Chapter 12 #3
That we’re too young to know our hearts
But I’ve memorized your laugh by now
And the way you steal my fries
The way you roll your eyes at my bad jokes
Then laugh at them anyway
The way you look at me like maybe
I’m worth sticking around for someday
“You did steal my fries,” I mutter.
“Constantly,” she admits, laughing through her tears.
I don’t have much to give you
Just these chords and what they mean
But here’s what I’m promising
Even if it sounds naive
If you ever need somewhere to land
If you ever lose your way
I’ll be here with this guitar
Writing you something new to play
The chorus comes again, and Delilah’s lips move. She knows it already. After one listen, she knows the words.
You’re the song I can’t stop singing
The melody stuck in my head
Every lyric I’ll ever write
Every word I’ve left unsaid
I don’t know where we’ll be tomorrow
Or who we’ll become when we’re grown
But you’re the song I can’t stop singing
And I’ll sing you all the way home
The guitar slows. The last verse is quieter. More vulnerable. I remember recording this part in my closet, terrified my dad would hear me being this honest.
So when you’re somewhere far away
And the world gets loud and strange
Remember there’s a boy back home
Still playing your refrain
I’ll be here when you’re ready
However long it takes
Some things are worth the waiting
And you’re worth the whole heartache
One final chorus, softer now, almost a whisper.
You’re the song I can’t stop singing
You’re the only song I know
And wherever you go, Delilah
That song goes with you
So when you’re ready
Follow it home
The last chord fades into static.
“So yeah,” seventeen-year-old me says. “That’s it. I told you it was stupid. But I meant every word. I’ll wait for you, Delilah. However long it takes.”
A pause. A breath.
“I love you. I know we haven’t said that yet. But I do. I love you.”
Click.
The tape ends.
The fire crackles.
The pecan tree rustles overhead. Somewhere behind us, I hear Eleanor’s back door close softly. Giving us space.
Delilah hasn’t moved. Tears are streaming down her face, but she’s smiling too—that broken-open kind of smile that means something has finally cracked through.
“You wrote that,” she whispers. “When you were seventeen.”
“I did.”
“And you meant it.”
“Every word.”
She sets down the tape carefully, like it’s made of glass. Then she stands. I stand too, not sure what comes next, just knowing I need to be closer to her.
“The pecan tree,” she says softly, pointing to the spot just past the fire pit. “We buried it right there.”
“I remember.”
“And you kissed me afterward.”
“I remember that too.”
“You missed.”
“I did not miss.”
“You absolutely missed.” She’s laughing now, even through the tears. “You got the corner of my mouth. It was very awkward.”
“It was endearing.”
“It was a disaster.” But she’s moving toward the tree as she says it, and I’m following. “I didn’t care though. I thought it was perfect.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
We stop at the base of the tree. The exact spot. I can feel it somehow—the weight of that night, that summer, those two kids who had no idea what was coming.
“I’m done running,” she says. “I mean it this time.”
“Third time’s the charm?”
“That’s what I keep telling myself.” She looks up at me.
The firelight catches her face, her tears, the hope in her eyes.
“I made a promise to myself. Twenty years ago. That if I got scared and ran, I’d come back.
Eventually.” She laughs softly. “I just didn’t think it would take me this long to keep it. ”
“And you keep your promises?”
“I’m learning to.”
We’re close now. Close enough that I can see every shade of brown in her eyes, every freckle the sun has kissed onto her cheeks. Close enough that when she breathes, I feel it.
“Levi?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you going to miss this time?”
I almost laugh. Almost.
Instead, I cup her face in my hands—gently, like she might disappear if I’m not careful—and look her in the eyes.
“Not a chance.”
And I kiss her.
Not the corner of her mouth. Not awkward or clumsy or unsure.
I kiss her like I’ve been waiting years for this exact moment. Because I have.
She tastes like hot chocolate and salt and something that feels like coming home. Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer, and she makes a soft sound against my mouth that undoes something I didn’t know was still locked up tight in my chest.
I kiss her until I forget we’re standing under a pecan tree, that there’s a fire crackling behind us and her mother somewhere inside.
I kiss her until I forget everything except her—the warmth of her, the way she fits against me, the twenty years of longing that’s finally, finally being answered.
When we break apart, we’re both breathing hard.
“Hi,” she whispers.
“Hi.”
“That was...”
“Yeah.”
She laughs—a wet, overwhelmed, happy sound—and drops her forehead to my chest. I wrap my arms around her and hold on like I’m never letting go.
Because I’m not. Not this time.
Above us, the pecan tree rustles in the breeze. The fire crackles warm and steady. And from inside the house, I hear Eleanor’s voice, not even trying to be quiet:
“Ruffy, don’t look. Give them some privacy.”
Delilah groans. “Mother.”
“Your mother has excellent timing.”
“My mother has been waiting forever to meddle in this exact moment. She’s probably taking notes.”
I laugh. I can’t help it. After everything—the years, the misunderstandings, the heartbreak—we’re standing under her mother’s pecan tree, and Eleanor is narrating to the dog.
“I love your family,” I say.
“You’re going to regret saying that.”
“Probably.” I kiss her forehead. “Worth it.”
She smiles up at me—that smile I’ve been dreaming about for two decades—and for the first time in years, everything feels exactly right.
“So what happens now?” she asks.
“Now we figure it out. Together.”
“Together,” she repeats. Like she’s testing the word. Like she’s letting herself believe it. “I like the sound of that.”
“Me too.”
The fire pops behind us. The stars are coming out overhead, visible through the branches of the pecan tree. Somewhere down the beach, I can hear the ocean doing what it always does—pushing and pulling, constant and sure.
And here, in this backyard, standing over the spot where two seventeen-year-olds buried their promises, I finally feel like I’ve come home.