Chapter Text
A/N- sorry to be gone so long. Everything has been kicking my ass these last few months.
I am writing this based on a prompt from the amazing person who served as inspiration for a character (Ann) in another story I did, and also helped me cope in countless ways these last few months. I’m not a great prompt writer, but I’ll do my best. I’m several months late on delivering this, but late is better than never, I hope.
Just a few chaps for this story. I'm ignoring all things pandemic in this one.
— Preface —
A few months after the last time he said goodbye to his Love just after his first ever wedding, the Priest packed his meager belongings and set out to embark on a whole new life. This should have been a time of joy, rejoicing in new (less complicated) horizons. But he didn’t feel joy. He felt the same unsettled, sad, empty feelings that plagued him. So he had a drink. And a few more.
On the way to the airport, he found himself standing in his Love's café. He hadn’t seen her since they parted ways after the wedding. He had no idea where her life had taken her or if she even wanted to see him. He knew it wasn't a great idea to go to her, opening up the wounds that hadn’t really even begun to heal yet. At least for him. But that didn't stop him from going.
Forgoing small talk, he immediately began, “I won’t take much of your time. I just wanted a chance to say goodbye. I’m being transferred.”
“How nice of you to pop ‘round to say hi just to have a chance to say goodbye again,” she said with a tone that was friendly enough, although there was raw disappointment just beneath it.
“I’ve missed you,” he admitted, his voice soft.
“Well, I have as well. Haven’t really missed the goodbyes, though. Oddly enough.”
“Do you want me to go?”
She shook her head. Taking a beat to steady herself, she attempted small talk, asking, “When do you leave for your new assignment?”
He looked at his wrist like there was a watch there and said, “Couple of hours.”
She chuckled like she wondered what in the fuck she was supposed to do about anything in a few short hours.
He looked away, uncomfortable himself, wondering what he should say now that he had one last chance to talk to her. “I shouldn’t have come.”
“So why did you?”
“Because…” he fought for answers, “I thought you should know.”
He held back the words in his head, refusing to tell her, ‘you’re the one thing I’ll miss the most and the reason I have to leave.’ It wouldn't do any good.
“Well, thanks for that,” she replied with a smile that let him know the ache she felt hadn't subsided yet.
Silently chastising himself for being so selfish as to reopen these emotional wounds for her, he said, “I’ll go. I just wanted to—” his arms opened to the sides, admitting his own lack of knowing. “I wanted to see you before I left. I won’t be coming back. I thought I should tell you I was going…in case you were looking for me.”
“You told me not to come find you.”
“I know.”
“Do you have to go wherever they want? Can’t you tell them you don’t want this job?”
“I could.” Sheepishly he added, “But I requested this transfer.”
“Why?” she asked with a disbelieving laugh.
“You know why.”
“But I don’t.”
“I can’t do it. I can’t be so close and stay away.”
“You have stayed away,” she said with heavy annoyance and frustration.
“Yet here I am. It’s exhausting, fighting it. I need a change. A new start.”
She waited, completely unsure of what to do with him, with a pitying sort of look on her face that made it clear he looked as pathetic as he felt.
“I don’t want to stay away,” he admitted.
“So why do you?” she asked, her derision for the ridiculous rules he chose to follow clear in her tone and her face, although her eyes betrayed the affection she still held for him.
“Because I have to.”
She didn’t answer. She just watched and waited.
Loudly, full of the angst and longing that was trapped in him, he said, “I don't know what the fuck I'm doing here.”
She turned away, and it hit him like a harsh rejection. As he shuffled back toward the door, she called out, “Wait,” and grabbed a bottle of water and a small packet from a stash in a drawer. “You’re gonna need this, I think.”
She crossed the floor and reached out toward him. He touched her hand when he took the bottle, and looked down at a packet of pain reliever. He wondered if she pitied him for the hangover in his future, or if she thought it might help to ease the pain of his broken heart.
Compassion obvious in her expression, he felt that connection that refused to ebb in months apart. He placed the bottle on a table, his hand resting on the top for a moment before he stepped closer. He moved slowly toward her, watching for signs she would retreat, but she didn’t make any move at all. Once he was so close that touching was nearly unavoidable, he reached out, his fingers gently pinching a bit of fabric near the bottom of her shirt. She tilted her head to the side when she surrendered, allowing him to close the remaining slice of a gap.
