Page 132 of See You Next Tuesday

“No.” Gabe shook his head. “Because a man like that should never be president.”

Anya felt overwhelmed—that he’d done this heroic thing, that he was sitting on her father’s front lawn telling her about it. That however much she thought she loved him, he kept finding new ways to make her love him even more.

“That was incredibly brave of you,” she said.

“I hope people see it that way, if it comes out.”

“What do you mean?” Anya frowned. “How else could they see it?”

“That I sold my boss out to the feds and can never be trusted or employed in politics ever again?”

“That’s not going to happen,” Anya said emphatically. “And if it does, we’ll change our names and move to that farm you promised me.”

“Did you ever get us those new passports?” He raised his eyebrows.

“No, I’m a terrible co-conspirator.”

“But a very cute one.”

He caught her eye. She thought maybe he wanted to kiss her. But she couldn’t let him, not yet.

“Gabe, I need to say something to you.”

His face turned more serious. “What is it?”

“In April, you were right. You were completely right about what I was doing and why. I just couldn’t see it. I was so angry with you, and I was in so much pain, and I thought, I have to get away from this. I couldn’t figure out anything else to do. But I want you to know that’s never going to happen again.”

“No?” He blinked a couple of times. “How do you know?”

“Because you’re my family.” Her voice broke. “And you don’t— I mean, you never stop being someone’s family, no matter what happens. And I think about, like, what I would give for one more day with my mom. Or what you would give for one more day with Danny. That’s how I feel about you. I’d give anything.”

“Anya.” Gabe pulled her toward him, and she wrapped her arms around his neck. He held her close, and she let herself be completely immersed in the feel of his body, the sounds of their breathing. He closed the last inches between them, or maybe she did—she couldn’t tell, and it didn’t matter. All that mattered was his lips against hers, the grip of his hands, the warmth of his skin. She never wanted to think again about all the ways they’d hurt each other, all the time they’d wasted. There was nothing left but gratitude—for his goodness, for his forgiveness, for this moment and every one after.

She was grateful that they were alive.

Gabe could have spent forever sitting on that lawn kissing Anya, him in his sweaty road trip clothes, Anya in her pajamas. It was such an overwhelmingly emotional night (on top of an overwhelmingly emotional week, and month, and year) that Gabe couldn’t begin to process all of it. All he could feel was gratitude that Anya was back in his arms—and that the pajamas meant she wasn’t wearing a bra. God, he’d missed her body, her smell, her touch. He’d missed her so much these past three months that he didn’t care who was right or wrong anymore; it didn’t make a difference. The only thing he cared about was Anya.

He didn’t know how long they sat on that damp grass, tangled in each other’s arms, but eventually Gabe looked up.

“Um, An?”

“What is it?”

“I think someone’s up.”

“I noticed,” she cooed as she reached her hand between his legs. And fuck that felt good, but—

“No, I mean— Anya! The house.”

“What?” She looked confused, then turned around and saw—almost all of the lights inside the house were on.

“Shit,” she muttered. “They were supposed to go to sleep.”

“This crowd? The night before the convention?” Gabe’s tone was jokey, but his heart ached. He remembered how good it felt to pull an all-nighter with this exact group of people, laughing and eating cold takeout and feeling this unbelievable sense of purpose.

“Fair point,” Anya said. “Should we go to your hotel?”

He wanted that. He wanted the woman he loved in a luxurious suite at the Drake Hotel—in the bathtub, on the floor, in the bed.