Page 103 of We Redeemed the Rain

I walked back toward the door, past the large mirror, which I noticed had a few wallet-sized pictures in the bottom left hand corner. I leaned forward to look.

What I saw nearly took me to the floor.

A small arrangement of six pictures were taped there. All of them selfies.

A young man with Tag—surely Cooper. They had the same eyes. A young woman with long blonde hair hugging Tag—maybe Randi? A picture of Tag with a gigantic grin as he cuddled a swaddled baby. Another of Tag and Tillie. Then Tag leaning over a hospital bed with an elderly woman on it—obviously Gran. Finally, another of him with a man I didn’t recognize. Tag was a child in that picture.

Atinyscrap of paper with Tag’s handwriting was carefully hung over the pictures.

“Souls that make up mine.”

But the thing that caused tears to stream down my face wasn’t the pictures or Tag’s beautiful words.

It was the pick.

The yellow Fender guitar pick.

Mine.

Tucked into the corner of the mirror frame, peeking out amid the pictures of his loved ones.

It was the one I’d lost when I climbed into the hayloft that night.

American Pie, Sprinkles, the pick, the hug we shared, the things he said. Pieces of our conversations and his letters snapped into place like puzzle pieces. Maybe I could chock up some of the other things as happenstance or coincidences—like the dots on Sprinkles’ back—but the pick wasyearsof evidence that I meant something to Tag. He said as much in the barnyard two days ago, but the proof before my eyes hit me harder than any words could.

“We jumped straight from friends to a hell of a lot more than friends, Bea.”

My heart spiraled. There was an obvious conclusion here, but I didn’t know how to face it. Once I let myself believe something so wonderful, would I ever be the same?

I wouldn’t. I knew I wouldn’t.

Because hadn’t a part of my soul wanted it—hoped for it—all along?

Did…did Tag…loveme?

It was too wonderful to even comprehend. I’d never consciously compared my dates to Scribbs, but more than a few times I’d wished I could find the deep connection I had with Scribbs with someone in my real life.

What if we…

A glass of ice water poured over my enthusiasm. My brain had been oh-so-convenientlytryingto forget what Tag had said. He didn’t want a relationship. He didn’t want a family.He claimed he would never be more for anyone.

If I wasn’t in Tag’s room, I would melt in despair.

Suddenly, the shower clicked off. Adrenaline raced through my veins and I leapt out to the hallway like a gazelle. I padded toward my room as quiet as I could amid the racing of my heart and my shaking limbs.

I flopped onto my bed, in a state of shock, and stared at the ceiling fan for a long time.

But I didn’t see the pull strings swaying side to side or see the blades zipping into a blur overhead.

I saw the tender shrine Tag made for the souls he loved.

I saw a man with a heart so damn big he didn’t know what to do with it.

If a picture said a thousand words, stitched together they wrote an entire story. In that moment, Tag’s story was as visible and tangible to me as my own skin. And the truth was there on full display—he didn’twantto be alone.

I’d always understood his hurt was deep. Flashes of known history raced through my mind. Everything he’d told me about himself, Cooper, his childhood, his mother, and the scarring neglect. And I wondered about his rain story.

“I’ll never be more for anyone.”

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