,” I whisper, the temperature in my cheeks rising. In front of me, the house looms in the shadows, bigger and more beautiful than I remember.

I can’t believe this!

My eyes follow those three blinking dots as he types.

Believe it. I saw your project presentation in the car the day I picked up Nolan from school. I was curious.

You were being nosy, I reply, with a smiley face emoticon.

I’m glad I was being nosy.

Me too. This is beautiful. I’m so excited for you—that you found a way to keep it.

He was typing as I was typing because another message posts at the same time mine uploads.

I told Lynette that I want you in charge of it.

“Oh my God,” I mutter, covering my hand with my mouth. I look at the house then back at my phone, trying to process the words. He wants me to run it? And then, another ding:

It’s freezing out there. Want to come inside?

I read the text once, not understanding, then read it again. When I look at the house the light in the front living room turns on.

“You’re here?” I whisper, my breath turning to smoke.

I hurry across the damp lawn, up the steps to the porch. The front door opens for me and Jesse stands on the other side of the threshold. A mix of surprise and relief and wonder and joy floods my veins. My eyes fill, blurring him as he pulls me into his arms and bends low, kissing me, his thumb following the curve of my cheek.

An I love you kiss.

An I’ve missed you kiss.

An I never want to leave you kiss.

When we finally pull apart I struggle to find both my breath and my voice. “What are you doing here? I didn’t think I was going to see you again until Thanksgiving!”

“I wanted to surprise you,” he admits, a sly grin turning his lips.

I laugh. “You succeeded. In spades.” I look up and down and sideways, taking the foyer in. “I can’t even believe what I’m seeing.”

“Do you want the grand tour?”

“I do.”

His fingers intertwine with mine as he leads me into the dining room. The floors are sanded and stained a darker, more modern ebony.

“We decided to go ahead and paint the moldings white to open up the space. We kept the gray. New lighting fixtures,” he says pointing up, “and the ceilings got a fresh coat of paint.”

“The medallions are new,” I say.

“They are.”

When we step into the formal living room, I can’t help but gasp at the size.

“They punched out the walls and inserted steel beams for support and fixed an arch at the edges. It’s huge now, right?”

“It’s so much better than I even imagined.”

“In the spring we’re going to fix the backyard and put in a permanent dance floor and eating space. Lynette made a deal with a caterer. The menu looks great. They even want to start serving a Sunday brunch, so, as of January, the morning and lunch hours are booked.”

“It’s already booked,” I repeat.

“Lynette is going to start marketing in November. It might be too late for holiday parties, but she’s confident we’ll see some activity in the spring. ”

“How did you even get permission to do this in this neighborhood? That was my only reservation about the whole idea.”

“That was all Lynette and her connections.”

“What about the neighbors?”

“The noise level has to be kept to a minimum, obviously, and outdoor events have to end by ten-thirty in the evening.”

“That’s not bad.”

“They didn’t see an issue with the location because we’re so close to downtown. The official business district, I mean. Plus, they approved the Schwartz’s request a few years ago.”

“The bed and breakfast! I totally forgot about that.”

“Everything fell together quickly, considering. It was crazy.”

“I never—even in my wildest dreams—thought this could actually happen,” I admit.

“It was perfect, Claire,” he says. “I didn’t want to sell this house, and when I saw your project it’s like the universe was handing me a way to start over but still keep my family close, so I owe you a huge thank you.”

“No. Thank you for making my vision happen.”

“So . . . are we okay?” he asks, hesitating.

“Yes,” I say, squeezing his hand. “We are more than okay.”

“Okay. Because you kissed me back there, at the door,” he reminds me. “I wanted to make sure.”

“I thought you kissed me,” I say.

“Uh, I think you kissed me, and I kissed you back,” he replies.

“No. I kissed you back.”

“Are you sure about that?” he asks.

“No. I don’t know. But . . . I’m sorry—for everything—and . . . I want you to know that I’m working on it.”

“Working on what?”

“Me. Forgiving myself. I loved Sean,” I confess. “I did. He was my first love and even though I know he wasn’t perfect and it’s likely we were ending when he died. . . . He does have a special place in my heart. But so do you. I love you, Jesse, and yes, sometimes your smile or your expression reminds me of him, but I see you. I do. And I don’t want you to ever think that I don’t. I see how you are with my mom, even though she hasn’t always treated you well. I see how you are with Nolan. You go so far above and beyond with him, and I love you so much for that. I couldn’t dream of anything or anyone better. And I’m so sorry I made you doubt that.”

