I place the bundle of flowers in a basket, and then I hear Dad’s voice. “There,” he says.

Hutch walks toward me, lifting a hand to his eyebrows to shield his eyes from the glaring morning sun. He’s at my side before we speak.

“Good morning,” I say. “What are you doing here? You should be sleeping for the next month.”

“I brought your dad a copy of all the photos from the exhibit. He asked me last night.”

“That’s really nice of you. Thanks.”

“God, it’s been twenty-something years since I’ve been here, but this garden is exactly as I remember it.”

“Yes, it is.”

He glances around, bending over to pick a rose.

“Hey,” I say. “I read the article in the paper this morning. They gave you rave reviews. I laughed when I read that your facial scar was from a fishing hook.”

He smiles. “Well, if the reporter was going to be rude enough to ask, he deserved a b.s. answer.” He takes the basket from my hand and places it on a serrated rock. “I’m not here to talk about the exhibit or the article or to give your dad the photos I could’ve mailed. I want to ask you something.”

“Sure,” I say, the blood leaving my head and rushing to my heart as if it needs to protect itself, as if it needs to prepare for his question.

“Last night you said your leaving was about my kind of love.”

I nod.

“What about yours?”

“My what?”

“Love.”

“Oh, Hutch. The words don’t seem to be enough anymore.”

“What words?”

“I love you.”

“You know I can’t do this again, Ellie. I can’t believe in something that isn’t real.”

I step toward him, touching his arm, and then taking his hand. “Why don’t you believe this? Why don’t you think it’s real? I love you, Hutch. I never stopped for even a single moment.”

“Why now, Ellie?”

“When you know you love someone, when you know it’s finally the right time, you don’t just wait around for the right words, you just say the sentences even if they’re all mixed up and imperfect.”

“And what are those imperfect words?” His voice is now inside my body, moving.

“I want to be near you every moment. When something awful or wonderful happens, you are the first person I want to see or hear or touch. You’re the one I reach for first. I loved you first and I’ll love you last. Isn’t that enough?”

He steps back and looks me directly in the eyes. “It’s enough,” he says.

When he kisses me, his lips are soft, the inside of an extraordinary flower.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS