He laughs. “Sara, who would’ve been sweet and talkative and would’ve told bad jokes, like her old man.”

A sobbing giggle sputters out of me. “Sara, she would’ve had your eyes and been just as stubborn.”

“Sara, who would’ve been in the chess club and never would’ve been allowed to date,” he tacks on with a smirk.

“You would’ve been a great father,” I say. “You still could be.”

“Marina.” He takes my damp face in his strong hands, locking eyes with me. “I don’t need or want kids. Not unless you do. If you ever do, we’ll find a way and love them all the same.”

The lump returns to my throat. “You make it sound like… this is it. You and me.”

He shrugs, pulling away and wiping leftover tears. “Isn’t it?”

Too surprised and overrun with emotions, I can’t answer, only stare. Dumbfounded.

He rolls his eyes sheepishly. “I know. Says the guy who tried to fix you up with his brother yesterday. I don’t care. Everything’s different now.”

A warm, worrying feeling blossoms inside me, hearing him say that. I feel like our relationship has traveled light years in hours, and it’s been sad, beautiful, and tragic all at once. What he says is true—everything’s different.

“You and me. Together. This is where we belong.” He’s stern and sudden, locking on to my hesitation like he’s reading my mind. His eyes drift over my face, measuring me, and I feel our belonging like a sore muscle, finally getting relief. I belong with him.

He seals his words with a kiss, and I’m already breathless. Breathless and scared and hopeful. Loving and delighting in him like I’ve never done with anyone before. I want it to be true so badly, but believing in happily-ever-afters counters everything I’ve ever known.

I smile when he pulls away and rests his forehead on mine. He strokes my cheek with the backs of his fingers, and I don’t think I’ve ever felt so loved.

“I promised you dinner,” he says. “Think we can pull ourselves together?”

“I hope so. I’m starving,” I chuckle.

38. Grady

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Grady

At the restaurant, Luke seats us near the front window—a corner away from the crowd at the bar but still front and center to the place. We can see the foot traffic outside, the lights twinkling from the courtyard, and the stage, where instruments sit listlessly, waiting for action to come later this evening.

Even so, this place is alive, and, for the first time in ages, I don’t mind being here. It feels right to smile, talk, and be with her here, where anyone can see us.

Of course, as soon as that thought clicks in my mind, the universe shits all over it. The door swings open, and the host says, “Sullivan, party of four.”