“Wow. That’s actually. . . . I wasn’t expecting any of this,” he says, eyebrows lifting, seeming surprised.

“I started therapy a while back,” I confess. “It’s working.”

“Wow,” he repeats.

“Yeah. So could we maybe just . . . start over?”

“You mean pick up where we left off?” he clarifies, his eyes meeting mine. “Because I wouldn’t change anything, Claire. If I had to re-live all of this just to get back to you, I would.”

“Really?”

“Yes. But before this happens, there’s something I need to tell you.”

I hesitate, wondering what else he could be holding back. “Okay.”

“I was offered a full-time position.”

“Full-time,” I say, feeling a sudden chill in the room. “At the firm.”

“Yeah, they gave me the offer last week.” He shakes his head, the expression on his face betraying the conflict I know he must be feeling. “It’s good. Really good. Nice salary. Benefits. No transition at all, hardly. My internship ends the last Friday in January, and the new role picks up the following Monday.”

“Wow,” I say, struggling to be positive. “That’s . . . that’s amazing! You must be doing so well. I’m really proud of you.” I force a smile, knowing that accepting this position means four hours will continue to separate us.

“So, you’re okay with it,” he presses.

“I, um, it seems like something you would be okay with,” I tell him, not wanting to admit that no, it’s not really okay, but I’ll deal with it.

“I haven’t accepted, yet.”

“Oh. Okay,” I say, hesitating. “What are you waiting for?”

“You.”

“Me?”

“Yes. What do you want me to do?”

I laugh, shake my head. “No, Jesse. I’m not going to tell you what to do or make a decision for you or be selfish in any way. I will not stand in the way of what you want to do, or what you need to do, or what you think is best. I want you to be happy.”

He nods, understanding. “You want me to be happy,” he repeats.

“Yes, I do.”

“There would still be four hours between us if I take this job. For a while, at least.”

“I can do long-distance,” I tell him. “I love you. We’ve made it work so far, we can still make it work. If you want to say yes, then I support you, one hundred percent.”

“But you want me to be happy.”

I laugh. “Jesse! Yes. I do.”

“What if I told you that you and Nolan make me happy?”

My heart fumbles a beat. “I would say that you make us happy, too.”

“Then maybe we should, I don’t know, be happy together?”

“Maybe. . . . Yeah. That would be . . . amazing.”

He smiles faintly. “Okay. That’s all I need to hear.”

He removes his phone from his back pocket and takes a few steps backward. I watch him work for a few beats, his brow furrowed, concentrating. I spin once, taking in the room, trying to imagine what it will look like decorated for Christmas, what it will be like bringing Nolan and my parents for brunch on Sundays knowing I had a small hand in it. When I glance at Jesse again he’s still typing. “Everything okay?” I ask.

“More than. I just approved the sale of my shares in Cenbrex. Cashing in. And now,” he says, still typing, “I’m texting Cathy.”

“Realtor Cathy?”

“Yes. And I am telling her to go ahead and put in the offer on one of the houses we looked at today.” He hits send and returns to his home screen. “You make me happy, Claire. More than you even know. So . . . if it’s okay with you, I’m coming home.”

I exhale relief, throw my arms around his neck. He hugs me tightly until I pull away. “But wait. You’re going to turn down the job? Is that wise? I mean, I don’t want you to do something you might regret or burn any bridges or anything.”

“I will respectfully decline the position for family reasons so I won’t burn any bridges, and that’s why I’m cashing in on Cenbrex. Between that and the rental money from the house, I will not be in immediate need of gainful employment.”

“You must have done okay with that investment, then.”

He cracks an amused smile. “I did all right. Plus, Hamilton has plenty of finance jobs. You said so yourself. I can play the markets for a while. See what else is out there.”

“And you’re buying a house?”

His eyes light up. “Do you want to see it?” He opens the photo app on his phone and begins scrolling. “This is the exterior.”

“Oh, I love it!” I say. “It has so much personality.”

