She sets the charcuterie board on the kitchen table and nods at the door. Eager to escape the scrutiny of Maggie’s friends, I follow her out into the hall, where she leads me into a staff-only kitchen and faces me. Pressing her back against the closed door, she gets straight to the point, looking circumspect. “You missed my birthday party.”
“I could have sworn the invite said Sunday, January thirty-first,” I defend.
Her smile is sarcastic. “Mm-hmm . . .”
Frowning, I gesture to my suit and tie. Lift the gift. “You think I’d show up for a video game tournament dressed like this?”
She laughs suddenly and stalks toward me. Then she wraps her arms around my waist and rests her chin against my sternum. “I believe you. I just like seeing you sweat.”
“You’re sick,” I laugh. I almost joke with her that I deserve it but pause and remind myself to be gracious with myself. That includes avoiding negative self-talk.
The humor in her expression vanishes. “Not anymore.”
I lift a hand to push a stray piece of hair off her forehead. “I know.”
She lifts a curious brow. “How?”
I smile. “I’m observant, remember? I can see how much happier you are.” I tug on her shirt sleeve. “You’re wearing color, for one thing. You sing at church. You go to the front when Pastor Mark asks if anyone needs prayer. I even caught you dancing in the nursery once. All the signs are there. You’re doing better.”
She drops her forehead to my chest, hiding her face from me now. “Much better.”
We’re both quiet for a moment. “And you’re still wearing my necklace,” I whisper, pulling on the end of her ponytail playfully.
She nods against me. “That stupid year is almost up.”
“Almost.”
She lifts her face and tilts her head. “Can we wrap it up early?” she asks, staring at my mouth.
I lean away from her. “Tempting, but no. You haven’t gone on that trip yet.”
She rolls her eyes. “It’s on the agenda. You could come with me, if you want.” Her eyes fill with childlike hope, and for a moment, I genuinely consider it. But traveling together as an unmarried couple is a prescription for disaster.
Maybe one day.
I shake my head. “That wasn’t part of the deal.”
“Yeah, well, that deal is kind of dumb, if you ask me.”
Laughing, I disengage from our embrace. “I didn’t.”
She sticks her tongue out. “Fine. Check off a stupid solo trip to Europe,” she says impatiently, as though that trip hasn’t been a life-long bucket list item for her. She pauses, tilts her head curiously. “And then what?”
Smirking, I mirror the tilt of her head. “I don’t know, Genevieve. Then what?”
A devious grin rolls across her face. “Is itreallyup to me?”
I lick my lips, keenly aware of how alone we are. I itch to draw nearer, to resume our embrace, but I refrain. “Go on that trip. Then read my letter. And then we’ll talk.”
“You’re really bossy, you know that?”
“Maybe I miss having you as my assistant.”
“Who wouldn’t?” She hesitates. “Well, the fax machine, probably.”
I laugh. We smile at each other. “Get out of my sight before I break all my own rules,” I say, my voice unintentionally husky. She is radiant. She always has been, but there’s a new subtle glow about her that I can’t get past. She still has that same quick, fiery temper about her—despite how much she’s changed after rededicating her life to Christ. But there’s also a quiet contentment that radiates from her like the warmth of the summer sun.
“Can I have my gift?” she asks, gesturing to the box in my hand.
