The question deserves honesty—the raw, unfiltered kind that's been burning in my chest since I watched her disappear through airport security eight weeks ago.
“I'm here because I should have gotten on that plane with you.”
I take another step closer. “Because I've been walking around half-dead since you left. Because I've spent every morning for eight weeks staring at that river, wondering if you're thinking about me too.”
“Grant” she sniffles with tears welling up in her beautiful blue eyes. “I can’t…we can’t…our lives, they’re just too different…you’re better off—”
“You think I’m better off without you?” I interrupt her “I’m not. I’m a hollow man wearin’ skin and pretending I’m fine. But I’m not. I’m not fine. I’ve been missing my home—and youaremy home, darlin’. My peace, my storm, my everything in between. And if I gotta beg, then I’ll get on my knees right here and now. But don’t you dare walk away thinkin’ you weren’t loved with every beat of this busted cowboy heart.”
I still, trying to find the answers in her water filled eyes. I’m holding my body like I’m holding the last thread of myself.
“So if there’s even one flicker left in you—one damn ember burning for me—I’ll blow on it with everything I’ve got, and I’ll fight for you ‘til my last breath. But if this is goodbye… then at least know this: loving you wrecked me. And I’d do it all over again.”
Her eyes glisten. “I qualified,” she says, as if I couldn't possibly understand the significance.
“I saw.” I smile. “You were fucking magnificent. Like you were born in water.”
“I'm going to the Olympics.” There's wonder in her voice, but also a question—what does this mean for us?
“I know. And I'll be there, cheering so loud they'll hear me back in Portree.”
A tear escapes, trailing down her cheek. “You hate traveling.”
“I’ve come to learn, I hate being without you more.”
Camera flashes start popping around us as people realize something unscripted is happening. I'm vaguely aware we're creating a scene, but I couldn't care less.
“I don't know what to say,” she whispers.
“You don't have to say anything.” I reach up to brush away her tear with my thumb. “But I flew across an ocean to tell you I love you, Mia Bonney. And I'd do it again tomorrow and the next day and every day after that if it meant being where you are.”
She makes a small sound—half-laugh, half-sob. “You love me?”
“Completely. Inconveniently. Permanently.” I cup her face with my good hand. “I should have told you before you left. I should have followed you to the gate and shouted it for the whole damn airport to hear.”
More cameras flash. Someone nearby is definitely filming us.
“Can I kiss you?” I ask, suddenly uncertain of my welcome despite crossing continents to be here. “Or would that be inappropriate given the whole gold medal thing?”
Her answer is to fist her hand in my shirt and pull me up on the podium. When our lips meet, it's like coming home after the longest journey of my life. She tastes of sweet victory and something uniquely Mia that I've been starving for.
Cameras flash all around us, the crowd erupts in cheers and whistles, but it's all background noise to the sound of my heart thundering back to life in my chest.
When we break apart, breathless, Mia leans her forehead against mine. “You're crazy,” she whispers. “Completely, certifiably insane.”
“Only about you.”
“Mr. Taylor,” a voice interrupts. We turn to find an organizer and the security guard, looking apologetic but firm. “Your five minutes are up.”
“He's with me,” Mia says, twining her fingers with mine. “He stays.”
The guard hesitates, then nods. “There's press waiting for more interviews, Ms. Bonney.” The organizer points to the pressroom direction.
Mia turns to me. “Wait for me after the interviews? We need to talk. Properly. Without an audience.”
“Lead the way,” I say, squeezing her hand. “I've already followed you across an ocean. I’ll follow you anywhere darlin’.”
***
