Page 185 of Wait for Him

All these years of nods across a dining room, of keeping the distance clean and manageable, and tonight I finally close it.

"Rosie," Samson whispers, and pulls me into his burly arms.

I rest my cheek against his chest and inhale sawdust and aftershave, and my throat tightens so fast it pisses me off. Lauren's hand finds my back, then smooths down the back of my head the way mothers do when they're trying not to cry, which naturally makes me want to cry harder. Then she's pulling me into her own arms, and because she's shorter than Samson, I can actually hug her properly instead of being folded into somebody's sternum.

"It's time?" she asks, tears already standing in her eyes.

"Yeah. Is that okay?"

The second it leaves my mouth, the lawyer in me starts throwing objections. I never consulted them. Never prepared them. Never asked how they felt about me deciding that tonight, after fifteen years, might be the night I finally tell James who I am.

"I mean, I'd understand if you wanted me to wait, or if you think he needs some warning first. I probably should've called. I definitely should've called."

"Rosie." Samson cuts me off with a gentle hand against my face. "It was always okay, sweetheart. Take your time. There's no rush. Whenever you're ready, we'll be here for both of you on the other side."

Well.

That shuts the whole internal legal department down.

"I love you both so much I can't put it into words."

"And we love you, Rosie." Lauren wipes a tear off my cheek with her thumb. "Go sit. Get some food in you. Whatever you need tonight, okay?"

I nod because speaking again feels risky, and make my way back to my table on legs that feel a little unreliable. I place my order with the waitress, take a drink of water, and try not to stare across the room every five seconds.

It doesn't take long before I see James.

I've spent the entire week sick over this. I've imagined every version of the conversation, from him crying to him getting angry to him asking why I stayed away so long, and at least one scenario where I throw up directly onto the table before I get through the first sentence.

But the second I actually see him, most of that noise dies down.

He's got a box tucked under one arm, laughing with one of his siblings about something, and he just looks like James. Happy. Busy. Entirely unaware that I've spent fifteen years turning this moment into the scariest meeting of my life.

Maybe that's why I finally feel ready.

Not calm. Let's not get ridiculous.

Just ready.

He's passing things out to the tables with his little sister following behind him like his tiny assistant, and I watch them make their way closer. When he finally starts toward mine, his steps falter.

His head tips to the side while he looks at me, quick and curious, like he's trying to place something.

Huh.

I'm filing that away for later because I currently have enough shit on the agenda.

Then he recovers and stops in front of me.

"Hi." He smiles. "You haven't come back for a while."

My heart trips over itself. "You remember me?"

"Yeah. Friend of my dad's, right?"

"That's right. Whatcha got there for me? What's tonight's event?"

He sets the box on a vacant chair, pulls a packet from it, and drops into the seat across from me like we're old colleagues. "Okay, so, I stole a bunch of Dad's stuff from around the house, and we're having a scavenger hunt. You pick a partner, and the team that finds the most stuff wins. You only get thirty minutes once the buzzer sounds."