Page 114 of Head Under Water

“The first year it was just flowers from the yard,” he says, one hand picking at the corner of Margie’s blanket. “And…you saved them for months.” His gaze lifts slowly to find mine again. I hold his eyes completely, his heart with both hands. “It meant everything to you. And after that, I had chore money.” A corner of his mouth ticks up, relinquishing the last of his worry. His shoulders aren’t hard. I’ve said everything he needs to hear with just a look. “And a crush on a little girl next door, who got a little sad one day a year.”

His mouth curves entirely at the memory, eyes shining.

I don’t even realize I’ve crossed the room until I’m in his arms. He turns, taking my weight, his hands meeting my waist and holding me close like he’s done a thousand times now. It’s the most natural thing in the world.

“You’ve always been here,” I say, awe softening my voice.

“Waiting.” He tucks a piece of hair behind my ear.

“And so have we,” Margie adds with a little hmph.

“Impatiently.” That’s Mom, and when I glance at her, her smile trembles at the edges. Her face is a watercolor portrait of pride, regret, and gratitude.

“Seriously,” Cory says. “You guys are insufferable. And you both owe me fifty bucks.” He points a finger at Margie, then Mom, moving it back and forth between them before he winks at me. “Finally.”

My eyes meet Will’s. “I love you.” My voice chokes with tears as I rest my face against his shoulder. The words scrape out, raw and unpolished. Because it’s the truth. Because he’s Will, and I’m me, and he’s my constant, even when I didn’t know it. My fingers twist in the back of his shirt. “I’m so sorry it took me so long.”

He shrugs one shoulder. His hand flattens against my back, pressing me closer to him on instinct. Neither of us has to think about it anymore. Being close. There’s no longer a threat of running.

“Just a few years,” Will says. He presses a kiss to the top of my head. “Thirty? I would’ve waited at least fifty.” His tone is light, teasing, but there’s a thread of something warmer, too.

Relief, maybe. That he never gave up. Even when the waiting felt lonely, pointless. Even when he wasn’t sure it would matter.

I pull back enough to look at him. Really look.

There are lines at the corners of his eyes that weren’t there when we were kids. A tiny scar near his lip from Banks’s attack. I can detail every mark time has given him.

Our history intertwines at nearly every point.

Slowly, his mouth brushes mine, smiling against my lips, not caring that we have an audience.

He kisses me, his lips soft, and rubs the place next to my jaw where my stitches have healed.

His thumb lingers there for an extra moment, careful, reverent, like he’s counting all the ways I could’ve been lost.

“Thank god you didn’t have to,” I say, looking into those deep-blue eyes, eyes that have always been looking back.

In photos, in memories—all my life.

In the background of every version of me.

He nods his head, his face saying so much. Everything. We’ve never needed words. “Thank god I didn’t have to.”

Behind us, machines hum. Margie laughs at something Cory says. Mom wipes her tears and pretends she isn’t.

Outside this room, Banks is still breathing free air.

A trial waits.

Testimony waits.

Truth waits.

But we don’t have to anymore.

We survived, and now we get to live.

I rest my hand over the small gold heart at my throat. It’s warm already, like it belongs here. A piece of her. A piece of me.