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Then, the next.
Bank of America Change of Address Form.
“I would have filled them out for you, but you know how shitty my handwriting is.”
I screamed and spun around, clutching the forms in my balled-up fist as Ken waltzed into the kitchen and leaned against the kitchen counter a few feet away. He was wearing gray sweatpants and a plain white T-shirt. His hair was tousled, damp from a shower, and he smelled like Irish Spring soap and home.
“You scared the shit out of me!” I yelled, swatting at him with the papers in my hand.
“Sorry.” He smiled.
With that single smile, my heart forgave him for whatever he was apologizing for and whatever he was about to apologize for and whatever he would ever apologize for again.
But my brain hadn’t caught up.
“What the fuck, Ken? You can’t just steal my stuff and cut some flowers out of your yard and pick up some forms from the post office and think I’m gonna move in with you like nothing ever happened. That’s not the point! None of this”—I waved the papers in the direction of the table—“is the fucking point!”
Ken’s smile disappeared, and I hated that I’d made it go.
“I know.” He looked at the ground, then the wall, then the ceiling—anywhere but at my accusatory face. Sticking his hand in his pocket, Ken pulled out a sheet of notebook paper, folded into a perfect rectangle. Unfolding it, he said, “You told me to write down what I wanted to say. So…I did.” Ken’s aqua eyes flicked to mine for just a moment and then fell back to the paper, now open in his hands. “I knew exactly what I wanted to say the whole time. I just…” Ken shook his head. “When I wrote it down, it made it seem so small. It’s only three sentences.”
Ken looked up at me with brave, terrified eyes.
“Nine words.”
His chest expanded, nostrils flared.
“I can say nine words.”
I was watching Ken fight one battle in a war he’d been waging his whole life. Seeing his struggle, seeing him trying to wrestle his feelings into words and force the words out of his mouth, was almost more than I could bear. I wanted to tell him to stop. That I didn’t care if I ever heard him say it. But I realized that he was doing it for himself just as much as he was doing it for me, so I stood there and waited for him to emerge from battle victorious.
Handing me the piece of paper, Ken took a deep breath while I held mine.
Then, with his hands in his pockets and his eyes on the floor, Ken uttered the sweetest, most sincere nine words one person has ever said to another person.
“I love you. I miss you. Please come home.”
My elation at hearing those nine little words was completely overshadowed by the pride I felt for Ken. A slow smile spread across my face, and overjoyed tears tickled my eyes as I watched the tension roll off his broad shoulders. Watched the relief dance into his features, lifting and brightening them, one by one. I blinked away my tears so that his adorably sheepish, self-satisfied smile would stop being so goddamn blurry.
Ken slid his hands out of his pockets and pulled me into his arms. He was hard and clean and warm and safe, and he pressed his lips to the top of my head as I cried dirty black tears all over his soft white shirt.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t say it before,” he murmured into my hair. “I wanted to. Every night when I called you, I told myself I would. I just…” Ken’s voice trailed off, once again at a loss for words.
“I know, baby.” I pulled away just enough to see his handsome face. “I know. I found out more about that today.”
Ken’s brows pulled together, and his posture stiffened. “There is something wrong.”
“There was.” I smiled. “But you fixed it. Just like you fix everything. You used all your strengths to make up for your one weakness. You fixed yourself.” I pushed up onto my toes and planted a soft kiss on his worried lips. “And you fixed us.”
Ken dropped his eyes to my shoulder as a deep crease slashed across his forehead. He seemed to be thinking about something, probably warring with himself to find the words he needed again. I wanted to ask him what was going on, but I decided to wait and let him tell me on his own.
He needed to tell me on his own.
“Brooke?” Ken eventually said, lifting his eyes to mine.
“Yeah?”
“Do you remember what you said when Amy broke up with Allen? About why she left?”
