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“Someday we’re going to tell that story of our song at our wedding,” I said, because I knew in my gut that she was it for me. The one.
—
My heart squeezed at Cain’s words. I had never imagined that love would appear like this, in this way, with this man. “That’s a very bold statement,” I told him. “And statistically improbable if you look at the reality of geography and our career paths.”
I said that because I wanted him to tell me it didn’t matter. I wanted reassurance that he didn’t care if I had to stay in Cambridge for another year. That he would wait and we would work it out and he would spend the time continuing to focus on his recovery.
“Fuck statistics,” he said. “You’re all mine, Red. If you want me to move here I will.”
I saw that he meant that and that meant everything to me. Though I couldn’t imagine him anywhere other than Camden, on a boat, in his work boots. But I knew we’d make it work somehow.
“You’re right,” I whispered. “You are fucking romantic.”
