Page 43 of I Love a Good Challenge

Before I can ask, the hair band appears over her right shoulder. I reach for it without releasing the ends I’ve gathered in my other hand. As our fingertips brush, Lily grasps the ends of mine with the lightest pressure. It feels as if her hand is hugging mine. I return the gesture before tying up the braid, content that my work seems to suit her. I’ve never seen Lily in a braid. The fact that she didn’t protest the choice I made for her seems like a small victory.

“My hand hurts,” she says. “I’m going to grab some ointment.”

She pushes herself off the floor with her uninjured hand. Grabbing a flickering candle, she disappears toward the bathroom. I’ve always loved the sway of her ponytail in the air as she walks, but something in the bounce of the braid against her back immediately swirls a new level of appreciation across my mind.

When she returns, a shy smile appears on her face. “Where did you learn to braid hair?”

A flush crosses my cheeks. I steel myself and decide not to be embarrassed by something that is a part of who I am.

“Uh . . . my mother has pretty bad arthritis. It started when I was in college. I learned in case I ever needed to help her with something she couldn’t manage anymore.”

Without a word, she simply nods and moves to sit near me on the couch. Rather than pull away, she leans a bit closer to me. I’m mesmerized as her head angles backward, and she shifts to look at me.

“Do you like weddings?” she asks in a thoughtful tone.

“I—I like them,” I answer. “Although, it’s been . . . harder lately to picture my own.”

Her head nods, her eyes turning up toward the ceiling. “I know what you mean.”

Immediately, I feel what we’re both picturing but not saying aloud. I bought a ring for her. I wanted a wedding of our own. Once, I would have given everything to know she was the one who would be waiting for me at the altar.

“You still want your own?” she continues. Casually, as if this is the most commonplace conversation, her hand draws patterns on the couch. The other palm rests face up on the seat, the bandage angled toward the fire.

“I—I do.” Her eyes flash up to mine, and I’m caught in their lavender-grey glimmer.

“Hm,” she hums. “Then, I hope—” her voice catches. “I hope that you get to know what it’s like one day.”

My heart drops. It is as if she is wishing me well, with no hint of animosity between us. But I also hear what she’s not saying: There is no way she’s included in my future plans, no matter how much I want her to be.

∞∞∞

A flash of light in my eyes wakes me. I shift stiffly, a groan escaping as I try to sit up but feel a heavy blanket draped over my chest and legs. At some point last night, I fell asleep on the floor after a series of card games with Lily. As I drifted off sleepily, I watched her looking toward the fading firelight. She was angelic, our theoretical fighting gloves off and tossed aside. Last night, there was a new openness in her demeanor that made me melt back into imagining what could’ve been.

At some point, I closed my eyes. I must have been lulled by the warmth of the fire and the comfort of knowing Lily and I were in the same space again. I haven’t slept that well in ages.

Forcing my eyes open, I take in the ceiling. It is grey in the morning light, with the candles burned low and the fire long extinguished.

The smell of something floral stirs me. I register the pressure of a ribcage pushing against my own and hear soft breathing. Lily.

She’s pressing against me, her body stretched out, chin tipped up toward mine. She looks as if she was watching me sleep when she drifted off herself.

Did she know what she was doing? How did this even happen?

A blanket is spread over me. It isn’t covering her, though, and I realize she must’ve covered me up with it and then ended up beside me. I hope I kept her warm enough, even though the side of her arm is chilled. Her bandaged hand is across my stomach. Her braid trails over the edge of my arm. I feel the curve of her waist under my hand because of course I would instinctively hold onto her, even when I didn’t consciously mean to do it.

My heart beats faster. I force myself to keep it steady so as not to disturb her. I will wake her up soon because I know it’s better if I don’t let her feel uncomfortable that she settled beside me.

But for a moment, I let myself study her, taking in the freckles dusting her cheeks, the beauty mark sitting softly on the inside edge of her nose, the way her lips hold a soft pink that looks like she’s wearing a hint of lipstick when I know very well she’s not wearing anything at all.

This—here—is everything I’ve ever wanted.

I may have challenged Lily not to fall in love with me—the words a shield of armor to protect myself rather than an actual bet—but I realize now I was just as much challenging myself not to fall in love with her again. And the truth is, I know full well that I never stopped loving her.

If this were the nineteenth century, she would be my Elizabeth, and I would be her Mr. Darcy. I wasn’t kidding when I told her I wasn’t the Wickham of our story. She miscast me from the start.

At this moment, as she hums softly in her sleep, I resolve to do everything I can to show her that I’m still in this. I may not understand what is happening between us, but sometimes, that’s what love is. Not understanding everything and still moving forward. Proving that the fear of rejection doesn’t mean we call it quits.

Peace between us is going to start with not embarrassing her for something she probably didn’t mean to do. So, I turn my head to the side, shut my eyes, and rustle my hand enough to gently nudge her awake. Lily inhales deeply, with a sigh that causes a smile to threaten to break through on my face. I know the moment she realizes where she is.

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