I laugh before I ask, “Was the snow beautiful?”
“It was. It’s the kind that truly blankets the earth and makes you believe for a moment that you’re in a snow globe.”
I smile, imagining it. I’ve always wondered if I’d love a real winter, not the kind that fades quickly in the Texas warmth, but the kind that stays and forces you to make peace with its crisp chill and frosty bite.
That, and I always thought I could pull off a beret and wool coat. You don’t need either of those things in Dusty Hollow.
I take another sip of coffee. “I really like this,” I say as I hold the cup up slightly.
“Coffee?” he teases.
“Plain coffee,” I correct. “I never thought I could tolerateit without milk or sugar.”
“Ah,” he replies. “As long as it’s not Grandpa’s coffee. Pretty sure his is made of tar and tobacco juice.”
I laugh. “It’s whatever is in that big bulk can.”
Milo’s brows rise. “He told me it puts hair on your chest.”
I dare to dip my eyes down to his. “So it seems you’ve had some, then?”
“No,” he answers quickly as his grin grows. “This just . . . happened.”
I squint my eyes. “Is that some silver I see?”
He mocks hurt. “Whoa. Let me turn thirty before you start making such harsh accusations.”
The heat from the mug in my hands and the conversation continue to seep through my body as I stand. When I’m a good ten feet away, I turn and say, “You shouldn’t worry. You’ll look good when you go gray.”
What I don’t say out loud is that I want to grow gray with him—to let our life show up in the lines on our faces and the stories we keep. I’ve pictured us a hundred times at eighty, still laughing. Sitting on a porch swing with coffee. Me in a comfortable muumuu, him in a cotton pajama set with a pocket for his reading glasses.
Milo was once the only thing I was sure about, but the problem with placing your certainty in another person is there’s the possibility they’ll let you down.
And then there’s the fact that you can let yourself down.
A fact I’m growing more aware of daily.
“So, what’s this surprise?” I ask, letting my thoughts dissolve.
Milo jumps up from the bed. “Let’s go find out.”
After we’ve both dressed, we quietly ride the elevator down until it spills us out into a lobby that’s even more noticeably glamorous in the daylight. Large crystal chandeliers hang from above, and the floor is so shiny that the chandeliers are a perfect reflection in their gloss. I turn in circles, taking in all the sleek surfaces that make the city look like glitter and Dusty Hollow look . . . well, dusty.
I flinch at the thought of the expense. I don’t know what Milo’s finances are like. He might have been a pro football player for a couple years, but he’s now a teacher with a TikTok account.
Milo’s hand finds mine, our fingers naturally entwining, and he pulls me along. “The surprise isn’t the hotel,” he teases.
I let him lead me out onto the street, where the sounds are louder than I remember from last night. Everything is bright and moving so quickly. People aren’t walking just to walk—they’re on a mission. But Milo strides confidently in front of me, pulling me toward his back so I don’t have to dodge or be shouldered by people who are distracted by phones in their hands or worries in their heads, which I can see in their frown lines.
I’ve never heard so much noise in my life, but in the midst of all of it, I can practically taste the possibility—once I get past the smog and smell of exhaust and cigarette smoke.
When we finally stop, I look up at the building in front of us. It’s an old building with a green gate and fence. There’s an arch at the entrance, and it looks like someone plucked the building from a history book and placed it in front of me. Except this is not a book. I’m here. Standing at the threshold of what feels like something magnificent.
“Wait until we go inside,” Milo says, his tone buzzing with anticipation.
He pulls at my hand, and I happily let him drag me along as my head tilts upward and I take in the sculpting where someone’s hands have created something that has stood the test of time—but I’m not ready for what’s behind the large door.
My jaw drops as we step into a different time period. Three stories of walls are bookcases, bursting with stories and worlds. Dark wooden railings keep them safe and secure while light pours in from stained glass windows. But it’s not just books; it’s the art painted on every wall and ceiling, capturing a different way of life. The kind that seems slow and intentional. The kind that cared about the details.
