“The risk was worse than the silence,” she says.

I swallow and nod. “That’s right.”

“What changed?” She takes her hand off my arm. I watch as she crosses her arms over her chest.

“Things staying the same became infinitely worse than risking rejection.” I glance at her then down at my hands.

“Because Erma said Gavin is my soul mate.”

I look back at her. “No. Because I don’t want to imagine the rest my life without you in it. Also, he’s not your soul mate.”

She shifts from one foot to another, then looks at me with her brows lowered.

“What will you do if it’s proved he is?”

My chest tightens painfully, but I smile through it. “I’ll turn Gothic villain. I’ll kidnap you and keep you locked up in my mansion where I’ll pamper you and give you everything you could ever desire. Books by the thousands, first editions, autographed copies, rare manuscripts. Thirteenth century love poems. I’ll make you mochas with the extra chocolate you always want but never ever ask for. I’ll fill closets with vintage dresses procured from around the world. I’ll give you heaven on a platter.”

Her eyes are wide and slightly glazed, just how they look right before I kiss her.

“There’s only one catch,” I say. “Heaven comes with me, soul mate or not.”

Her eyes clear and she nods. “Right. I uh, I had another stop. Hart’s Chocolates? We should go before they close. I still have to convince you soul mates are real.”

I look again at the river, a leaf flows past, unable to break free from the current.

“Alright,” I say. There’s a hollowness expanding in my chest.

Jessie walks to the footbridge and I step next to her.

“Will?” she turns to me.

I raise my eyebrows in response. “Hmm?”

“I wish…” She shakes her head. Then, “I wish we’d become friends sooner.”

I don’t know what she was going to say before she cut off, but I know that wasn’t it. I don’t remind her of what I said before—that she’s always been my friend.

“And that,” says Gregory Hart, “is how Erma led me to the love of my life.”

Jessie and I are in the chocolate tasting room at Hart’s Chocolates. Gregory, a stout fifty-year-old with a handlebar mustache, pinches his wife Martina on her bottom. She smacks him with her kitchen towel. She’s not quite five feet tall. She has wide brown eyes, streaks of gray in her hair and an infectious smile.