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My heart stops. I look up at him, and all this threatens to overwhelm me.

“I would love that,” I say, almost in a whisper. “But . . . I’m surprised you’d want to go with me.”

Let’s have it out.

Just tell me.

James takes the record player and vinyl from my hands and sets them gently on the porch floor. Then clasps one of my hands in his. “Listen, Chloe. You said something about being imperfect last night, and the thing is . . . in all my years at my job, if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that people aren’t perfect. Never. Never ever. You gotta cut yourself a break.”

I purse my lips. Look down at my coffee.

“So you got caught up trying to fix your problems. And you hurt me a little bit along the way. That’s unfortunate. But also, that’s just life. What I’m really sorry about is that somehow, along the way, you came to the conclusion that my intentions weren’t really pure. That I wasn’t interested in you. That I didn’t like you. Because that, I can assure you, couldn’t be further from the truth. I don’t typically chase off car rentals so I can get into ancient and definitely unsafe trucks with strangers.”

“It wasn’t unsafe.”

“There were no airbags. My door didn’t work. You could’ve been a serial killer.”

“Again, it was you who would’ve been a far more likely danger on the serial-killer front. You even wore the trench coat.”

“And in this short week of getting to know you, what I’ve come away with is deep respect for how self-aware you try to be. How brave you are for wanting to see yourself clearly and wanting to make yourself better. I also think you are kind. I think you are beautiful, and when you smile, the whole world feels a little lighter. I love how you love your family and your friends, with all their normal fights and flaws. I love that you’re adventurous—even though you don’t think of yourself that way. I even love how you pummeled me in football. You are unique, Chloe, and I’m not looking for somebody perfect to fit into my life. I’ve already got a Savior.

“What I’m looking for is somebody real. Real and flawed but brave enough to dust herself off and keep showing up anyway—just like me—so we can experience this crazy, beautiful life together. And . . . if you’ll still have me, I’d like nothing more this Christmas than to see where this thing goes.”

And if that doesn’t earn the man an instantaneous kiss, nothing will.

I move forward without overthinking it. His hands come up automatically, steadying me, and for a split second they rest on my shoulders—like he’s making sure this is really happening—before he relaxes.

He is warm and sure, unhurried in a way that makes me want to stay here forever. Not frantic or searching. Patient. Like he’s waited before and doesn’t mind continuing to wait.

I curl my fingers into the collar of his coat and forget, briefly, about lists and rules and apologies. There’s just this: the solid press of him, the quiet exhale we share, the way everything else seems to soften around the edges.

“I’d like that,” I whisper.

I pull back, both hands clasped around his cheeks, and he has a smile in his eyes as he says, “And one more thing I gotta say I’ve noticed, Chloe. You said yesterday that you were trying to gain ten rejections from strangers by Christmas. To try to overcome your need to please everybody. I heard you throw out echoistic behavior. Well, I read more about echoism. And let me tell you, confessing to me like you did yesterday while knowing how upset I could become was the opposite of that. I think you showed more strength and willingness to receive absolute rejection in showing up for that one painful conversation than you could have with a handful of nos from total strangers. I think you’re on a great path in this life’s journey. And no matter what happens, I think you should be proud of yourself. You are doing beautifully.”

My heart just about explodes at the sincerity of his words. At the full weight of his forgiveness. At the grace he’s shown.

At the patience he’s given. Coming here today, kind of like my father all those years ago, sitting on that front porch picking up my mother for pancakes.

Offering us a chance to brush ourselves off.

Try again.

Oh, my father is going to love him.

James is by my side all the rest of the day and all the way through Christmas Eve service that night. Building bridges with new acquaintances. Laughing over shared stories. Probably cringing inwardly at awkward ones. Holding my hand.

Living life.

And maybe I am a little bit like my mother when she was serving up pancakes on the side of a highway. With a tendency to misstep under persuasive people. Make errors I’ll regret later.

Maybe I am just like everybody else: fallibly human.

But there is nothing quite as beautiful this Christmas season as the power of forgiveness after a slight to heal a person’s soul and remind us: Oh, how great a gift it is to bestow love.

Epilogue

One year later