Page 53 of Wildest Dreams

His face lights up. “Apart from being in scenes together, she hasn’t talked to me.”

“What? That’s great!”

“Yeah, I guess after the Bertha incident, she thinks I’m nuts.”

“Like Patsy says, God bless Bertha!”

“Amen to that.”

Patsy is waiting for us outside when we get to the house. Micah is with her, looking gorgeous as always. She’s about a foot taller than me, all curves, with bright orange hair that lights up her pink-pale complexion and green eyes. She always looks like a Botticelli angel.

Pierre introduces himself to Micah, grabs the bags from the grocery store out of his rental SUV, and we follow Patsy and Micah to the front door. It feels like we’re the couple on a house-hunting show.

Patsy opens the door and I’m immediately hit with the smell of cinnamon apples. Patsy and Micah have spared no details, down to the air fresheners.

When I walk in, I’m swept away. It looks like an entirely different house.

There’s an antique buffet table in the foyer with fresh pink roses and the plush leather furniture in the living room is covered in bright, happy accent pillows. Gone are the boring hanging blinds and in their place are blue and white watercolor paisley curtains. My photos are still on the wall, but the nails that once held wedding and vacation pictures with Tucker now display images of me and Pierre.

My mouth is on the floor. Pierre rubs my back and flashes that movie star smile as we continue to walk through the house.

The bedroom is charming beyond anything I’d imagined. Instead of the black Shaker-style bed and gray comforter Tucker had picked out when we moved in, there’s a distressed cream four-poster bed with a sage floral blanket. The nightstands and dresser match, and there’s a fluffy cream rug on the dark hardwood floors. It’s delicate and feminine—the opposite of Tucker’s style. This room, this house, is me. There are even pictures of me and Patsy on the dresser, and above the bed are the two moonlit photos of me and Pierre by the window in my apartment.

Even though he’s leaving, he made sure he’ll still have a presence in my bedroom. The thought makes me chuckle.

I grab all of them and we hug.

“Thank you. All three of you. I love it.”

“Will you actually stay here now?” asks Pierre.

I nod.

Patsy claps and jumps up and down like a little kid. “You’re moving back in?”

“Maybe. I’ll commit to staying for a while and then decide. But the odds are good.”

Patsy grabs me so tight I can’t breathe. I pat her on the back, then struggle out of her arms.

“The extra bedrooms still have the cheap stuff you put in for renters,” Micah says, “but we can redecorate those once you decide what to do with the space.”

“I love y’all.” I hug them again, then realize I basically told Pierre I love him in a roundabout way.

“Aw, sweetie, we love you too,” says Patsy, but Pierre sighs.

It’s probably for the best. “I love you” only complicates matters.

* * *

That night I stay in the house with Pierre. He cooks for me, properly this time since he has space to work. He makes manicotti with parmesan garlic bread and tiramisu for dessert. Afterwards, we drink a bottle of wine on the back deck, listening to the cacophony of whippoorwills, toads, and crickets in the distance.

At one point, I look over at Pierre, whose eyes are watery. He wipes them and I ask what’s wrong.

“Nothing at all,” he says. “I’ve just never felt this happy and at peace. I love it here. I love?—”

He stops himself, and I don’t ask him to continue. I know how he feels, and he knows how I feel. Saying the words will only make things harder.

I grab his hand and squeeze it. “Come on,” I say. “Let’s go to bed.”

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