Chapter 20 Miles #2
The swing creaked softly as we rocked. Somewhere down the street, a dog barked twice and fell silent. Crickets were beginning their evening symphony, and the last golden light caught the silver threads in Charlotte's hair.
"This is nice," she said quietly.
"It is."
"We should do this more often. Just sit."
"We sit all the time."
"We sit while doing other things. Watching TV. Eating. Planning." She tilted her head to look at me. "When's the last time we just sat together and did nothing?"
I thought about it. "Does falling asleep on the couch count?"
"No. That's unconsciousness, not relaxation."
"Then I don't know. Too long."
"Too long," she agreed. She settled back against my shoulder with a contented sigh. "Let's do more of this."
"Okay."
"That's it? Just okay?"
"What do you want me to say? You're right. Actually, you’re always right. I've accepted this about our marriage."
Her laugh was soft, vibrating against my side. "You're learning."
We sat in comfortable silence as the colors bled from the sky, replaced by the deep blue of early evening. I could feel her warmth, finally not from a dreamy distance but right next to me. The woman I'd loved for twenty years, lost for fifteen, nearly lost again to an accident and amnesia. My wife.
"Miles?"
"Hmm?"
Her voice was soft, contemplative, not heavy with gratitude, but light with simple contentment. "Thank you for choosing me."
The words settled over me like a benediction. They weren't about rescue or sacrifice or debt. They were about agency. About the decision we both made every single day to show up, to try, to love each other through the difficult times, enjoy the good ones, and live everything in between.
I pressed a kiss to the crown of her hair, breathing in the familiar scent of her shampoo.
I thought about the lonely years before her, the empty accomplishments, the isolation of my diagnosis.
I thought about the scared boy who'd walked away from her at eighteen, and the terrified man who'd almost pushed her away again at thirty-six.
"Thank you for letting me," I said.
That was it. The whole messy, beautiful truth of us. Love wasn't just choosing; it was allowing yourself to be chosen. It was vulnerability and strength woven together so tightly you couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.
The moment was interrupted by the gentle buzz of my phone on the side table. I sighed, reluctantly extracting my arm from around Charlotte to check the screen.
Will Steele.
"Work?" Charlotte asked.
"Will. Do you mind?"
"Take it. I'll go make tea."
She pressed a kiss to my cheek before slipping inside, leaving me alone with the darkening sky and the phone's insistent glow.
"Will," I answered. "What's on fire?"
"Nothing's on fire. Yet." His voice was sharp, intelligent, but carrying the familiar edge of a man buried in work. "I just got served with the Fuller inheritance case. The one with the corporate succession nightmare?"
"The gift that keeps on giving. What's your take?"
We talked for a few minutes about jurisdictional conflicts and competing family interests. I offered a precedent he might have missed, a strategic angle that had served me well in similar cases. It felt good to use my mind this way, to contribute something beyond my own daily battles.
"That's exactly what I needed," Will said. "I have been spinning my wheels for days on this."
"Happy to help."
A pause. Then, wearily: "Another all-nighter ahead, I guess. This client doesn't believe in business hours."
I heard the echo of my former self in his exhaustion. The endless hours. The sacrificed relationships. The belief that professional success could fill personal emptiness.
"Will," I said, watching through the window as Charlotte moved around the kitchen, her silhouette backlit by warm light. "Don't wait as long as I did to figure out what actually matters."
Silence on the line. Then, "Noted. Thanks, Miles. For everything."
"Get some sleep. The case will still be there tomorrow."
"So will the client's demands."
"Let them demand. You're allowed to have a life."
A soft laugh. "I'll try to remember that. Enjoy your evening."
The call ended, and I sat for a moment in the gathering dark, the phone warm in my palm.
Inside, Charlotte was pouring hot water into mugs, her movements easy and familiar.
This was my life now, quiet evenings on a porch swing, tea brewing in the kitchen, a woman who loved me waiting just through the door.
I pushed myself up from the swing and went inside, my trembling hands reaching for the mug she held out to me.
"Everything okay?" she asked.
"Everything's perfect," I said, and meant it.
She smiled, that shining smile I'd loved since I was seventeen, and leaned up to kiss me softly.
"Good," she murmured against my lips. "Because I was thinking..."
"Dangerous."
"Very." Her eyes sparkled with something that made my heart rate pick up. "I was thinking we should go back to the river this weekend. To our spot under the oak tree."
"Any particular reason?"
"Maybe." She traced a finger along my shoulder, her touch leaving warmth in its wake. "Or maybe I just want to kiss you in all our significant locations. Build up a collection."
"That could take a while. We have a lot of significant locations."
"Then we'd better get started."
I set down my tea, pulled her close, and kissed her properly, the kind of kiss that had nothing to do with comfort and everything to do with desire. She melted into me, her fingers curling into my shirt, and when we finally broke apart, we were both breathing harder.
"Or," I said, my voice rough, "we could start with the significant locations inside this house."
Her laugh was low and promising. "I like the way you think, Mr. Cameron."
"I learned from the best, Mrs. Cameron."
She took my hand, the trembling one, the imperfect one, and led me toward the stairs. And I followed, the way I would always follow her, into whatever came next.
Our life wasn't a fairy tale. It was harder than that, and messier, and more real. There would be more difficult days ahead, medications that didn't work, symptoms that progressed, battles I would sometimes lose.
But there would also be this: sauce-splattered kitchens and porch swing sunsets and a woman who chose me every single day despite knowing exactly what she was choosing.
That was enough. That was everything.
That was our life.
Next in the Series: You, Only You