His hands surrounded her waist, curling around to her back and holding her close as her arms finally embraced him. It felt so good it was nearly painful, holding on to the person he’d wanted so desperately for so many days and nights, knowing full well that she would soon be gone from his life forever.
There was a moment of gentle acceptance, the two surrendering. The pain in his chest at his impending departure sat as equals with the joy he felt at being close to her again. It all swelled in him, all the feelings of love and terror, peace and turmoil, excitement and anxiety, all there in that final moment that he wanted to hide in.
He nuzzled his face between her neck and shoulder, breathing in thoughts of the past and considering all of the possible things that might have been. His lips pressed softly against her for an inevitable moment as her hand moved up his back and neck and settled in his hair, holding him in place.
She moaned a tiny sigh that contained the same hideous cocktail of conflicted emotions that he had. She still understood him in ways no one else ever would.
It wasn’t exactly clear who initiated what happened next, but their mouths found each other with deep, desperate kisses as they held on before the other slipped away. She pulled him back behind the counter, each pawing for contact, groping at the one they’d longed for. He didn’t struggle with the morality of his actions when his palms slid up her legs beneath her skirt, and her fingers opened his trousers.
She moved back, perching on the edge of the counter and immediately yanking him toward her. There was no discussion of what would happen, no lead up, no coaxing at all. After all, these two carried this longing with them every moment of every day. When their bodies finally joined and they started to find a hurried rhythm, he told he’d missed her ‘so very fucking much’ in a confession that tumbled out of him in garbled grunts. There was a certain type of desperate ferocity in the way they fucked each other, loud and hungry and lusty. Every bit of passion that had been trapped within them came forth and met their other in the few minutes they still had to share.
In the sated seconds after they were through, there was a brief suspension of time where everything seemed just fine, where the loss and separation that awaited them was forgotten. That wonderful reprieve crumbled and vanished far too easily as the realization of what was to come flooded back into him. The emotions that followed were as horribly sad as the previous ones had been thrilling and passionate.
“Fuck,” he murmured as they breathed heavily against each other. Already that guilt rose in him, not even allowing him a few moments of silence. He could feel her sadness flow into him as she heard his almost immediate regret.
She kept him close for that short while, her fingers tightly latched on. In some ways, he wondered if she might hold him tightly enough, or yell ardently enough, or finally tell him what a ridiculous fool he was for running from this, and he’d have no choice but to stay. But her fingers loosened their grip as she accepted what was to come.
Before it was too late, he pulled her against him one last time to stop her retreat. His hand rested on her face, his thumb brushing her lips. “I truly hope you find...someone you love madly, who’s not afraid to love you madly in return...without reservation or hesitation—”
“Yea, thanks,” she interrupted sharply. He thought she would have preferred it if he’d left without saying anything at all.
“I’ll pray that you find it. For whatever that’s worth.” He smiled a smile of mourning. Eyes beginning to tear, his hand rested on his heart as he added with a choked voice, “And selfishly, I’ll pray that I never have to see the two of you together...madly in love.”
Her face displayed a sort of awful missing, the tears held back by will alone. She separated herself from him fully, pushing her clothes back into place, distancing herself from what had happened.
As he saw her face, he considered the pain he’d caused, showing up here again, and he loathed himself for it. Feeling suddenly cold, he fixed his clothing, carefully tucking in his shirt and smoothing the wrinkles at first until he decided he didn’t really care if he looked disheveled.
Firmly taking her hand while keeping some distance between their bodies, he said, “I truly do love you. I just can’t—”
“I know,” she stopped him again. “And I love you. But it just...it doesn’t matter enough to make a difference. Does it?”
Those words crushed him, and although he struggled to find some explanation to offer her, there was none to give. She stopped him like she was putting him out of his misery, her fingers slipping out of his grasp, “I hope you have a nice life...wherever it is that you’re going.”
Many words were unsaid, a lengthy stare of longing shared, and then resignation as both seemed to know that their outcome would not change.
“Goodbye,” he whispered as he left to get in a taxi, board a plane, and fly to a safer place.
—December 27th, Two Years Later—
He settles down into the seat of the plane as it levels off, leaving the airbase behind him. He chuckles slightly to himself, surprised that he’s actually going through with all this.
It’s been more than two years since he’s been in London, two years since he made a choice to leave, the only option he felt he had back when he was a Priest in love with a Woman. It’s been that long since he’s laid eyes on her.
