Terry clears his throat. “I asked to borrow her phone. Called my dad and told him where I was. And then I said I quit. Told him I could either leave the truck in Vegas and never see him again or he could accept my family and I’d drive the truck home for him. But either way, he would never talk about my family like that again, or he’d never see the truckorus.”
“Wow,” Oliver says. I look at him to see he’s already looking at me.
Terry shrugs. “After I hung up, I told Pat I was scared I wouldn’t be enough for her all on my own. I knew she didn’t marry me because I was a Morrison, but I was so scared of not being enough for her that I became a puppet, instead. I thought if I could fix everything myself, maybe she’d never know what a mess I was. Maybe I’d earn her love.”
A heavy silence follows this. Oliver stares at his empty mug.
“What did you say, Pat?” I ask.
“I told him I fell in love with the manandthe mess. I didn’t need a provider, I needed apartner. Someone to trust me enough to let me see him—choosehim— every day, mess and all. You can’t earn something that’s already yours.”
“And it worked?” Oliver asks, his voice strained.
“After a few weeks of groveling,” he says, exchanging a look with his wife. “But we drove home together eventually, and we’ve been driving together ever since.”
“It’s been a bumpy road,” Pat says, “but you don’t get married and then sit the hard roads out. You don’t get married for the destination, you get married for the journey.”
Terry kisses her hand. “And you gotta choose to take that journey together every day.”
“Now we take this drive every year when we visit my parents in Vegas,” Pat says. “Same route I took when I left, same route Terry and I took home together. It’s our reconciliation anniversary.”
The silence stretches between the four of us. Outside, the wind continues to moan, throwing snow around the cozy cafe, yet it makes this small space feel all the warmer. Like we’re in a snow globe.
Finally, I make eye contact with Oliver. It feels like we’re sharing a moment, though I don’t know what or why. “Thanks for telling us your story,” I say.
“Hopefully it helps you two sort out yours,” Pat says, and I don’t even have to suppress a laugh. “Enjoy the road. The journeyisthe destination.”
We all stand up, like her words were some kind of signal. Oliver busses the table before I can, and even though it’s probably for the Morrison’s sake, I appreciate it.
I appreciate it so much, it makes my eyes sting.
“You know, you two should probably kiss and make up about now,” Pat says.
Oliver and I share the most awkward chuckle in history.
“I don’t think we’re there yet,” Oliver says gently.
Pat’s eyebrows could hit the ceiling. “Son, did you listen to a single word we said? Apologize to your lovely girlfriend and fix thisnow, or we won’t get Maggie back there to drive you back to the hotel.”
They’re going to have someone drive us back to the hotel?
My sore ankle screams for Oliver to kiss me already. I give him a challenging look instead of a pleading one, though. There’s no way Oliver will kiss me if he thinks I want it.
Even if his expression has never seemed so curious, so open, so?—
Scared.
Terry slaps a hand on Oliver’s back, prompting him. Oliver’s brows shoot up, like he’s trying to tell me something.
I don’t care what he’s trying to tell me. Doesn’t matter if his eyes are saying, “Don’t read into this, Sprinkles,” or “Try not to enjoy yourself, Tinsel.” If kissing Oliver Fletcher means I don’t have to walk a mile back to the hotel, I’ll make out with him on the spot.
So when he leans in, I tip my head up.
And when he pulls a “Hitch,” keeping his face a half an inch from mine, I raise up on one foot and meet him where he is.
My lips meet his softly. I expect him to pull away fast, but he holds his mouth gently against mine.
And it is not the worst thing.
