Chapter 26
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SIX
Mira
“We ate it and didn’t die,” I say, sitting back in my kitchen chair.
Hartley nods appreciatively from across the table. “We ate it, enjoyed it, and didn’t die. You missed a step.”
“It was pretty good, wasn’t it?”
He chuckles at my lashes fluttering before he takes a drink of his tea.
The remnants of our meal are on the table between us.
I wasn’t brave enough to try frying chicken breasts, Hartley’s favorite, so I bought some thin tenders and made them in the air fryer with a little help from Cathy.
They might’ve been a little dry, but we didn’t get salmonella.
I probably overbuttered the mashed potatoes, if that’s possible, and made green beans from Cathy’s canned green beans last summer.
I only burned myself once.
“You know, it’s surprising that you purport not knowing how to cook, considering it’s Lolly’s favorite pastime and her food is incredible,” Hartley says.
“That’s easy. She threw me out of the kitchen, so I’d stop being a pest.” I wink.
“I know that’s hard to believe. And I think she made my mom learn to cook, clean—all those domestic-y type of things—and then she lost her.
I have to wonder if a part of her wishes she’d let her play instead of cleaning every Saturday morning. ”
Hartley takes a deep breath, his features sobering. “That might be true. Because I know that I spent quite a few days, and still do, sometimes, wishing that I would’ve helped Dad a little more and learned a few tricks of the trade while he was still here rather than goofing off.”
My heart stills as I watch him go down a memory lane that I don’t know exactly, but still understand. The lane I frequent has a lot of parallels to his. Given that he runs a ranch, is an upstanding part of this community, and has many great friends, it’s clear that he navigated his better.
“Think we have any margarine containers left to save the leftovers?” I ask.
“I’m sure we do somewhere. Cathy hasn’t tossed a sturdy container since the nineties.”
We rise and clear the table. Hartley packs away the food, and I load the dishwasher. Working shoulder to shoulder in the kitchen with the moonlight streaming through the windows is a level of peace that I didn’t know existed.
I’d like to think that this means our paths are opening to the same forest, and we can travel a new one together—especially because I believe Hartley’s already there waiting on me.
And, right now, in this easygoing, relaxed—deliriously happy—space, I want to run into his arms and take the first permanent step toward forever, but something holds me back.
“It’s still odd having so many dishes,” I say, starting the wash cycle. “And towels. And candles. And blankets.”
My apartment in Kentucky was packed up in seven boxes—two of which were books. I felt like I had everything that I needed there, but looking back, I don’t know how that was true.
Life here is so full in ways that I couldn’t have predicted. Each day is filled with people dropping by, texts coming in about things besides work, and lunches with friends. And each night I sleep next to a man who has my heart in the palm of his hand.
How did my life before seem happy? Or was I just that determined not to believe it could be better than it was?
“Can I ask you something?” Hartley asks as he scoops our nightly bowls of ice cream. We’ll take them into the living room, pull a blanket over our laps, and watch our favorite show together.
“Sure.”
He scoops slower. “I know you had a job before we got married. But did you choose to live such a pared-down life, or was it more a necessity from a financial standpoint?” He glances at me. “Just curious.”
I move around the room, each step helping me think.
My breath quickens as I wonder where to begin because the answer isn’t as simple as Hartley thinks. Or maybe he knows it’s not simple. I don’t know.
I slide my hands into my pockets to keep Hartley from seeing them tremble, because I’ve never discussed this out loud with anyone, and I don’t want to do it now. But if we’re going to move forward the way I want us to, he deserves my honesty.
Tears fill my eyes. This shouldn’t be so hard. I’ve avoided this topic for so long and wasn’t prepared to address it tonight. But there’s a push deep inside my body that urges me to get it all out.
“I think,” I say, my mouth dry, “that it wasn’t either. It wasn’t a choice, or because I didn’t have money to buy extra towels. I think it was more out of a survival instinct.”
He sets the ice cream scoop down and faces me. His eyes are full of empathy and concern. I really want to launch myself at him and have him hold me while I change the subject. But that’s not fair—to him or to me.
It’s time.
“I told myself that staying light meant that I could travel easier,” I say. “And that’s technically true, because it’s much easier to move when you have seven boxes rather than fifty.”
Hartley nods but doesn’t comment. He just stands silently by the sink, following me around the room with his eyes.
“But it wasn’t about the stuff,” I admit.
“And it wasn’t even about seeing the world or living varied experiences.
” It sounds so goofy now. How was I seeing the world being cooped up in a single-bedroom apartment away from my family?
It was almost as if not seeing them every day meant I wouldn’t miss them so much when they were gone.
Sad, but true. “It was really about not getting too comfortable. Making sure no place, and no person, ever felt essential to my life.”
The words surprise me as they fall past my lips. I’ve never been able to put it so succinctly, even in my head. But this is right. It’s true.
“Why?” Hartley asks as if the question holds the key to the future. But there’s no judgment in his tone, no frustration or indifference. Just curiosity and concern. And love.