The memory of his last visit comes back, the ill-advised drunken decision to stop by the café just to say goodbye to her one last time. The only thing he did that night was bring more sadness and loss into her life. He has carried the guilt of that with him each day. He hasn’t really forgiven himself for it.
He vowed that night never to return. He’d promised it. But he’s going there, determined to see her. Of course now he has something to offer that he couldn’t before: himself.
He needed to make such a drastic decision of his own free will, the choice to leave the priesthood was his and his alone. No one else is to blame.
The Former-Priest wants to come find her as a free man, to find out if any shred of what was between them is there still. He thought of trying to phone her, reaching out before showing up unannounced. After all, if she is happy, he doesn’t want to ruin that. No, he vows that if she’s contently partnered, he’ll keep his news to himself, let her have her new life, wish her only the very best. But if she isn’t with anyone, if she isn't happily paired...if she’s willing to consider him...well, he’s not going to think about that yet.
He thought about this journey again and again in the previous weeks, strategizing on what to do, how to show up, what to say. Make no mistake, he is terrified of this. He fears rejection, heartbreak. But this risk is one he simply must take because he has to know.
The moment he lands he gets a taxi and goes straight to her old flat, hoping she still lives in the same spot. With courage and hope, he knocks on the door and finds a new couple living there. They have no idea what happened to the previous occupant. By the concerned way they look at him, he wonders if he appears even more rattled than he is.
So he goes next to the café, hoping that it’s still open and she’s still the proprietor. For the first time, he entertains the possibility that he may not find her at all. After all, a hell of a lot can happen in two years. So many new worries pop up in his head that the ride goes by quickly, and he finds himself in front of her café, staring at the door, hardly able to move.
As he reaches for that door, it suddenly opens, and he waits as a woman with a child on her hip wishes him a good morning as she passes by, her thick accent reminding him of his boyhood. She hurries off on her way as he slips into the building before the door closes. Memories of the last time he was here fill his thoughts.
His heart thuds noticeably, a flush of fresh nerves washing over him when he sees his Love. She is behind the counter, paying him no mind at all, and he wonders if two years have really passed, or if it’s been mere moments since he left her standing in nearly that same spot.
She finishes slipping a container into place beneath the glass display case, and then picks up her phone and smiles as she scrolls through something on the screen. She hasn’t acknowledged him, and he realizes that he entered the building when someone else left, so the door's bell didn’t jingle again to alert her that someone had entered.
He takes a small step and the floor creaks, and she startles and shouts, “Jesus!” as she hops back, her phone dropping and sliding across the floor. He’s not sure if she’s relieved to know the person who has startled her.
She smiles, awkwardly, shakes her head a little and then goes back to work without saying anything except, “Hi.” He retrieves her phone from the floor and steps forward, holding it out to her. She hesitates, glancing at it, then at him, and finally opting to quickly take it from his hand. After verifying that it’s not broken, she tucks it away out of sight.
“Hello,” he replies tensely.
“Hi,” she succinctly states again.
She doesn’t seem all that excited to see him, so he pries, “Is it okay that I’m here?”
“Probably should check in with God on that one,” she notes.
"Fuck it’s ridiculously good to see you. How’ve you been?”
“Fine,” she replies. “You?”
“I’m great!” he answers, a bit too enthusiastically.
“Cool.”
He isn’t sure what to say, and sounds as nervous and fumbling as he feels as he explains, “I...erm.. I—I just got back to London. From Belize.”
“Exciting.”
“I was there in an official capacity,” he continues.
She nods, “How nice,” with a smile that feels intentionally drawn on her face.
All the days and nights he’s planned for this meeting, and he can’t seem to think of anything at all to say except the questions he’s dying to ask. So he says, “Could I trouble you for a tea?” to buy some time.
“Sure.”
He takes a full but shaky breath, wringing his hands, hoping bravery increases with oxygen. He watches her as she fulfills his order, continuing, “I was a chaplain. For the army. Besides Belize, spent some time in Somalia, short stint in the Ukraine, and a bit in Germany. Kind of shuffled all over the place.”
“Army?” she asks as she prepares his drink.
“Yea. Spent the last two years doing that. Got to see a bit more of the world.”
He finds his wallet so he can pay her, but she shakes her head, and waves him away to refuse payment. He doesn’t see a ring on her finger when she places his cup on the counter and nudges it toward him, but that’s certainly not definitive proof of much of anything.
