What’s scary is the man leaning against the far goalpost, chin angled down, hands in his pockets.
Oh, my heart.
He’s waiting for me, beautiful and hurt and daring to hope anyway. He’s grand-gesturing right back at me.
I pull Sharon’s portable speaker from the front seat. It’s the size of a pop can, so theSay Anythingeffect isn’t perfect when I raise it over my head. But it’s loud and the sound is great and this song has been in more rom-coms than I can count, for good reason.
“Let My Love Open the Door.”
Tobin’s head comes up with the opening chords. The white-painted stands echo with music that’s all synthesizer and optimism and reaching out with an open hand.
From the back seat, I pull out a battered gray hobbyhorse,stick it between my legs, and start galloping toward him on my white horse.
I’m overloading just seeing him peel off the goalpost to come my way, striding across the manicured sports field that in no way resembles a dewy English hillside. He’s a perfect moment come to life in denim and boots, his shoulders cocked at that hopeful, uncertain height. The crook of his elbows, the swing of his hips, even the drape of his fingers—every angle of him wrecks me with love and longing. He moves with an easy curl, not rushing, like a warm breeze.
Oh, help.
In the song, Pete Townshend offers a four-leaf clover. Damn, I should have thought of that. Tobin would’ve. One of those would be the best gift. Very meaningful. Argh.
I shove the speaker in my pocket so I can rip a handful of green strands from the cool ground. When I pop back up, he’s stopped, uncertain.
“It’s fine!” I call. “Clover! Keep going!” I think he’s trying not to laugh. I don’t care how ridiculous I’m being; if he’s laughing, I’m doing it right.
He’s dressed for the weather: soft, faded jeans, threadbare at the knees and the corners of the pockets. The high collar of his black wind shell caresses the sides of his neck.
I don’t doubt he had a perfect outfit for this scenario, and I know why he didn’t wear it.
As much as I have to show him I want to say yes to him and our marriage, he has to be able to say no, and trust me to hear it, and know I’ll still love him.
Both of us have work to do. Today won’t be the finish line of our journey back to each other.
But it can open a door.
It gets awkward as we get closer. My legs tremble from prancing. I have to fumble with my phone to turn off the music. The pocketed speaker pulls one side of my oversized coat almost to the ground.
Even after all that improv, putting myself out there doesn’t come easily. I have to work hard for it. But I can do it. My successes buoy me, and my failures teach me how to get up when I fall.
I’m a mess. And I’m okay.
“Hi.” I pull the coat back up my left shoulder, rolling my eyes at myself for the worst opening line of all time.
“Hey.” His forelock shifts in the light breeze, an unreadable expression on the angular planes of his face.
I didn’t want to practice this speech. I wanted to stay in the present and let the words come from my heart. But my heart can’t talk right now, as it’s busy drinking him in.
“This is for you.” I thrust a handful of grass at him, stalling for time. “It’s a four-leaf clover.”
“I can see that,” he says, accepting the uneven strands.
Delaying didn’t help. When I try somebreathe in, breathe out,I sound like I’m trying to blow out birthday candles instead of putting out the fire in my brain.
The perfect way this was going to go vaporizes like mist into dry mountain air. I don’t think I can find any characters at all.
It’s going to be him and me. Just a girl, standing in front of a guy.
Like it was when we split.
When we agreed to do McHuge’s book.
