Page 11 of When Love And Destiny Collide

"It was a hobby for a long time before it became something worth mentioning," I assure them. "And when I quit my job, not even I was convinced that my crazy endeavor would succeed. I guess I didn't want you to know just in case I failed. Especially because I had invested everything into something that wasn't a sure thing."

"I can't wait to tell the girls!" Sharon's excitement puts me at ease about not telling them sooner.

When we get ready to leave, we all walk out together. Jon's arm is around Sharon, just like it's been for the last thirty-three years.

I walk Lily to her car. Before she climbs in, she glances up, meeting my gaze.

"Watch out for ducks," she teases.

"And other wildlife," I add.

"Try not to rear-end me."

"Try not to brake suddenly."

"I'll always brake for ducks."

"Then I should give you a five-minute head start."

"Daddy, can we watchToy Storywhen we get home?" my son asks.

"Yes, Buddy, we can," I reply, still looking at Lily. "Thank you for the mural. It's perfect."

"You're welcome," she says. "Good night, Noah."

"Good night," I smile and watch her drive away.

When I turn around, Jon is still standing by the door, his expression unreadable, but I don't have to wait long to hear his thoughts.

"Noah, Lily is family," he says, his voice steady but carrying a weight of unspoken meaning.

"Yeah," I respond, my tone firm. "You've mentioned that. No need to remind me."

***

After kissing my son goodnight, I head to the office to write. My thoughts drift back to what Lily mentioned during dinner—she's read my books. I wrote those stories as an adult, and she read them as a child. There's an eighteen-year difference that feels like a deep chasm, a gap as wide as a lifetime, enough for someone to grow up and vote. I've created something in my mind that reality can't match.

A knock on the door makes my heart skip a beat—I know it's her. I glance at my watch. It's nine o'clock.

"Hi," I say, opening the door. She's holding one of my books.

"Would you be willing to autograph your book for me?" she asks, her voice full of hope.

"Are you serious?" I ask, a mix of surprise and curiosity in my tone.

She nods and hands me the book.

"This is the first book I ever wrote," I say, tracing the cover with my fingers.

"I know. I read it when I was twelve."

My heart plunges into that eighteen-year chasm between us.

Instead of signing the book and sending her on her way, I invite her in.

"I just made a pot of coffee," I say. "Would you care to join me?"

I open the door wider, and she steps inside. The fresh, captivating scent of her perfume makes me inhale deeply—I never want to forget it. White lilies.

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