Chapter Thirty-Seven

Emmett

I have Lainey’s hand in my hand.

I’m tracing the contours of each finger, up to the tip of her nail and down again, along the ticklish skin between her knuckles. I hold it so gently. I’m surprised it’s real, the fragile hand of the woman I love. I find it intoxicatingly small—scarily small. Suddenly, the dam has broken. The worry of loving someone has filled my chest so that every breath comes a little harder. Nothing can happen to her, ever. It’s an uncomfortable feeling to love someone too much. It tightens your throat. It makes you wild in ways that seemed so easy to constrain before.

Already, I’m scared of tomorrow. What if she changes her mind about me?

“Are you okay?” she asks quietly.

How can I admit the truth?

I’m not okay; I’m in love.

The excruciating torture of having exactly what you want, knowing it could be lost at any moment…does it get easier?

Will I take her for granted one day? In five years? Ten? When I wake up and prepare to leave for work while she rocks our child, will it all just seem so normal? Will I still contemplate the sheer improbability of getting to live every day alongside Lainey?

All I can do now is grasp her hand tighter and look out the window. It’s only a ten-minute drive back to my house.

There’s no lightness. It’s like we’re both too weighted down with emotion to make small talk. When we arrive, I open her door and take her hand again. We walk up the stoop and I lead her inside.

“Beautiful,” she tells me, looking around the foyer as I continue tugging her deeper inside.

Tours will come. She’ll know every nook and cranny of this house eventually. She’ll know the back door sticks if you don’t lift up slightly as you open it. The kitchen sink takes forever to get hot water, but in the bathrooms, the water gets too hot too fast. She’ll notice the way the morning light streams in through the kitchen window. She’ll cover the walls with art she loves, line the shelves with our shared library. Her favorite coffee mugs will fill the cabinets and her favorite coffee grounds will fill the air.

We’ll argue about what to do with the spare bedrooms.

A nursery. We’ll need at least one.

An office for her if she wants it. Whatever she wants.

She’s happy to let me lead her down the hall, and if I’m moving too fast, she doesn’t complain. This isn’t about getting to the finish line; it’s about the excitement, the heady rush.

At the threshold of my bedroom, I flip on the light and let go of her hand. I walk in, just to the edge of my bed, and turn back.

She stands in the doorframe in her white gown, and I can see what she’ll look like on our wedding day. Impossibly beautiful. Impossibly mine.

She sweeps her gaze around the room, and I wish she’d tell me her thoughts.