Page 29 of Between the Lines

He’d missed this. He’d missed her. And he understood why she was wary when it came to her feelings about him, but once he’d seen her again, he’d known that this was it.

He just had to convince her that this—them—was it, too.

He enjoyed the walk through the cemetery, which reminded him of one of the gorgeous, slightly overgrown gardens that he often saw in Europe. The stones were weathered but well taken care of, and the greenery was lush and wild. It was peaceful, he realized.

One thing he’d never really had in his life was peace. It was the thing that had been lacking among the countless other luxuries he’d once taken for granted.

He caught up with her when she paused, staring with barely concealed excitement at a stone marker. “This is it. This is Author’s Ridge.”

He didn’t entirely understand why she was so excited that she was trembling a bit. He didn’t have to understand to respect it, though, so he stayed silent, his arm brushing companionably against hers as they started to weave their way among the graves.

“Henry David Thoreau.” She pointed to a simple stone that, rather than being marked with the last name, displayed the first in blocky letters. “Wow.”

“What’s with the pencils?” Scattered among the bouquets of flowers and votive candles that showed that something noteworthy lay here were pencils—singles, bundles wrapped with ribbon, even whole boxes, the cardboard warped and faded from the sun and the rain.

“Thoreau and his father ran a big pencil company before he was a writer,” she murmured, capturing the image with her phone, then consulting the map. “And just over here should be...holy crap. It’s Louisa May Alcott.”

“Little Women, right?” He followed Jo over to where she’d stopped at the base of a plain stone set into the ground. Around it were more flowers as well as a handful of apples and paper—so much paper. Dog-eared books, shiny new copies, torn book covers, what looked like art.

“That’s right.” Jo’s voice was hushed, and he understood that this particular grave was why she’d so badly wanted to come here once upon a time. “I don’t even know how many times I’ve read that book. I still have my first paper copy, the one I had as a kid, but it’s so tattered you can’t read it anymore. But I feel like... I almost feel like part of myself is in those pages, because they gave me so much growing up. That sounds stupid.”

“It doesn’t sound stupid at all.” A lightbulb went on in his brain. “Was she what inspired you to start writing?”

“Yeah.” Jo nodded, then looked up at him with a wry smile. “She wrote a classic American novel, beloved by millions. I have to wonder what she’d think about me writing a sex blog.”

He grinned. “If you found so much inspiration in her, then I have to think she was pretty cool. She’d probably say that as long as you were writing what made you happy, it was all good.”

The look Jo cast over her shoulder at him then was almost shy, and he felt something in the vicinity of his heart squeeze, just the littlest bit. Turning, she closed the space between them until she had just enough room to place a hand on his chest, the other behind his neck.

“No matter what else happens with us, thank you for this.” Drawing up on the tips of her toes—he really had forgotten how small she was—she drew him down for a kiss. It was a sweet brush of the lips, almost chaste, but the bolt of emotion he felt as she sighed against his lips nearly set him back on his heels.

He’d thought he’d loved the girl that she once was, but he saw right now, with clarity, that what he’d felt then paled compared to the potential of what he could feel now.

He looked down into her eyes, where she was watching with curiosity and a hint of wariness. He wanted to pull off the scarf she was still wearing, to grip that sleek hair and plunder her mouth with his tongue, but he figured that was probably inappropriate when standing at the grave of her idol.

Still, the moment seemed to call for something—something to pin it in place, bookmarked for the future.

“You know why I had to go.”

“Of course I know.” Angling her chin up, she regarded him with those big eyes. “We fought. You realized that we didn’t fit. That we never would.”

“What?” His fingers squeezed her shoulders as the words hit him like a bat. “You think I left because we fought? Is that seriously what you’ve thought this entire time?”

The sneaky snake that was guilt coiled in his belly and settled in. He’d thought the reason for his leaving was so obvious, he hadn’t left a note. Hadn’t emailed. Hadn’t said a damn word to anyone, not even his dad.

No one had come after him, either. Years later, that still hurt.

“That wasn’t why you left?” Jo pushed lightly on his chest, enough that she could look up at him. “What on earth was your reason, then?”

“I left because you were right.” He slid his hands down until he held her by her upper arms, somehow needing the connection.

“I was right?” Her brow furrowed.

“I was throwing my life away. Drinking and partying and wasting money that wasn’t even mine.” He rubbed his hands up and down her arms, as though to warm her, though he was the one feeling a chill. “I looked at how hard you were working to achieve your goals, you and your sisters. The way I was must have just rubbed it in your face that I was squandering what I had, and what you so badly wanted.”

“That’s part of it,” she admitted, then to his surprise leaned forward and pressed her forehead to his chest, letting out a soft sigh.

“What was the other part?” he asked quietly.

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