“Funny,” she says, pondering what she’s been told.
“What is?”
“Searching for peace with the army.”
He breathes a chuckle. “I can see why that might seem odd. But I only served a spiritually supportive role. I didn’t... invade anything.”
She’s just as hard to decipher as he remembers, but he’s just as willing to keep seeking answers, so he asks, “What have you been doing? Are you….what’s new?”
She pauses, studying him and his nervousness. He realizes that although she still seems protective of herself, she doesn’t really appear angry or devastated. In fact, she looks quite well.
In a friendly tone, she says, “It’s okay. You don’t have to feel bad about leaving. Not on my account anyway. I haven’t been moping away these last couple of years. I’m really fine. I think I actually...like my life.” She looks surprised by her admission, silently considering this, but finally nodding that she stands by her assessment.
“Oh! Good. That’s good. I’m—” he pauses, wondering about this happiness, and if he’s too late and it’s best to leave without interfering further.
Watching him fight for his words, she laughs as she counters, “What?”
“What do you like about this life of yours?”
She shrugs.
Unable to wait any longer, he questions, “Are you...seeing anyone?” in a voice that sounds sort of uncertain and gentle.
She stares like she doesn’t know why he’s asking, but begins to reply, “Well—”
He breaks in, “I know I have no right to ask.”
“It’s alright. No serious romantic relationships at the moment.”
He tries not to look overjoyed to hear this, but hides it poorly. “Well that’s...too bad.”
“Is it?” she smirks, seeing through his terrible performance as she gets her own drink. “Even still, I don’t have time to have sex with you during your quick stop here before you’re off to war again. Have to open the café.”
He chuckles before he says, “I’m truly sorry about that night. Showing up like that—”
“It’s okay,” she answers with remarkable ease, making him wonder if she’s completely moved on from what they shared.
“I’m actually here in London for a little while, though,” he explains.
“Oh?”
She grabs her own cup and they sit on opposite sides of a table with their drinks.
“I resigned,” he blurts out.
“As a chaplain? Settling down as a church priest again?”
“No. I mean I resigned...my vocation. The priesthood.”
Her jaw actually drops a bit. “Oh,” she says, staring into the distance. He can hear her leg bouncing nervously beneath the table. He was hoping for a slightly more excited reaction, but it’s not like he can expect her to fall into his arms. “Why?” she asks with apparent suspicion.
“I ran all over the world, trying to escape...” he gestures to the air around them, “...this. I ran from life to become a priest, then ran from you to stay a priest...I wondered why all I ever seem to do is run. And I’m fucking miserable with every step. Eventually figured out I became a priest and stayed a priest to hide. The funny thing is...I had opportunities these past years, for romance, sex...maybe even for love. That may surprise you, but—”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” she acknowledges with only the most fleeting glance in his direction.
“But I had to wonder why they were all so easy to walk away from. Why was it so simple to avoid entanglements with anyone else but….” He looks away, trying not to say too much too soon. When he finally looks back at her and notes the confused surprise etched on her face, he says, “Sorry. I’m sure this is all quite unexpected—”
“You could say that.”
“Look, I’ve come here to see you. That's the truth of it. I’ve missed...having you in my life, I’ve missed you...so much more than you could possibly know. I wanted to find out if maybe we could...you know...spend time together, hang out—”
“Hang out?”
“Yea. Without the complications of priesthood. Maybe see if too much has changed or if we still seem to have such...connection between us.”
“I mean—”
Worried that he’s now made it sound too casual, he rapidly continues, “All the places I’ve gone, the people I’ve met...there’s no one I’ve encountered who's remotely like you.”
“Wow,” is all she replies, her fingers passing through wisps of steam above her mug.
“What about tonight? Dinner. Or drinks. I’ll do literally anything you‘d like.”
“I can’t tonight,” she says with overt discomfort.
“Okay, then—”
“It’s not that I don’t want to. I’m just...sort of...busier.”
"I understand.”
“Listen, I really have to open the café. You’re welcome to stay a while, finish your tea. I’ll see if another day might work out and I’ll let you know.”
“Sure, sure.”
“I’ll see what my schedule is and—” she nods a bit, considering factors he isn’t aware of. “Can I just get things opened up? You don’t have to leave."
“Of course.”