“The last time I really felt comfortable, like where I lived felt like my home, was on Cherry Street with my parents.” Tears fill my eyes as I remember that house and how it smelled like pumpkin.
“I love Lolly, and I’m so thankful to her and Pop for taking Markie and me in.
They treated us like we were their own. Lolly and Pop’s love saved us.
But that house … it always felt, to me, like we were creating another life on top of the one that already existed there.
Mom’s room still exists over there. Her childhood bike is still hoisted into the rafters of the garage beside mine and Markie’s.
It was the house where I lived, but it wasn’t my home. ”
It never became the place where my sister and I created all the family memories.
And I don’t know if that’s a fair feeling or not, but it’s mine.
It was as though Mom were somehow enshrined…
and existed in her shadow. And I hate how much that grieves me.
How it rips my heart into two. Because I would have given anything to just stay in my pumpkin-smelling home with my parents.
“I hate how ungrateful that makes me sound,” I admit. “I feel very guilty about it, but that’s the truth.”
“There’s nothing wrong with the way you feel. You were a kid, Mira. This is going to be complicated.”
You can say that again.
Hartley crosses the kitchen and pulls me into his arms, nuzzling me under his chin. He kisses my forehead as tears stream down my cheeks. He says nothing, but he doesn’t have to. His touch says it all.
“After they were gone,” I say softly, swaying back and forth against him, “I couldn’t fill that hole they left behind.
I couldn’t just accept this new world, no matter how grateful I was.
It felt disrespectful, and I remember sitting in my room at Lolly’s, wondering how everyone could just move on so easily.
Then I got bitter about it.” I look up into his eyes. “Then I was afraid.”
“Afraid of what?”
“Afraid of never feeling like I truly belonged anywhere.” My heart wobbles. “Scared that if I ever loved anyone—like I loved someone enough to need them—I’d lose them and have to survive that kind of pain all over again.”
He leads me into the living room, sitting on the couch and pulling me onto his lap.
We don’t speak for a while. I don’t know if he’s processing what I’m saying or giving me the space to work it out myself.
But admitting this to him—saying it out loud and not having the world cave in on me—feels like a weight has been rolled off my shoulders.
The tears keep coming as if they were stored under the weight, and now that it’s gone, the pool can empty.
“You know that I’m always here for you, right?” he asks, stroking my back. “I always have been, and I always will be.”
I nod against his chest.
“Everyone processes grief differently, Mira. You ran from it, and I planted myself square in the middle of it. Neither is right nor wrong.”
“How did you heal, though?” I ask.
“It’s a choice you make every day. Are you going to let yourself get fucked up today? Or are you going to make the best of it and try to have a good life?”
That makes sense, and it sounds so simple. It’s not. It’s not that easy—at least, not for me.
“How did you become someone who can love so easily?” I ask. “Doesn’t it scare you to be that vulnerable? To know you could end up feeling the same debilitating pain that we’ve already survived?”
I sit up and pull back so I can see his eyes.
“Of course, it does,” he says with a shrug. “But what’s the alternative?” He brushes a strand of hair from my face. “If you want to love someone the way they deserve, you have to hand them every part of you. And yes, that means giving them the power to hurt you, whether intentionally or not.”
“That’s a big ask.”
His thumb traces my cheek. “Not for me. I’d rather risk the pain of losing you someday than spend the rest of my life wondering what it would’ve been like to love you.” He grins. “Because I’ve been in love with you my whole life. Getting to love you is a whole different thing.”
My breath catches as a new wave of tears stains my cheeks.
“Because there’s pain in that choice too,” he says softly. “You just have to decide which pain is worth living with.”
I face him with one knee on either side of him. With his face in my hands, I press a kiss to the center of his lips.
God, I love this man.
And I’m so lucky to be loved by this man.
The realization settles over me with equal parts terror and wonder. I want to tell him that. I know he wants to hear it. Even more, he deserves to hear it—to know that he’s the best thing to ever happen to me.
But, if I tell him now, he’ll think I’m only saying it because I’m emotional—that I’m caught up in the moment and let those three little words go.
He was patient enough to wait for me all these years.
I can be patient enough to find the perfect way to tell him how I feel …
and that twelve months isn’t going to cut it.
I’m not sure twelve lifetimes would even be enough.
Spending the rest of my life loving a man, and hopefully our children, sounds like a great way to spend eternity to me.
“You’re pretty special, Mr. Adler,” I say, smiling at him.
“You’re pretty spectacular, Mrs. Adler.”
He nuzzles his face in the crook of my neck, making me giggle.
“How about you pick me up and carry me to bed?” I say, as he plants kisses up my neck and across my jaw.
“Then what?” he asks, breathing the words against my mouth.
His eyes are dark and hooded, and I know whatever I request, he’ll deliver. But instead of asking for something like I normally do—oral or doggy style—I ask for something new. Something we’ve done before but have never named.
“Then we can make love,” I say, studying his eyes.
The smile he gives me—soft and sweet—shows me he hears my declaration of love even though I didn’t say the words.
He stands with me wrapped around him, and carries me to our room. And we make love, even if I haven’t said those words to him.