Page 184 of That Rush

“You want more shelves.”

“Always.”

Every answer supports the choices I made, but she doesn’t move. She just stands there, her gaze drifting from the shelves to the empty space where a chair will go, as if trying to weigh the future she never agreed to build.

I reach for her hand. “I got ahead of myself.”

“You tend to build the road and assume I’ll appreciate the efficient route.”

“It is more efficient,” I say, because it’s true.

“That was the wrong response.”

“I knew it as soon as I said it.”

She lets me pull her closer. “The shelves are beautiful.”

“I can cancel the riding lessons.”

“You haven’t made the lessons yet.”

“Right. I can stop holding a place.”

“Ask me tomorrow.”

“Why tomorrow?”

“Because I don’t want every conversation about us to become an emergency meeting where we solve the next ten years before dinner.”

My instinct is to tell her there’s nothing wrong with knowing what we’re building. I stop because she wants enough time to choose the room, the lesson, and me instead of finding each one entered onto my calendar before she gets there.

“Tomorrow,” I agree.

“Excellent. We’ve successfully postponed one decision for almost twenty-four hours.”

“It’s uncomfortable.”

“I’m proud of you for surviving.”

I kiss her, slow enough to make her lean into me, then take the planner from the table and cross out the heading.

“What are you changing it to?” she asks.

“Miscellaneous items.”

“Very romantic.”

“It’s a supply list.”

“It has my name on it.”

“Had.”

When I start to step away, she grips my forearm. “I like that you think about me when I’m not here.”

The admission quiets every answer I could give her.

“You’re part of the routine now. Even when you’re not here.”