Page 120 of Fated

“Do you still love the end of summer?” I ask.

The rumble of conversation shifts and quiets as a waiter carries a white frosted cake from the back, glowing with birthday candles. A couple on the opposite side of the restaurant beams as he sets the cake in front of them.

Max turns back to me. “Yes. Old habits.”

It’s true. Even if he doesn’t want to be, Max is still gripped by the harsh lines of his childhood. Some wounds settle deep inside you, and it takes untold, unknown events to set them free.

“I’ve been thinking about autumn. About sailing on the lake and watching the red and orange leaves reflect in the water. We could drive out to a vineyard or walk the city at night. This winter we could take the train to Lucerne and walk along the lake. The Christmas market will have vin chaud. You’re always greedy for it in the cold.” He smiles at me then, the promise of future happiness in his eyes.

Suddenly I know why my dream has felt like it’s ending. Because a choice has to be made. I can either stay in my dream, living a life that isn’t real. Or I can take what I’ve learned there—that I can love, that I can be loved—and I can accept it in my life.

When I was little and my mum moved us from house to cottage to floor to tent, I cried every time. And she said, exasperated, “Moonbeam, you have to let go of the old to let in the new.”

I didn’t agree. I wanted to cling to the old. To hang on and never let go.

I didn’t want to move, to change, to leave.

And then, eventually, I didn’t want to love.

But now, I suppose, my mum, in this one thing, was right.

I have to say goodbye so that I can say hello.

It isn’t fair to Max to stay in this dream world. It isn’t fair to me. And even if he doesn’t know it, it isn’t fair to Aaron either.

He’s helped me love again, and now I need to let it in.

“How does that sound?” Max asks, an eyebrow raised in question. “You look sad at the prospect of vin chaud at Christmas.”

I shake my head. “I’m not sad,” I say, lying to myself since I’m awake and able to. Then I reach over and take his hand. I grip Max’s fingers. “It sounds wonderful. I’d like to sail with you. I’d like to see the fall colors reflect in the lake. I’d like to walk the city at night. I’d like to spend Christmas with you.”

After dinner, in the August breeze, the indigo light falling around us and the hush of the city quietly settling down for the night, I take Max’s hands and press a quick, whisper-soft kiss to his lips.

“Thank you,” I say.

“For what?” He looks down at me, a bemused smile on his face.

“For letting me love you all these years.”

He pulls me to him, the wool of his suit scratching my cheek. I breathe in his leather scent and take in his rangy strength.

“We’re quite a pair,” he says.

And then we stand there. Me in his arms, the sky tinting from indigo to deep plum, swallows swooping down between spires and rooflines, their wings fluttering in the night.

As the first star lights overhead, as a church bell tolls the hour, I say hello to Max, and I say goodbye to my dreams.

Goodbye to McCormick.

42

I holdthe weight of the gold pocket watch in my hand with the knowledge this will be the last time I feel its ticking against my palm.

The moon is high, its light bleeding through the window and slashing across my bed. I settle under my duvet. The thick stone walls of the chateau are already absorbing the late-August chill. Lavender rises around me as I sink into my pillow and close my eyes.

My chest aches, a heavy weight settling there. I’m about to say goodbye.

Outside, the wind gusts and the long branch of our old chestnut tree knocks against the walls with a loud, cracking thud?—

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