Chapter 43
Chapter Forty-Three
Ezra
April chooses umpire blue for the exterior of the house and honey pot yellow for the door.
“They look different in the sun,” I tell her. “Could you step out to see the swatches on the house?”
Her cheeks concave as she sucks them in, staring at me as if I’ve asked her to take a trip to the moon. “We looked out back,” she tells me.
“We did, but that was the shade. I don’t want to buy all the paint if you haven’t seen it in both lights. The front is what everyone else will see. I want to make sure you like it.”
She runs a thin hand over the back of her neck. I start for the front door, acting as if I know nothing about her aversion to crossing that threshold.
But I can’t pretend for long. I step out onto the cement porch, my toes in line with the door’s frame. I hold out a hand to her, my wrist and palm just inside the house.
I don't say anything. And neither does she. But slowly, and with a small tremor, April places her hand in mine. She takes one small half-step outside the house and turns to the wooden siding next to the door .
I hold up the blue and yellow for her approval.
“That’s it,” she says, eyes darting to my face. “Perfect.” And then she’s back inside. She came out for less than ten seconds. But she came.
I smile, secretly elated. “We’ll start tomorrow,” I tell her. “We’ll want to get this on before the first snowfall.”
She smiles back at me. “It’ll be beautiful, Ezra.”
It will—and I’m going to get her outside, all the way out, to look at it when I’m done.
I tell April Green goodbye and settle myself into Autumn's old green Ford. The seats are worn and the steering wheel is wide. But it smells like her. Autumn always smelled as if she'd just baked a batch of cookies—like sugar and vanilla. She tasted just the same. She still does, even after sweating in the sun and planting trees all day. She's as sweet as ever.
I pull down her visor, already able to see how the sun is going to hit me right in the eyes when a photo falls from the confined space between the Ford's ceiling and the thin visor. It lays upright in my lap. The strip of photo booth pictures stares up at me. Eighteen-year-old Autumn and Ezra. In the top picture, I've got my arm wrapped around the back of her head and I'm poking a finger in her right ear. Autumn's nose is scrunched and I've got wide, innocent eyes. My chest rumbles with a laugh. Photo two—we're both laughing. Photo three—I'm grinning, and Autumn still has her eyes closed and her mouth opened with carefree laughter. Photo four—I'm kissing her.
How I waited until photo number four is beyond me. I’m surprised my lips aren’t on hers in every single photo.
I stare at the pictures, trying to remember this day. But I’m too busy reeling over the fact that this photo strip has been tucked away in Autumn’s visor all this time. Surely she uses the visor. She must know the picture strip is here.
Her actions this past week tell me she has feelings for me. But this is physical proof that those feelings aren’t being conjured just because I’m back. They never left. This photo strip is tangible evidence that she never stopped loving me.
Even if she isn’t willing to say those words just yet.
I loved her then. I love her now.
And I’m never letting anything or anyone get in the way of that again.