Chapter 45 Rhea
FORTY-FIVE
RHEA
It’s late.
Esme is finally asleep, her breaths slow and even in the room down the hall.
I’ve just stepped out of the shower, hair damp, skin pink from the heat. I pull on a pair of clean sweats and one of my oversized college sweatshirts, the sleeves hanging past my wrists.
The house is quiet—settled, like it’s as tired as I am.
I sit on the edge of the couch, phone in hand, rereading my last attempt at a text to Spencer. Then deleting it. Typing again. Stopping halfway through.
I miss you.
Delete.
I’m sorry for what I said in the car.
Delete.
Laney’s voice echoes in my head. “Maybe you’re scared of depending on someone. Of being seen. Really seen.”
I sigh. Thumb hovers over the keyboard. Then—
Ding-dong.
I jump.
It’s nearly nine. Too late for deliveries. My first thought is Laney—maybe she couldn’t resist finishing her lecture in person. But when I open the door, no one is there. Just a small box, square and neat, sitting on the welcome mat.
I bring it inside.
It’s lighter than I expect. Inside, nestled in tissue, is a sparkly pink gift bag—glittery and over-the-top. A get-well gift for Esme, maybe?
I peek inside.
The yellow cap catches my eye first. Then the crisp navy coat.
Madeline.
A perfect Madeline doll, straight from the story Esme and I read together the night before everything went sideways. I smile, tears already starting to form.
Then I spot the book.
I lift it carefully. Madeline, obviously a collector’s copy. The spine is worn just enough to prove it’s been loved, but it’s clearly something rare. Special.
It must be worth a small fortune. I think. Esme’s not going to touch this until she’s sixteen.
I open the front cover, expecting a bookplate or owner’s note. But instead, I see the 1939 copyright. It’s an original. And then I see the inscription.
à ma petite fille courageuse, Esme.
Avec tout mon amour, Papa.
To my brave little girl, Esme.
With all my love, Papa.
That’s when I really cry. Messy, shoulder-shaking sobs. And at the same time—Fool!—I think. He’s written in a rare collector’s copy. But I clutch it to my chest like it’s the most precious thing in the world. Because it is.
There’s another package in the box—a square bundle wrapped in deep indigo silk, tied with a velvet ribbon.
I unwrap it slowly.
Les Contemplations by Victor Hugo. The old edition. I’d mentioned it once to Spencer, the night we met, when we were sharing our favorite lines over wine.
I open it and see his handwriting again, stretching across the title page.
Aimer, c’est agir. To love is to act.
And just beneath that:
Et t’aimer, Rhea—t’aimer elle aussi—ce sont les actes les plus vrais de ma vie.
And loving you—and loving her—will be the truest acts of my life.
Then an envelope, with a letter inside, falls from the folds of the silk.
My Dearest Rhea,
Of course you don’t need rescuing. Anyone who thinks such a thing could only be a fool, Likely, blinded by the desperate desire to be with you.
But, I don’t want to cage you—I want to see you fly. I don’t want to write your story—I just want to be part of it as it unfolds. Standing by your side. As your partner. As your friend.
I know you don’t need to be taken care of. But still, I hope you’ll let me—with steady acts of love, both the daily kind and the grand kind.
And though I don’t say it easily, I do hope you’ll want to take care of me, too.
I don’t want to make decisions for you—I want to make them with you. And I don’t know when—or if—you’ll want to share an address with me. But, wherever you and Esme are, that’s where my heart will be.
Who knows? Maybe we’ll decide to grow old in a quiet French village.Drinking too much wine, getting fat on pastries, and arguing about books. Esme may roll her eyes, but she’ll know just how much Mama’ and Papa’ love her.
And if it’s not too old-fashioned an idea…Maybe someday, you’ll even consider marrying Esme’s papa.
With my heart in my hand,
Spencer
I don’t even finish reading it before I’m reaching for my phone. My hands are shaking. He answers on the first ring.
“Rhea?” His voice sounds nervous.
I can’t form a sentence. There’s only one word in me. “Yes.”
He exhales. “Yes?”
“Yes.” I say again, “Please, yes.”
Then softly, “Can I come to you? Can I come to you now?”
“Yes,” I whisper again.
And then there’s a knock at the door. “Don’t worry,” he says gently through the phone. “It’s me. I’ve been waiting outside in my car.”
My heart is racing. I walk to the door, turn the knob, and open it to find him standing there. Hair tousled, eyes glassy but hopeful.
I don’t say anything. I just reach for him, and he steps into my arms.
I begin to kiss him, like I suddenly need to give myself to him fully, and unconditionally. Not on my terms, not with caution and control, but with love.
The kiss is urgent and longing, and deep, but I pull myself away from it, so I can look at him directly, look right into those endless brown eyes when I say it.
“Je t’aime.” I love you.
And then I add.
“Je t’aimerai toujours.” I will always love you.