23. Hunter
Hunter
The coffee maker had two mugs on the rack now.
Mine — the heavy ceramic one, dark blue, chipped at the handle. And hers — the white one she'd brought from her apartment because she said my mug was too big for her hands and she needed her own. It sat beside mine on the rack and the two of them looked like they'd been there for years.
The apartment had changed. Her shampoo was in my shower.
Her reading glasses on my nightstand. The red jacket she wore to morning meetings was hanging on the hook behind my door.
Her running shoes by the door. Her planner on the kitchen counter.
Her handwriting on the grocery list stuck to the fridge: coffee, eggs, that cheese from the market, more almond oil.
That last item made my ears warm every time I read it.
My mornings started with her weight against my side and her breathing in my ear and the warmth of her leg hooked over mine.
My days had a shape they hadn't had before.
My hands still built things. My body still worked the ranch.
But my jaw was looser. My shoulders sat lower.
Something had settled in me that I noticed only because it was new.
She was sitting on my floor cross-legged. The travel books spread around her in a semicircle. Her laptop open. Her reading glasses on. A notebook in her lap — my notebook, the one I kept in the workshop, the one she'd stolen three weeks ago and filled with her handwriting beside mine.
"Okay." She pulled the pen from her teeth. "The Alta Via 1 is nine days. Nine days, Hunt. We could do the whole ridgeline."
I was on the couch. My legs stretched out. The Australia book in my lap — open, not being read. I was watching her.
"The refugios book up fast in July and August so we'd need to go in September.
Which works because I read the light is better in September anyway and the crowds thin out after the fifteenth.
" She was scrolling. Her eyes moving fast. "Flights from Dallas to Venice.
One connection through London or Amsterdam.
I'm looking at Amsterdam because the layover is shorter and we could grab pancakes at the airport.
" She looked up. "Dutch pancakes, Hunt. At the airport. That's not negotiable."
"Okay."
"Then Venice for two nights before the hike.
I want to see Venice. I want to get lost in Venice with you and find a bar that nobody knows about and eat cicchetti standing up and drink cheap wine.
" Her pen was tapping the notebook. Her eyes bright.
"Then the Dolomites. Nine days on the ridge.
Stone huts at altitude. Waking up above the clouds. "
She said the words I'd said to her months ago on this floor — above the clouds — and my throat tightened.
"After the Dolomites we train to Paris. Four days.
" She flipped a page in the notebook. My handwriting.
The Marais. The boulangerie at six AM. The Pont des Arts at dusk.
She'd underlined all of it. "I found an apartment in the Fourth.
Tiny. Balcony. It overlooks a courtyard with a lemon tree.
The reviews say the bread shop on the corner opens at five-thirty and the smell wakes you up. "
My hands were still on the Australia book.
"Then home for a month to recover and deal with work and miss each other's faces." She grinned. "And then — phase two. The Great Ocean Road. Three weeks in Australia. I want to drive the whole coast. I want to stop everywhere. I want to see the Twelve Apostles and the rainforest and the reef."
Home. The word snagged. She'd said it without specifying.
Home for a month. But which home. Her contract ended in four months.
Her apartment in New York was sublet, not surrendered.
Her contacts were there. Her network. Her career.
The life she'd spent a decade building was nine hundred miles northeast of this floor and these books.
I didn't know what home looked like after the contract. Did she fly back to New York and we met in airports for vacations — her life there, mine here, the two of us together in transit and apart in the living? Did she stay?
Did I ask her to stay?
The question sat in my throat. My jaw tightened around it.
My hands pressed harder into the book. She was talking about the Twelve Apostles and the reef, her voice bright.
Her face was lit up, so I swallowed the question and kept it down because right now I wasn't going to be the one who broke this fragile thing we’d built.
I unclenched my jaw. Loosened my hands on the book. Let her voice fill the room.
She picked up the Australia book from beside her knee — a different copy, the same book, she'd bought her own. The spine was already cracked. The pages already dog-eared.
"You bought your own copy."
"I wore yours out." She held it up. Post-it notes bristled from the pages — pink, yellow, green. Her handwriting on each one. "Pink is must-see. Yellow is if-we-have-time. Green is food."
"There's a lot of green."
"Hunt, it's Australia. The seafood alone is worth the flight." She put the book down and looked at me. Her glasses had slid down her nose. Her pen was in her hair now. Her face open and bright. My ribs ached looking at her. "We're actually doing this."
"Yeah."
"We're booking flights. Real flights. With dates on them."
"Yeah."
"You — Hunter Blackwood, the man who has had travel books on a shelf for years and never opened a browser to check a single fare — you are going to get on a plane with me and go to Italy."
"I'm going to get on a plane with you and go to Italy."
Her face did something. The brightness cracked, and her eyes got wet. Her mouth pressed together to shove it down, but I saw it all. She blinked hard, and looked down at her laptop. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, but she didn't type.
"Jess."
"I'm fine. I'm — don't look at me, I'm being ridiculous.
" She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.
"It's just — you kept those books for all these years, Hunt.
And you never went. And now we're going and I —" Her voice broke.
She pressed her palm flat against the open notebook — my handwriting and hers, side by side on the same page.
"I just want to go everywhere with you."
I put the book down. Stood up. Crossed the room. Sat down on the floor beside her with my back against the bed frame. Her shoulder against mine. I took her hand, and laced my fingers through hers. Her grip tightened. Her head tipped against my shoulder.
"Book the flights," I said.
Her thumb moved on my knuckle. “Yeah?" The hope and excitement in her voice was enough to fully convince me.
"September. Venice. Dutch pancakes at the airport. The whole thing."
She laughed. Wet. Bright. She turned her face into my shoulder and pressed her mouth against the fabric of my shirt, and the laugh vibrated through me.
She booked the flights. Venice in September. Two seats side by side. Outbound from Dallas with a connection through Amsterdam.
I watched the confirmation email arrive on her screen. The dates. The flight numbers. The two names — Blackwood, H. Williams, J.
My name beside hers on a boarding pass.
My throat ached. My eyes stung. I looked at the ceiling and blinked and didn't say a word.
The dream I’d had all my life was finally coming true, and all it took was a little push from Jessica.