Say It Again #2
“Yeah. You should have.” I smile despite myself. “But you did it now. And now counts.”
His phone buzzes again. Neither of us looks at it.
“So what happens next?” he asks.
“What do you want to happen?”
“Everything.” The word is immediate. “I want to take you to dinner where everyone can see us. I want to hold your hand in public without checking who’s watching. I want to wake up with you and go to sleep with you and do all the normal couple things I’ve been too scared to imagine.”
“That’s a lot.”
“You’re worth a lot.”
I should have clever words to say. Some quip that deflects the intensity, keeps us both from drowning in the weight of this moment.
Instead, I kiss him.
Not gently. Not carefully. I kiss him like I’ve wanted to kiss him for twelve years—with all the wanting and waiting and hope finally given permission to exist.
He responds in kind, pulling me closer, one hand tangled in my hair and the other pressed flat against my lower back. This isn’t the hesitant exploration of new lovers. This is the hungry collision of two people who’ve been starving.
“Gisele.” My name comes out rough against my mouth.
“Mmm?”
“The salon. We’re in the salon.”
“I know.”
“There are windows. People can see.”
“I know.” I pull back enough to meet his eyes. “Is that a problem?”
The question hangs between us. A test—maybe the last one. After everything he’s said about being public, about not hiding, is he actually willing to be seen?
His answer is to kiss me again. Deeper this time.
Through the window, I see Mrs. Henderson from the antique shop stop on the sidewalk. I do not pull away.
Good.
Let the whole town see.
We eventually surface for air, and I’m breathing hard in a way that has nothing to do with the kiss and everything to do with what it means.
“Your phone is still buzzing,” I observe.
“I don’t care.”
“Shep has probably started a betting pool about when we’ll get married.”
“Shep can go to hell.” But he’s smiling as he says it. “Although I wouldn’t put it past him.”
“Me neither.”
We stand there in the quiet of the salon, his arms around me, our foreheads touching. The chaos of the content shoot has long since faded. The equipment is put away, the crew is gone, and it’s just us in the space where everything changed.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.
“For what?”
“For yesterday. For all the yesterdays before that. For being so scared of losing you that I almost guaranteed it.”
“You’re here now.”
“I should have been here sooner.”
“Probably.” I trace my thumb along his jaw. “But you’re here now. That’s what matters.”
“I’m going to mess up again.” The confession is soft. “Not like yesterday—I won’t do that again. But I’ll say the wrong thing or miss a moment or forget something important. I’m not good at this.”
“Neither am I.”
“You’re better than me.”
“I’m really not.” I shake my head. “I spent yesterday hiding in work because I didn’t know how to process you choosing wrong. I convinced myself that professional success could replace personal happiness. I ran from what I actually wanted because it was easier than fighting for it.”
“You weren’t running. You were protecting yourself.”
“Same thing, sometimes.” I meet his eyes. “We’re both figuring this out. That’s okay. That’s what people do.”
His phone buzzes again—more insistently this time. He glances at it, and his expression shifts.
“What?”
“Practice starts in an hour. Shep wants to know if I’m going to show up or if I’m ‘too busy making heart eyes at my girlfriend.’”
“He actually wrote that?”
“He actually wrote that.” Bennett shows me the screen. “He’s also attached approximately fourteen GIFs.”
“That seems excessive.”
“Everything Shep does is excessive.” He pockets the phone. “I should go.”
“I know.”
Neither of us moves.
“Come to dinner Sunday,” he says. “At Mom’s. With me. As my girlfriend.”
The word—girlfriend—hits differently when he says it in the context of family dinners and public acknowledgment. Not just a label. A declaration.
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay, I’ll come to dinner.” I smile. “I’ve been having dinner with your family for years anyway. This just makes it official.”
“This makes it everything.” He kisses me once more—softer now, almost reverent. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
“I’ll text you later.”
“You better.”
He leaves, and I stand alone in my salon, surrounded by the evidence of everything I’ve built.
But it feels different now. Not because the work matters less—it doesn’t. The brand partnership is still exciting. The launch event is still important. My professional life is still entirely mine.
But there’s room for something else now. Someone else. A relationship that doesn’t require me to shrink or wait or pretend I don’t want things I’ve always wanted.
My phone buzzes. Not Bennet.
Margot: Mrs. Henderson just posted a photo of you and Bennett making out in your salon. It has forty-seven likes and nineteen comments already. Sorrowville is LOSING ITS MIND.
I laugh out loud. Actually laugh, alone in my salon, at the absurdity of small-town gossip.
Me: Good. Let them.
Margot: So I take it the conversation went well?
Me: He told the entire team I’m his girlfriend. Texted the group chat while I watched. Then kissed me in front of Mrs. Henderson.
A pause.
Margot: You deserve it, girl.
I sit on the couch in the back room—the same couch where we first kissed, where everything started to shift—and let myself feel what’s happening.
Bennett chose me.
Out loud. In public. Where it counts.
And I chose him back.
Not because I needed him to be complete. Not because my life was missing something without him. But because love isn’t about filling gaps—it’s about choosing to share the fullness with someone else.
I chose this.
And that choice feels like the beginning of something instead of the end.
The Post-it wall is still there, a colorful monument to all the work we did together. I should probably take it down eventually—it’s served its purpose, taught him what he needed to learn.
But not today.
Today, I’ll let it stand as a reminder of how we got here. The exercises, the challenges, the slow dismantling of walls we both built to protect ourselves.
We started as project and subject. Somewhere in the middle, without either of us noticing, we became partners.
That’s its own kind of success.
My phone buzzes again.
Bennett: Made it to practice. Shep gave me a standing ovation. I hate him.
Shep: CAP IS IN LOVE AND WE’RE GOING TO THE PLAYOFFS. THESE THINGS ARE RELATED.
Bennett: Focus on hockey Sawyer.
Shep: I AM. Love makes us better. Science.
I read Shep’s message three times. Then I look at the Post-it wall and think about the timeout game, about Bennett calling the play, about Shep skating his WOOOOO lap with road flares while the crowd lost its mind.
Shep is not wrong. That’s the most alarming thing about him.
I smile at the screen.
Bennett: I repeat. I hate him.
Me: You love him.
Bennett: I tolerate him. There’s a difference.
Me: Sure there is.
Bennett: I love YOU. That’s the important part.
The words—casual, confident, unhedged—make my chest tight in the best way.
Me: I love you too. Now go play hockey. I’ll see you Sunday.
Bennett: Sunday. Mom’s. 6 PM. Wear something that can survive Foster family chaos.
Me: I’ve been surviving Foster family chaos for years.
Bennett: Now you’ll be surviving it officially.
I set down the phone.
He’s right.
I can handle anything.
Especially this.
Four wins. That’s what they need. Four wins and they’re in the playoffs for the first time in three years.
Bennett is going to get them there. I know this the way I know his coffee order and his nervous tics and the specific look on his face when he’s finally letting himself feel something.
The team is going to make the playoffs.
And I’m going to be in the stands for every single game.