Page 73 of Run to Me

“You better get started,” she says, cutting me off as she presses buttons on her phone, then tosses it aside. “Five minutes.”

My breath stalls, and the fear of verbal struggle grips me in a chokehold. At last, she meets my gaze, and the playfulness gleaming in her eyes has me dropping to my knees in sheer relief.

Groaning, I wrap my arms around her hips and drop my head into her lap. “Don’t do that to me. Did you really set a timer?”

“No, I was just messing with you. I’m sorry.” Her tone is sincere despite speaking through a smile. She’s always had a wry sense of humor, and I welcome its return, even at my expense. Tucking strands of hair behind my ears, she says, “I wanted to make you sweat a little, but putting you on the spot was thoughtless of me.”

Because I’m unable to form words when I’m put on the spot.

Because my being put on the spot is what got us to this point.

Closing my eyes, I take a second to breathe in her coconut scent—sweet and creamy—but nothing is sweeter than the next words that spill from her lips.

“I’m ready, J.”

My head pops up, and our gazes connect. Her earlier confidence wavers as she searches my face for any sign of hesitation or doubt within me. She won’t find it. I’ve never been more certain about anything like I’m certain about us.

Unsure where to begin this long-awaited conversation, I blurt, “I wrote you a book.”

The runaway admission sets my ears aflame. She notices the reddening since she’s the one who tucked my damn hair behind them, exposing my physical tell. I’ll give her credit. She makes a valiant effort to stifle her amusement.

Rubbing my ears between her fingers and thumbs, she asks, “You want to unsay that, don’t you?”

“More than anything,” I admit.

“Well, it’s too late now. Show me this book.”

With a heavy sigh, I stretch my arm to retrieve the notebook from the side table. She plucks it from my fingers with far more excitement than she normally shows. For someone who instinctively guards her emotions, she’s practically giddy.

Her amusement grows as she flips through the first few pages, then flips back to the start. She draws her lips between her teeth, her eyes glistening with barely restrained humor.

I sag in defeat. “Go on and say it.”

“It’s a picture book.” She chokes on the words, as if a burst of laughter clogs her throat.

“Of us,” I say, seeking the tiniest thread of dignity to hold on to.

“We’re stick figures.”

“It’s the best I could do.”

“I look like Medusa.” She turns another page, and her laughter breaches the surface at last. “We both look like Medusa.”

“Forget it.” I attempt to steal the notebook from her, but she raises it over her head. “Give it back, birdie.”

“Never. It’s mine.” She squeals when I flip her onto her back and dig my fingers in her sides, tickling her. “Okay! Okay! Truce!”

She’s breathtaking when she laughs—wide smile, flushed cheeks, sparkling hazel eyes. Beautiful and happy and mine. My Maisy.

Hovering above her, I ease the pressure of my fingers on her ribs and lightly brush my lips against hers. The soft kiss is a palette cleanser as the mood shifts from carefree fun to confession time. We stare at each other long enough to witness the shared joy in our eyes fade away, replaced by years of separation, heartache, and longing.

“Come here,” I say, settling onto the couch as I guide her to sit astride me. This conversation needs to happen face to face without either of us hiding.

She straddles my lap and hugs the notebook to her chest like a shield. I squeeze her thighs, needing a connection to keep me steady while I formulate a speech in my head.

“I want to remind you of our childhood and how happy we were. But also show you our future and how happy we can be. I left some pages blank for the in-between because the years we spent apart had no meaning, no color.” I shrug a shoulder. “Drawing seemed like a better option than putting my thoughts into words.”

“Jensen.” My name floats from her lips on a sigh, and I brace myself for the worst. “I don’t need pictures to remind me of our good memories. They’ve always stayed with me. It’s the one bad memory I want to forget, so I need you to rewrite it.”