We spend the next hour or two on a treasure hunt around Central Park, searching for more of the four thousand inscribed benches, reading quirky details of the memories and loves and lives carved into plaques in this park, each inscription costing about ten thousand dollars.

“We rarely notice them. We sit on these benches and we read, drink coffee, make phone calls, or maybe we just text or tweet,” I say.

“Maybe we feed the pigeons. Or wait to meet a friend and meanwhile, we’re surrounded by memories of other people and things that were important to them.”

I spot another one with a fantastic inscription and tug his sleeve, pulling him closer to read. “We would make the same mistake all over again! Vic and Nancy Schiller. Still best friends.”

He finds the info. “When they told her they were getting married, her mother said it would be a mistake,” he says, smiling.

“Guess they had the last laugh. Still together and happy. Okay, this is seriously the coolest thing I’ve ever discovered in New York City.”

“I think so too.” He sets his hand on my arm, running his fingers down my bare skin. “I want to keep discovering them. I want to go all over the park and find the best ones. I want to do that with you.”

My heart soars, terrifying me with how much longing is in it, so much I feel like I’m going to burst, to drown in it.

I meet his gaze.

The look in his eyes is different than I’ve seen before. It’s vulnerable and hopeful and perhaps the slightest bit nervous.

23

Flynn

In front of the Schillers’ bench, I have to float the next question. Despite the risks, despite my own fears, now is the time to ask.

I didn’t plan to ask her here. But here is the right place.

“Sabrina,” I say, my voice gravelly with nerves, “what happens when the story is done?”

The nerves aren’t from how I feel for her. They come from whether she’ll allow an us to happen. Whether she’s willing to take a chance. That’s the great unknown. That’s the uncontrollable factor.

“What do you mean?”

I reach for her hand, sliding my fingers through hers. “Do you think there’s any way we could do this?”

“Do what?” Her voice is barely a breath on the air. “I need you to spell it out.”

I love that she wants utter clarity. It’s so her. “Be together. You and me.” I point from her to me and back. “Have a real go of it.”

“Be together,” she repeats, as if she’s making sense of what I’m saying.

I loop my fingers tighter through hers. “I’ve had a great time with you over these two weeks, and I want to see where we can go. The article is almost done, so does that mean we can have a new beginning?”

She sighs, a melancholy sound. I want to hit the rewind button, go back in time ten seconds, and turn that sigh into one of contentment.