She squeezes my hands and smiles. “Maya, I know. I’ve known who you are and why you’re here since the moment I saw you back in the café. I should be the one to apologize. I wanted to tell you, but he asked me not to interfere.”

We hug, both with tears in our eyes.

Eighty-Eight

I get out of the café and run toward the bench. With trembling hands, I text him the moment I see the bench. Our bench. Number 50, you ask? OK. Do you believe in love at first text?

Minutes pass and nothing happens. More minutes. He’s not coming. No, he has to come!

I don’t want to cry, but I feel so overwhelmed by this moment. By the realization of what happened last year, these past few weeks. By my love for him and his love for me.

I hear someone running toward me. My heart is beating like crazy and I’m afraid to open my eyes. This feels too much like a dream. What if I wake up?

Then I feel he’s gently kissing the top of my head like he did it a year ago, but this time I’m not leaving. And I’m not breaking his heart. “I do,” he whispers. “I do believe.”

No, this time I open my eyes, and we stare at each other for a moment before we both say, “I love you,” and I pull him to me and kiss him.

“Can we stay here until the sunrise?” I ask.

“I wouldn’t want it any other way,” he says, before he kisses me again. “Are you mad at me for not telling you earlier who I was?”

“No. I’m not mad. I hate you,” I say and chuckle.

“It figures. Just put it in the black book.”

“What do you think I’ve been writing in that notebook you gave me?”

He laughs.

“I understand why you didn’t tell me the truth when I came back, although I think, at first, you wanted to, right? In San Francisco? I can see how this all must’ve looked to you. You were just guarding your heart,” I say, holding his hand tight in mine.

“What a great job I’ve done,” he says, pulling me closer.

“I don’t get one thing, though. The Lift. Nobody ever told me you’re a Lift driver and I doubt you drove people around in the Porsche or Mustang.”

“Good catch. I had a Prius I sold to Aaron when I left for Florida. I Lifted from time to time—maybe a dozen times in total—hoping the people I met would inspire my stories.”

“And did they?”

“Funny you should ask. I think you should read my latest book. It’s the story of my last Lift ride. It publishes tomorrow.”

“No free copy?” I ask and wink.

“An author’s got to make a living. How else can I afford this?” he asks and from his backpack, which I didn’t even notice until now, he takes out a square package wrapped in paper.