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He was wearing a light-blue button-down, dark jeans, sneakers, and his hair was a little longer. He was so handsome, he made it hard to breathe for a second. “Hi,” he said, his eyes steady on mine. “I heard you were looking for me?”
I smiled, simultaneously wanting to laugh and to cry. But instead, I just nodded. “I sure am.” I practically threw myself at him as he swept me into his arms and gave me a kiss that let me know he’d been missing me these last few months just as much as I’d been missing him.
We broke apart and I hugged him tightly, realizing that the mirror, of all things, was right. I was home. I was with him.
“Hey,” I whispered into his ear. “Fun fact.” Russell drew back slightly to look at me, one eyebrow raised, expectant. I took a deep breath and made myself say it. “I think I’m in love with you.”
Russell was smiling at me with his eyes, his lips—with his entire face. “That is a fun fact,” he said, “because I know I’m in love with you.”
And we kissed again, a little less frenzied, because I knew we had time. We had all night, and the next few days, and then whatever came after that. Maybe Russell would get into NYU, and we’d be just a train ride apart. Maybe he’d go to USC, or Temple, or Michigan, and we’d continue to figure it out. Maybe this was all going to fall apart next week. Maybe it never would. The only way to find out, I’d finally realized, was to jump in.
“So,” Russell said, when we stepped away. He took my hand in his and raised it to his lips. “What comes next?”
I smiled at him. “Whatever we want. We get to write our own story.”
He grinned. “Can I pick the genre?”
I laughed at that as he swung our hands between us and we started walking across the bus station, toward the doors.
I knew that our love story—the story of Darcy and Russell—wasn’t anything like the love stories I’d seen in the movies.
It was better.
It was ours.
Russell squeezed my hand in his, and then held open the door for me.
And we walked out, into the December twilight, together.
