Page 113 of Keepsakes and Kismet

“YOU’RE WHAT?” Peyton blows a piece of hair out of her eyes.

“I’M IN—” I shout, before realizing it’s pointless. “Fucking hell. I’m in fucking hell.”

I point at her, then at myself, then at the door. Then I make a “driving the car” hand motion and point to her again, just in case she missed it the first time, trying to communicate that we should go.

She shakes her head. “I AM CONTRACTED FOR ANOTHER TWENTY MINUTES!”

“AY ARRIBA Y ARRIBA!”

I release a long exhale. I can’t stay inside. There's a perceived conflict of interest if I hang out or eat anything.

Tapping on my watch, then looking at Peyton, I mouth, “Meet me outside after.”

She understands—or gives up, hard to tell—and the Mariachi band finally stops playing. Peyton walks with them back toward the stage area.

Running a hand through my hair, I walk outside and take a seat on a bench near the restaurant. The chill doesn’t feel so cold, knowing that I’ll see her soon. The words I want to say are piling up on my tongue, eager to escape my lips. I’m aching to tell her everything.

Twenty-three minutes later, Peyton walks out of the restaurant. Her long camel-colored wool coat is cinched tight around her waist. She looks to the left before spotting me on the bench. Her gaze locks onto mine, and I stand to meet her.

“Hey, Peyton.”

“Hey, Callum,” she says quietly.

“There’s a park just down the road. Do you want to talk there?”

She nods. I’m not sure how she’s feeling emotionally yet, so I keep my hands in my coat pockets instead of reaching for hers.

When we arrive at the empty park, she heads for the swings and sits.

I grab the swing next to her. “There’s a lot I want to talk about, but there’s something I need to say first.”

“What is it?”

“I’m in love with you, Pey.”

Her eyes widen, and a rosy color tints her cheeks underneath the glow of the street lamp.

“I’ve, um, always carried an unhealthy dose of doubt on my back. And it’s left me sort of rooted in place. Bogged down by the memories, stranded in my past, trying to find a way out. But the doubt that I thought might immobilize me forever dissolves around you.” My voice thickens. “As it turns out, Peyton, my soul is a compass that perpetually points to you. Always you. Only you. And I know that life is fleeting and unpredictable. But I will love you, deeply and overwhelmingly, until the very end—whenever that may be.”

Peyton doesn’t say anything, but there’s a peace about her. Mere seconds pass before she reaches across the space between us to hold my hand. We sit there, fingers intertwined, barely swinging. The hooting from the owls in the trees sounds louder in the silence, and I stare at the moon like it’ll tell me if she loves me back.

When I don’t find reassurance in her expression, some nerves set in. “It’s okay if you aren’t there yet. Or if you need time to process things.”

She shakes her head softly and stands, stepping between my knees and cupping my jaw. “Callum. I love you, too. I wasn’t processing it—I was savoring it.”

I release a jagged breath of relief.

Peyton strokes my chin with her thumb. “You’re the first person to say ‘I love you’ to me since my grandparents died.”

“…your parents?”

“Not really the lovey-dovey type. Hell, once I was seizure-free for a year, they considered me healed enough to jetset off to whatever exotic location was next on their bucket list.”

She stills, and I freeze on my swing. We need to acknowledge it.

“About your epilepsy…”

“Yeah.” Her voice wavers, laced with uncertainty.