“I have this vision of you in a few years. It’s summer. You’re sitting on your back porch, drinking a glass of wine while the kids play in the yard. Your husband is manning the grill. And he’s playing in the back yard with the kids, and he knows exactly what to do, because he played in his back yard as a kid with his dad, who loved him. You all eat together, and he knows exactly how to treat you because he grew up with an actual mom and dad and they treated each other right. He reads a story to the kids before he puts them to bed, because his parents did that for him. When they act up, he knows what to do by instinct, not because he read it in a book, but because it’s how he was raised, in a normal home. And he loves you. And them. Because he’s able to love, because he hasn’t drifted from one tragedy to the next in the years before he met you. Your life isn’t perfect, but it has a real chance to be, because one of you isn’t broken beyond repair.”

“Desmond, I don’t care—”

“I know you don’t. I know that you will stay with me wherever our road leads.”

“I will.”

“But I won’t let you.”

“Desmond.”

“I care too much about you, Peyton. You deserve to be happy.”

“I am happy.”

“Not as happy as you will be.”

She hugged him and cried more than he’d ever seen her cry.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Please stay.”

“I’ll stay the night.”

She looked him in the eye. “Stay until Monday. Please?”

He agreed. They were the most agonizing and joyous three days of his entire life. They made love every night. And twice each day. It was a long goodbye. It was painful—even he felt it. He couldn’t imagine what she was going through.

When he stepped out on the front porch Monday morning, she hugged him so hard he thought his ribs would collapse.

He pushed back just enough to look her in the eye.

“Will you do something for me?”

“Anything.”

“Don’t wait for me. Live your life.”

That set off a new bout of crying.

An hour later, he was driving south, the Airstream trailer in tow behind him.