Chapter 44
Hess
I’m sitting in our booth at the Waffle House, the divorce papers spread out in front of me like a placemat. I don’t care if a drop of syrup lands on them. I have no use for them, and neither does Camila.
The waitress saunters over, big smile, hip cocked to the side. She sets down a plate of waffles and leans a little too close. “Rough day?” she asks, her voice syrupy.
I force a polite smile, but dealing with her advances is the last thing I want to be doing right now. “It’s not my favorite day, but I think, in the end, it will be okay.”
She gives me the look. “I’m real good at cheering people up.”
“Thanks, but I already have someone to cheer me up.”
“Are you sure?” She places a soft hand on my shoulder.
Before she can push it further, a voice from behind her cuts through the air.
“Get your hands off my husband.”
My head snaps up.
Camila.
She looks like she’s been through it—baggy faded shirt, ratty sweats, mascara stains under her eyes—but she’s here. And her being here says it all.
A woman like Camila wouldn’t come back unless she was sure.
I knew it would take some time, and I honestly thought maybe a little prodding from me, but she figured it out all on her own. She came to me.
She stares at the waitress until the overzealous woman scurries off.
Camila walks toward me then drops into the booth across from me, her eyes red, her expression panicked.
“Don’t sign those papers.”
I keep my face neutral, not wanting to give away that I know why she’s here. “Why not?”
“Because I don’t want to get a divorce.”
“What changed?” My voice is steady, but my pulse is hammering.
“Nothing changed. I just…” She drags in a shaky breath. “I love you. Okay? You probably already knew that. But there it is. I love you, Harrison Taylor. And I was wrong to run away, even if it was just for a few hours. I was scared, and I was wrong.”
Her words settle deep in my chest, but I don’t let myself move, not yet. “How do I know you’re not going to get scared again? Freak out and demand a divorce every other month?”
“I might.” She lifts her chin, owning it. “I can’t promise I’ll never freak out. I can only promise that I’ll work hard to be normal, to be better. But I can’t promise perfection.”
“Okay.”
Her eyes widen. “Okay? That’s it?”
I shrug, letting my silence give her room to say whatever else is on her mind.
“I once told you tens don’t marry ones, but maybe they can. Maybe in our case, they do.”
“Am I the ten, or am I the one?”
She rolls her eyes as if the answer is obvious. “You’re the ten.”
“Trust me, I’m no ten, and you’re definitely not a one,” I say flatly, but she lifts her hand to stop me.
“I’m not saying you’re perfect. You leave muddy boots by the door.
Your little hairs cover the bathroom sink after you shave.
You’re going to do things that bug me. I’ll do things that drive you nuts.
I know there will be conflicts. I’m stubborn, and you’ll get annoyed.
And I need you to know that if you’re going to be with me, you’re going to have to accept the fact that I’m tough and firm and have thoughts of my own—not that you’ve ever acted like that’s bothered you,” she adds quickly. “I just want to be transparent.”
“Okay.”
Her chest falls like she has finally let go of everything she’s been holding onto. “Okay.”
I let a grin spread across my face. “I wasn’t going to sign the divorce papers.”
“You weren’t?”
“Not a chance.” I shake my head. “I planned to bring them back to you as soon as I finished my waffle. But you just made things a whole lot easier by showing up here like a crazy woman.”
She laughs, running her fingers through her hair self-consciously. “I know, I’m giving myself the ick. A love confession at the Waffle House? Who am I?”
“My wife.” I smile.
Her lips tremble as fresh moisture dots her eyes. “If you’ll still have me.”
I reach across the table, grabbing her hands. “You’re stuck with me for as long as we both shall live.”
“Good.” She giggles. “That’s what I want.”
I pull the ring out of my pocket—the one she gave back to me a few hours ago.
“You brought it with you?”
“Of course. I was serious about winning you back tonight, about not letting you get rid of me.”
I slip the ring onto her finger again, where it belongs. She studies it with a soft smile then lifts her gaze with a glint of humor.
“First thing tomorrow,” she says, glaring across the room to the waitress, “we’re getting you a ring so women everywhere will stop hitting on you.”
“Fine. But only if you promise me one thing.”
“What?”
“That you’ll never forget—no matter how many waffles or fights or freak-outs we have—we’re in this together.”
She squeezes my hand. “As long as we both shall live.”
And just like that, in the booth where it all started, our marriage became real.