His face fell. Shit. She was crying because she was so overwhelmed. So relieved. She dropped her bag and dug in her purse for something she could use to write on. Nothing. Well, screw it. She opened the book she’d been too anxious to read on the plane.

When she was done, she held the title page up to the glass. I’m sorry, too.

She flipped to page one, where she’d written in the margin. I love you, too.

And on page two: I’m going to stop now because writing in this book is killing me and I think if I don’t go through customs, eventually someone will object.

He was standing there with his jaw hanging open, looking as stunned as she’d felt a moment ago. She pointed urgently down the hallway she was supposed to be traversing. He nodded, shaking himself out of his stupor, and walked in parallel with her for as long as he could. They walked and looked at each other and grinned like fools. When she had to leave him to enter the customs hall, he pressed his hands over his heart and pointed, she thought to indicate that he would be waiting for her on the other end.

When the customs agent asked her the purpose of her visit she said, “I’m visiting . . . my boyfriend.” Then she laughed. And when she burst out the other end, there he was. Max. She had no idea how everything was going to play out. Where they were going to live, if they were even going to live together, what she was going to do about work.

But none of it mattered when he stopped walking about twenty feet from her and made a “come here” gesture with his fingers. He moved his hands around so that he was ready to catch her Dirty Dancing style.

She burst out laughing and called across the space between them, “Are you kidding?”

“Would I kid about something like this?”

“I suppose not.”

“We have practiced it in the water twice.”

“We’re going to look like fools.”

“That’s true,” he said cheerfully.

Oh how she loved him. Her funny, kind, beautiful Max. “Well, all right, then,” she said, and she took off running.

After a tearful—and heated—reunion at the cottage in Riems, Max tried to propose again.

“Look,” he said, as they lolled around in the bed in the attic. “I want it noted for the record that I mucked it all up in Innsbruck. I got my argument mixed up.”

“What do you mean, ‘your argument’?”

“You’re the English professor. You know. You’re supposed to open your essay with a topic sentence that’s your argument.” He grabbed her palm, opened it, and pretended to write on it. “Then give supporting statements.” He mimed writing lower on her palm. “I skipped the topic sentence. I confused you.”