“Three bedrooms. Two and a half baths. The neighborhood is older, but the house has been renovated recently. It’s just outside the beltline.”

“So the price is good.”

“Better than the prices inside the beltline,” he says, “but still in the city limits.”

“The kitchen looks nice. I like the colors. How long has it been on the market?”

“Less than a week. There were no offers, yet, but Cathy wasn’t sure what would happen after the weekend. She recommended giving the full listing price. That’s the backyard,” he continues.

“Nice!”

“It’s partly shaded, fenced in, and I found the perfect tree for the tire swing for Nolan.”

The next photo elicits a laugh: the Spiderman action figure peeking around a potted plant. “Looks like Spidey wanted to be part of the decision-making fun.”

“He thoroughly approved of the space.”

In the next photo, Spiderman is standing in what looks like the area beneath a garden tub, studying the plumbing and wood and insulation.

“That one is called ‘No Leaks.’”

“Good work, Spiderman.”

The next is Spiderman peeking inside the grill on the back deck.

“Does this come with the house?” he suggests for a potential caption.

I laugh at this, but it dies as the next photo steals the air from my lungs. It’s a close-up of Spiderman, filling the screen, but it’s what he’s holding that leaves me near-speechless.

“Jesse?” The word comes out a whisper as my heart beats wildly. “What is this?” I ask.

Because it looks like a ring. A diamond ring. Princess cut. White gold or platinum setting. I’m not sure. A ring meant for an engagement, like one of the dozens I’ve admired on the hands of the brides I’ve met since I started working with Lynette.

“Oh, that?” he says easily. “Spidey picked that up a while back. You see, he fell in love with this girl a long, long time ago. It hasn’t been easy for them, but she’s worth it. Now he’s just, you know, waiting for the right time. Trying to figure out how to best ask her. He doesn’t want to rush anything or freak her out,” he adds. “There’s plenty of time. It’s just . . . she is so perfect in every way. He’s going to let her call the shots, but, just in case, he wants her to know that he’s ready the moment she is.”

A ring.

For me.

The words . . . they won’t come. They aren’t there. They jam in my throat as my mind flashes back to the day I met Jesse—a scrawny almost seventh grader on a bike.

Jesse, smiling as I pass him in the hall at school.

Jesse, waving on my way in or out of his house.

The morning Sean died, the tragedy written across both of our faces.

Seeing him again—the first time in four years—standing at the mailbox at the street in front of his house.

Sitting across from him as we eat pizza.

Watching him lift Nolan over his head and onto his shoulders.

The photo of the three of us taken at the science museum—the one I look at every night before tucking Nolan in.

Such a sweet family, the girl had said.

“I—I don’t know what to say,” I finally manage.

“Yeah,” he admits. “I’m not quite sure what to call this one, either.”

I suck in another breath, heart hammering against my chest.

“What about . . . I don’t know,” I trail off, hesitating. “She said ‘yes’?”

And the moment I say the words it’s like a weight lifts. I am certain they are the right ones. For the first time I can see how meant for each other we really are. How, despite the struggle and the heartache, this was how it was supposed be all along.

Jesse’s eyes fix on mine, holding them, seeming unsure, as if he doesn’t quite believe what he just heard.

I exhale a shaky breath, focusing on him through the blur of happy tears. “She said yes,” I confirm, smiling.

“Yes?” he repeats.

I laugh and nod, a single tear slipping past my cheek. “Oh my gosh! Yes!”

* * *

Our story doesn’t end here. It doesn’t even begin here. We are the sum of the choices we have made, and the choices we will make. We can’t change the past or right the wrongs or re-write the road we’ve traveled, and the philosophers spoke truth when they said we will never understand the trajectory of our lives until after we have lived them.

But what I do know is that I am happy with this choice. I am happy in this moment. I am happy with us. And for the first time in years every rift, every fissure, every piece of my once-shattered glass heart is not only filled but overflows with the love and joy and kindness that Jesse has brought back into my world.

I feel whole again.

Complete.

And I laugh because, ever the planner, I am writing our wedding toasts already, and this time, when I fall into Jesse’s arms it is not because I am sick and overwhelmed with grief but because forgiving is healing and healing means letting go. It doesn’t change our pasts but makes our future together bigger and brighter—more than we ever dreamed possible.

THE END