Sylvie
Long past midnight, we’re sitting in the van with the door open, and Winslow is frolicking in the tall grass in the front yard. Bilbo sleeps alongside Knox’s thigh with snuffly dog snores. “Probably need to look at the mower, too,” Knox says. “Gotta add it to the list.”
“Do you realize we’ve known each other for exactly one week, officially?” I say.
“Wait, so it’s—”
“Monday. We met last Monday.”
“Wow. It feels like both yesterday and forever ago simultaneously.”
“I know.”
“Happy week-a-versary, Sylvie.”
“Happy week-a-versary, Knox.” I don’t know how to say what I want to say. I’m biting my lip. “Hey.”
“Hey yourself.”
“So tomorrow—”
“Are you gonna head back to Michigan? Pick up where you left off?” He can’t hide the wistfulness in his voice, and it gives me courage.
“I was thinking,” I say, hesitantly. “I looked and there’s a campground nearby. Some waterfalls. One called Looking Glass, which is so Alice in Wonderland. Waterland? I might—I might explore around here for a while.”
Knox doesn’t say anything.
“But I was thinking I could stick around for a few days, first. Since you don’t have a car just yet. I can take you to the auto parts store. And to the bank.”
“You don’t have to do that—”
“I can clean, too, and maybe get a paint touch-up pen—I know that’s not urgent or anything but those things work wonders; this one day I went around my house and filled in every nick in every cabinet and doorframe and it felt amazing, like I was snapping something into place.”
“I don’t want you to feel like you have to do any of that,” he says, looking down. “Don’t let me ruin your vacation.”
“My vacation? Are you serious? Vacations are supposed to make you happy. I was on a misery tour of America before I met you. I felt—purposeless. And alone. But then Winslow”—the little miscreant looks over at his name—“and the House on the Rock, and the eclipse, and even the Walmart, and now—”
He’s laughing at my nonsensical list, an open, easy laugh.
“—and now I love you, you dork, and I’m hoping you’ll let me stick around for a little while longer. Until college. Until I have to write you all those stacks of letters.”
Knox clearly doesn’t mind my pairing “I love you” with “you dork” because his eyes gleam and he takes a deep, shaky breath. “Dear Sylvie,” he says, in a voice that sounds like he’s barely containing laughter. There’s a visible tremble in his good hand.
“Dear Knox.”
“It is the forty-first day of my confinement—”
“I have been eating nothing but gruel, and potatoes, and superfood salad—”
“I am forced to walk the friskiest golden retriever morning, noon, and night. I am forced to dispense treats. Smelly chicken treats.”
“Don’t say that so loud, Winslow’s going to—” But on cue, the dog has his wet nose under my hand, and Knox is groaning, getting up to get the treat bag.
Satisfied, Winslow lies down. We’re quiet. My heart is in my throat.
“Dear Sylvie,” he murmurs. “I think I loved you the second I saw you.” I turn and he pulls me into his arms and I’m crying just a little against his chest. “And then your dog broke my arm and I knew it for sure.”
Winslow is watching us with big, sweet eyes. Above us, the moon hangs bright and sure and forever.