Page 151 of Blue Skies

My jaw drops. “Did you seriously pay that girl to ask me about a broken heart?”

The corners of his lips tip up, lazy and playful. “Maybe. But I can’t take credit for the rest. That was all her.”

I laugh, and his crooked smile twitches, but his eyes are burning flames—deep and limitless, swirling with thoughts, and knocking the breath out of me. The people and chatter surrounding us melt away as we stare at each other until it’s just Joshua and me, our own private island.

I can hardly think straight as I take in how different he looks. He got a haircut—still thick and unruly on top, but now it’s shaved on the sides. I almost forgot how tall and hulking he is, but the way he fills in his T-shirt is a vivid reminder. It’s obvious he’s still keeping up with some kind of physical sport, but the main thing I notice is he’s no longer hiding bruises under long sleeves.

But those are just the physical changes, and this is so much more than that. It’s in his presence; the way he carries himself. The permanent, hard creases between his eyebrows are gone, and his grey eyes are so light they almost look blue under the glare of the sun. His hands are in his jean pockets, shoulders relaxed, stance effortlessly confident.

Joshua Hunt is no longer a boy. He’s all man.

The ground tilts below me when he leans close, his breath warming the side of my cheek, and rasps, “You totally missed me.”

I can’t breathe. “I didn’t—”

“So much.”

I let out a thick half-laugh, and I nod, wiping my cheek with my palm. “So freaking much.”

His lips curve against my hair, his pulse pounding against his throat. “Blue ...” He says my name low and rough, making my toes curl. I don’t know when the gap closed between us, but as I press the side of my face to his chest, listening to his erratic heartbeat, a shudder rolls through him. “You don’t have a fucking clue how much I’ve thought about you.”

My insides scream. “I think I do.”

His warmth burns through my skin as he palms the back of my neck and angles my head up. “I highly doubt that,” he says quietly. His gaze darkens as it coasts along my face, taking in every detail, and I breathe a little harder. “You look good.”

“I feel good,” I whisper.

A hint of amusement flickers in his eyes. “Guess you were right after all.”

“About what?”

“You never needed me to save you.”

My lips tremble, and his hand slides to the curve of my jaw, his thumb pulling slightly on my bottom lip.

He murmurs, “But I was right too.”

“About what?” I croak.

“You’re it for me, hippie. Always have been. Always will be.”

My heart dips and soars, rocking my tiny boat.

And I know we’re going to be okay.

Many days over these past few years have been hard—harder than I ever thought possible. Especially because they like to show up right when I think I’m finally happy. But that’s the problem.

Perhaps my biggest lesson: I’m no longer looking for happiness. It’s a wishy-washy state, constantly moving and evolving, and if that’s all I focus on, it will always evade me. Instead, I’m working toward wholeness—something I’ve learned embraces not only the good, but the bad too. It allows me to be upset, cry, and throw myself on the ground, but also to get back up.

Because I know I’m not meant to stay down there.

As the sun casts its sea of light over us, I look up and can’t help but smile. We’re surrounded by endless blue skies.