The part of him that hoped that they’d close the café and run off together is disappointed, but she hasn’t turned him down either. He can’t exactly blame her for her hesitation, and he knows the difficult task of getting close to what she’s thinking has not become any easier. He hopes it’s just a lot to process, too much of a surprise.
A thought occurs to him: the recollection of someone leaving the café when he first arrived. He wonders why there was someone here earlier if the café wasn’t even opened yet. It doesn’t seem a particularly important thought to have, although it does seem a little strange, so in making conversation as she readies things, he lightly asks, “Your café wasn’t open when I got here?”
“No. Supposed to open now. I’m ready enough.”
“Thought I saw a customer leave when I came in.”
“Oh, right,” she bobs her head and disappears into her work.
He stands, looking around for clues about her life, seeing a lot of the same guinea pig decorations. But there are a few items that surely weren’t here before. Like clunky, brightly colored blocks, and little soft, puffy books in a portable playard tucked in the corner. He wonders why in the hell he didn’t notice these things before. They don't appear to be for a guinea pig. He swallows the tension rising in his throat and says, “You run this place on your own?”
“Yea.”
He leans down to scoop up one of the toys and study it. Holding it up, he asks, “So these are yours?”
She stares, face reddening, then jokes, “Have to have something to do when I’m not busy.”
“Do you have a child?”
Turning her attention for a moment to some container that can’t possibly be as important as this conversation, she looks back at him, closes her lips tightly, and she eventually nods. Then she goes right back to her work.
After a bit, she tries to lighten the mood, saying, “Bet you wished you knew that before you flew here and asked me to hang out.”
“Was that who I saw this morning?”
She bobs her head. “Well, the small one was mine. The woman helps me out, watches her.”
His head spins as he struggles to remember anything about the child he’d walked right past, the obvious questions firing. He hadn’t really paid any attention at all.
She explains, “That’s why my schedule is busier now. I’d have to see if Simone can watch her. Or my sister. It’s not that I don’t want to see you. But I totally get it if you don’t want to. Your life is less complicated, but mine is much more so.” She’s trying so hard to sound casual that he can see this isn't easy for her.
“How old?”
“One,” she answers, without the details of months or weeks or days often used for very young children.
With a grimacing expression, he asks, “And the father—”
She answers calmly, "It’s just the two of us.”
He winces, not liking this vague answer as he tries to figure it all out.
She jokes, “Wonder if people thought Jesus' mum's whole story was just a massive coverup that—”
He's not distracted by the joke. “I'm not the...uh...any chance I'm th—the…” his voice falls off. He’s not even sure what he hopes her answer will be, nor can he really complete the question.
She puts down her work, braces her hands on the counter, and says, “Don’t ask questions if you're not ready for the answers.” And he knows without a doubt the child is his.
“Fuck.”
“My daughter and I are just fine—”
“A daughter?”
“We don’t need or want anything at all. No one has the slightest clue about her beginnings. It was my fault, really, because I didn’t have to go through with it. I made this decision all on my own, you aren’t responsible for—”
“I am at least a little responsible.”
“Look, I was going to get an abortion—”
“Jesus,” he gripes, dropping back down to the chair, bracing his face in his hands.
“I didn’t. Obviously. It was my choice to do this. If I'd had the abortion, you never would have found out. I don’t have any regrets about it, but I'm the one who chose this.”
“You could have told me.”
Her gentle understanding falls away as she argues, “No! I couldn’t! What the fuck did you expect me to do? You left, said you weren’t coming back. You chose God. Again. What was I supposed to do? Should I have wandered through the churches of the world looking for you, or just stormed the Vatican screaming, ‘Has anyone seen the priest I fucked'? You were gone. You didn’t even exist anymore.”
“I’m sorry I left and—”
“Don’t be. But don’t try to make me feel guilty for the fact that you vanished and I made my own decisions. You chose to leave. And this is what I chose. I've made a lot of sacrifices, but it's been pretty good for me," she explains as his words spoken years ago echo in his mind. She sighs and adds, "I respected your choices. Now I'm asking you to respect mine."
"I do. Of course I do." He looks at the toy he dropped on the table earlier, picks it back up, so astounded by the fact that he’d helped to create the person who usually plays with it.
His words stumble, and he whispers, "I was so reckless."
"I was, too."
"I didn't even fucking think about it, I was so absorbed by my own—"
She sits in front of him, nods and says, “Hard to think at times like those.”
“Sorry, I'm just so sorry. I'm...”
