Page 82 of A Fighting Chance

She turns the ignition over and buckles her seatbelt. “You ready?” she asks.

Her question gives me pause for just a moment. Because no, I’m not ready.

“Yes,” I say, buckling my own seatbelt.

As she turns the car around and starts down the driveway, I pull the note from my pocket and inhale sharply.

“What’s that?” she asks.

“A note from Gentry I haven’t read,” I say plainly. I press my fingertips to the ink on the paper once again and know it’s now or never. I read it now or I might as well throw the damn thing out the window as we’re driving down the road. I open it slowly, and I can see Harper glancing between me and the gravel drive in front of her. My eyes well up.

The truth is, I never thought you’d stay.

I never wanted to ask.

If you’re reading this,

I’m equal parts surprised and elated.

Because whether it makes sense or not,

I love you.

I think I loved you the moment I met you.

And I’m not afraid to tell you that.

I guess what I’m trying to say is,

Thanks for giving us a fighting chance.

“Stop the car,” I say. Wiping tears from my eyes, I look up to see we’re about to pull onto the road.

Harper hits the brakes and we both jerk forward. “What’s wrong?” she asks.

I’m already unbuckling my seatbelt. “Everything and nothing,” I say as I reach for the car door. “I have to go.”

“Lyla wait—”

But I don’t hear her.

I tuck the note back into my pocket and I run. I run as fast as I can, as hard as I can. I run up the driveway, and the house is in sight. I can’t stop—won’t stop. The air in my lungs burns, but my legs have done this before and I know they can do it again. When I pass the porch, Nan calls out to me, but I don’t answer. I just wave. It’s just a little farther now.

I can’t see the cabin yet, but my body propels forward, sure of my destination. I know he’s there. It’s like I can feel him, just beyond the trees. I want to call out, get to him faster somehow. I round the edge of the tree line and I see his truck sitting in front of the cabin porch.

Gentry.

I run again, up the stairs and in the front door without knocking, without hesitating. “Gentry?!” I call out into the empty room, gasping for air. I lean over, putting my hands on my knees. My legs wobble but I can’t care right now.

I hear the boards on the stairs creak and then he’s there—standing at the bottom of them. His eyes are red and glossy, and it hurts me.

“Lyla?” He looks me up and down, taking in my appearance and ragged breaths. “Are you okay?”

“No,” I say. “I’m not okay.”

“What’s wrong?” he asks, his face twisting with concern.

I inhale a few more deep breaths and stand upright, finally able to compose myself somewhat. “I want to hear you say it,” I say, and his eyes search mine. “If it’s true, I want to hear you say it.”

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