“Tate.”
“And the hitch. And Ollie said the left signal was blinking a little fast yesterday.”
“Tate.”
I stare into my coffee.
She takes the mug from my hand and sets it on the picnic table beside hers.
“I need to tell you something.”
I brace myself for the inevitable goodbye.
She takes a deep breath. “I canceled my reservation.”
My head snaps up. “What?”
“The campground in Oregon. I canceled it. Told them to hire someone else.”
Hope hits me so hard that it’s almost painful, but I’m afraid to jump to conclusions.
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want to go.” She says it quietly, like she’s testing the truth of it. “I’ve spent four years leaving places before they could matter too much. I told myself I was free, and maybe I was. But somewhere along the way, freedom became an excuse to never take a risk. I was so afraid of planting roots, of being hurt, that I wouldn’t let myself stop and smell the Ponderosas, so to speak.”
I don’t move. I barely breathe.
She looks toward the campground, where the first campers are beginning to stir.
“I thought home was something I could tow behind me,” she continues. “Then I came here. And I met your family. I met Ollie and Bev and the Hendersons. I found a library I love and a diner that makes meatloaf that’s somehow better than filet mignon.”
“That meatloaf could change anyone’s life.”
A watery laugh escapes her. “And I met you.”
I step closer.
“I’m leaving Ponderosa Flats because a new host has been hired,” she says. “But I was hoping I could park my RV at your place for a while.”
“For a while?”
She smiles. “Maybe forever, if I don’t annoy you too much.”
I pull her against me so fast she squeaks.
“You’re staying?”
“I’m staying.”
I kiss her forehead, her cheek, her mouth. I kiss her until she’s laughing and pushing at my chest because she can’t breathe.
Then I remember the ring.
“Don’t move.”
I sprint toward my truck.
“Tate, where are you going?”