“I don't blame you,” she reassures before he can apologize yet again. “You weren’t exactly at your best when I last saw you. It all worked out okay. I have a nice life. And she’s not complaining.”
Finally, a question comes to the forefront of his thoughts, and he asks, “What made you decide not to...what made you decide to keep the baby?”
She sighs and confesses, “I was on my way for my appointment at the clinic and the pictures on the walls all crashed down.”
“Really?” he asks, completely astounded, sitting straight up.
“No!” she laughs boldly, and he manages a strained chuckle. “I just...decided I didn’t want to. I didn't have some grand revelation or anything.”
“That’s it? You just 'didn’t want to'?”
She sighs like she doesn’t want to confess more, but he’s grateful when she tells him, “I had a nice long stretch of adulthood with almost complete freedom. It just seemed the right time. And I've never had much luck with romantic relationships, so I figured I'd give something new a try. And I thought about what you said that night before you left and decided…why not?”
He tries to recall that night, the words spoken, but his eyes ask her for more.
“You said…” she begins, stalling but continuing softly, “you said you hoped I’d meet someone who wasn’t afraid to love me madly. Someone I loved. And I have. She does. No one in this world has ever loved me the way she does. And I her. I know it wasn’t what you meant, it’s not romantic love or the happily-ever-after fuckery we're supposed to hope for, but that hasn’t ever worked out all that well for me anyway.”
He wonders how in the hell such a thing could happen without God giving him some clue. Then the thought occurs to him that maybe his desire to find her did come from a bit of prodding from the Heavens. “I’m a father?” he asks God.
“Not really,” she answers, not out of cruelty, but trying to ease his worry. “But that wish you had for me, the thing you said you’d pray that I’d find, I found it. And you, unknowingly, sort of...facilitated that.”
“Facilitated?” he counters, still reeling.
“You don’t have to panic and head off for a moon colony or Antarctica. I’ve never told anyone,” she promises. “There’s no reason for you to feel anything has changed.”
“How do you answer the questions? Doesn't your family ask about the father or—”
“There aren’t many questions anymore. At first, I employed a healthy dose of humor, blatantly obvious lies, and the occasional act of re-direction. It's really no one else's fucking business, is it?” Customers come and his Love has to work.
He has never been so shocked by anything in all his life. He drinks his tea and reads two of the little books left for the child. He’s not sure why, and plenty of the customers seem to wonder why he’s reading them alone.
He occasionally feels her eyes on him, and when he does study her, he knows she really does look happier than before.
Pouring back through their conversation, he tries to decide if she’s worked hard to convince him he has no obligation to her and the child for his benefit, or because she really, truly, does not want him involved. These thoughts lead him to consider things past, and the life he’s lived. More frightening, in some ways, are questions of where he wants his life to go.
An hour or so passes as he watches the piece of the world around him, although he’s paid little attention to the time. He hears the clank of a plate on the table and finds a sandwich and another drink. He looks up and says, “Thank you,” with genuine appreciation.
His Love puts her own plate down across from his and sits. She pokes one of the children’s books and teases, “Quite an ending in that one.”
“I was relieved the duck found his frog friend. Could have taken a very dark turn,” he plays along.
“On the edge of my seat until the end.” The smile she offers fades. Soberly, she says, “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For her,” she answers.
“You want me to stay away?” he asks directly, since he’ll worry each time she speaks that that’s what she’s about to say. After all, it seems a fitting punishment, in a way.
“How long are you around for this time?”
“As long as I want to be.”
“And you’re really not a priest?"
“I’m not, not anymore. Just an...ordinary man.”
She eats her sandwich, considering all this.
He finally reaches out, touches the back of her hand with his fingers, “I came here to see you. I’d still like to do that.”
“You sure about that?”
“Yea,” he states with certainty. “But only if you want.”
She nods. “Tomorrow afternoon, around three. We can meet here. If that works?”
“It does.” He nods rapidly, a smile finding its way onto his face through the chaos of emotions the last hours have brought.
“What?” she asks.
“I have so many things I’d like to tell you. And a million questions to ask.”
She meets his eyes, “Listen, if you decide not to come…I’ll understand completely.”
He resolutely takes her hand, pressing palm to palm, lacing their fingers. “It's taken me two years to get back here again. You can fucking bet I’ll be here tomorrow."
In those few short hours, his entire world has been turned upside down.