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She tried to pull away from Julian, but he gathered her close, instead, bringing their foreheads together. “Hallie, listen to me. You don’t make messes. You follow your heart, and your heart is so beautiful, I can’t believe it was mine.” He seemed to brace himself. “Put me out of my misery and tell me it’s still mine. Please.”
She forgot how to speak. All she could do was stare. Was she dreaming this?
“It’s all right, I can wait,” he said, swallowing audibly. “I have so much I want to tell you. I finished my book and it’s terrible.”
Hallie was already shaking her head. “I’m sure that’s not true.”
“No, it’s one hundred percent true. But I needed to finish the first horrible draft in order to know how to fix it. No one gets anything worthwhile right on the first try. That’s why we evolve. That’s why we change. I never would have learned that without you. Without those letters.” He paused, visibly searching for the right words. “Bumpier journeys lead to better destinations. You. Me. We’re the best destination of all.”
Hallie’s eyes started to burn, heart in a slingshot. “How can you feel that way about me after I made you panic like that?”
“Hallie.” His filthy fingers sank into her hair, his eyes imploring her to understand. “I panicked like that because I love you.” He didn’t even pause long enough to let those incredible words sink in. “For so long, I thought I needed this strict control to keep the anxiety at bay, and maybe in a way, I do need structure. I’m going to find out. But that true panic only happens when someone I love is threatened. I realize that now. When I woke up and couldn’t find you . . . all I could think was the worst. Hallie.” He cradled her face in adoring hands. “If something happened to you, it would end me. But that fear is only an indication that my heart belongs to you, all right? It’s right here. Please just take it.”
Her breath left her in a great rush. But not all of it. She held on to just enough to whisper the words that had been etched on her soul in different handwriting and for different reasons over the course of fifteen years. “I love you, too,” she whispered. “One bumpy ride, reporting for duty, if you’re sure. If you’re—”
“If I’m sure?” Foreheads pressed together, they breathed hard against each other’s mouths for long moments. “All time is not created equal. I know that now. Time with you is the most substantial of all. I’ll probably never be able to stop counting the minutes that we’re apart, but the ones when we’re together, I’m leaving room for anything. Whatever happens. Gopher holes, rainstorms . . .”
“Robberies, drunken love letters . . .”
“Drunken? The first one?” She confirmed with a nod, and he laughed. “It did have a noticeably different tone.” His hands dropped from her hair, capturing her wrists and bringing them up to encircle his neck. Bodies meeting and molding together, they moved left to right in a slow dance to the sound of their heartbeats. “Promise you’ll keep writing me letters.”
Was she floating? “I’ll write them for as long as you want.”
He looked her in the eye. “That’s going to be pretty damn long, Hallie Welch.” His mouth slanted over hers and coaxed her into a dizzying kiss. “I’m going to write you back, too. One for every day I missed out on for fifteen years.”
This was what swooning felt like. “That’s a lot of letters,” she managed.
His grin spread against her mouth. “We’ve got time.”
* * *
Later that night, after all of the flowers had been planted, the laughter fading into the starlit, fragrant Napa night, Hallie and Julian stood in front of the closed library, side by side.
She handed him her sketchbook and he looked it over with serious professor eyes.
“I don’t know where to start,” she admitted.
And he seemed to know exactly what she meant. Because he nodded once and returned to his car in that brisk, determined way of his. He opened the back door, the top half of his body disappearing into the vehicle. The muscles of his back flexed and her fingers stretched in response, missing the texture of his skin—but all thoughts of debauchery fled when she spotted the object Julian was hauling out of the car. It had been covered in a blanket before, and she’d assumed it was more supplies he’d purchased at the nursery. But no.
It was her grandmother’s table.
The one that had sat outside of Corked since the fifties.
It was right there, thrown over Julian’s shoulder, as he carried it across the street. The world seemed to tilt beneath Hallie, on all sides, her throat squeezing so tight it was a wonder she was still breathing. She said his name but no words came out. All she could do was run her fingers over the intricate swirls, the chipped white paint. Julian was already back at the car, taking the wrought-iron chairs from the trunk. He carried one in each hand and set them down beside the table, looking at her, chest rising and falling.
