I’ve asked a lot from him. The day might come when he can’t hang on, and I’m not ready.
My brain would say Tobin and I still have real problems. This week, we attempted Scenario 5 (Crafternoon Delight—honestly, McHuge) in my parents’ backyard. Like all our scenarios, it bombed, ending with a broken birdhouse kit, a near escape for Yeti, and a related meltdown for Eleanor. We’re acting like our agreement to ignore the pitch competition is the same as making it not matter, when one or both of us will have a lot of rethinking to do when we lose.
But my heart says there’s no competition here tonight. There’s only him and me, and mistakes we’ve made, and mistakes we’re going to make, and our will to get through it, together. If I’ve learned anything from our wedding, it’s that we don’t have to hand the microphone to our worst moments.
The truck smells like warm pine and clean skin and longing. Tobin looks young and end-of-the-night rumpled. We could be in a time warp, four or six or eight years ago, racing home from a wedding so we could tear off each other’s fancy outfits before we got in the door.
“Can we go on a date on our anniversary?” I whisper.
His shoulders freeze, like he’s afraid to turn. “Yes,” he says. “Sure, let’s do that.”
I search through my hair, slipping out the special ornament I made for Béa’s beach theme.
A tiny sand dollar, glued to a hairpin.
Tobin gave me this shell four years ago. We were camping on Vancouver Island in the shoulder season, at a beach that stretched forever at low tide.How far out do you want to go?he asked.All the way,I said.The tide will come in fast on the flats,he warned. I shrugged.So we’ll get wet.
We took off our shoes and walked straight out to sea, clams squirting us as we passed. I’d never seen so many sand dollars, a confetti of fuzzy black living ones mixed with bleached white shells thrown across the rippling sea floor. Tobin stooped, fingers diving into a puddle.Whatcha got,I asked, and in answer, he took my hand and pressed a tiny, sandy disc into my palm. When he didn’t let go, I glanced up, and there was this… look on his face.This isn’t a capital-Q Question,his eyes said.But it will be.
A few weeks later, he proposed in an extravagant Grey Tusk restaurant, on bended knee, and it was beautiful. But I’ve always felt this sand dollar was my engagement ring. I wrapped it up and put it in a box, because I love it and it’s fragile. Tonight, I wanted him to see me wearing it and know how long I’ve kept it safe.
Tonight, we can judge ourselves by our best moments. I can be the Liz who wanted to chase the tide all the way out, and he can be the Tobin who impulsively dropped a promise into my hand when we got there. We can be the people who cared more about the joy of adventure than we cared about getting our only clothes soaking wet.
Gently, trying not to pull or pinch, I slide my treasure into his hair. “Two weeks.”
Understanding breaks across his face like stars coming out.
“It’s going to be stupid busy with last-minute pitch stuff, but we’ll do as many chapters of the book as we can before then. You pick the scenarios, I pick the roles.”
“Two weeks,” he repeats, voice crackling. “What if we don’t finish?”
“Then we wrap up after I move back in.” I’d be breaking the rule about not living together while we’re doing the book. But moving back in doesn’t mean we have to stop working on our relationship. We’ll figure out what we need to do afterward.
After the competition changes everything.
He closes his eyes, hand over his mouth. “You don’t have to, Diz. Not if you don’t want to.”
“I want to. It’s all right.”
I reach for his hair, tracing the outline of the sea creature that was. Touching Tobin the pirate, Tobin the prince, Tobin my merman, my husband, my love.
“I can’t invite you to Amber’s. But you could invite me to stay with you.”
He knows what I’m asking. I’m not moving back in tonight. But I’m coming closer.
He makes a sound, a breath of disbelief and pleasure, like he’s found something he’d given up looking for, and it was right there all the time.
He throws the truck into reverse and practically Tokyo drifts into our driveway, tires squealing through the quiet street.
“Tobin! You’ll wake the neighbors!”
In answer, he jumps out, throws his door shut, and leaps across the hood of the truck like Luke Duke. He yanks open my door and hauls me into his arms, crushing my mouth against his, tasting of raspberries and coffee and himself.
My heart bursts into flame.
Almost before the front door closes, his fingers are at my back, searching for ways in.
“Careful, this dress isn’t mine,” I say, going for his pants.
