Page 83 of Blindly Yours

He gulps and looks down again. “When Kara was born, it was amazing how fast she took to motherhood. It was definitely a role she was meant for.” He clears his throat. “And I’m glad Kara has some memories of her.”

“And Kara was…four?”

“Yeah,” Nate replies. “Just barely old enough to remember. But someday she probably won’t.”

I look at the photo again. “She’ll have the pictures.”

Nate nods and takes my hand. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know about Amber, but at the same time, if you don’t want to know, I understand that too.”

It’s the first time he’s said her name, and I mentally roll it around on my tongue. Amber. The name of the woman he loved so much he married and then had a child with. My heart hurts.

“I truly have moved on,” he continues, rubbing his thumb over mine. “I wouldn’t be sitting here with you if I hadn’t.”

I lift my eyes to his, which are still calculating, cautious. “I know.” I take a breath. “And I think…I think I may want to know more about her…eventually. But right now, I’m just glad to know Kara’s mother was such a good person, and that she is holding onto those memories. I can’t imagine losing my mother at such a young age.”

Nate frowns. “Yeah, these last few years have robbed her of a lot.”

I squeeze his hand. “You’re doing amazing. She’s so smart and so kind. She’s lucky to have you.”

He nods. “I hope one day she can look back and think that too.”

I stand, still holding his hand. “I think she already does.”

His warm fingers close tightly around mine as he lets me pull him up from the bed, and his eyes dart between mine for a moment before he smiles. “Are you hungry?”

We make pizza for dinner—like, we reallymakeit. Nate says he made the dough this morning, and he has all the toppings ready to go. Even pineapple. This guy doesn’t forget a thing.

He tops his half with only pepperoni, and I put pineapple and ham on mine. He tries a bite and admits the pineapple isn’t half-bad.

We eat on the sofa, watching a newly-released comedy, but it doesn’t hold our attention. Not when conversation flows so freely between us.

I set my plate on the side table and turn to him when I’m finished, pulling my feet up onto the sofa and crossing them in front of me. “When’s your birthday?”

He chuckles and leans back, resting his arms across the top of the cushions. “July 12th, why?”

I shrug. “I have this theory about birthdays. The time of year someone’s born says a lot about them.”

“Oh no, are you one of those horoscope people?” he groans.

“No, no,” I reassure him. “It’s not like that.”

“Thank goodness.” He shifts so he’s facing me and raises an amused brow. “Ok, so what does July 12thsay about me?”

“Well…people with summer birthdays tend to be more laid back. You were born during a time of year when everyone’s a little more relaxed.” I mirror his pose and rest my arm on the back of the sofa too. “But a July birthday means you were probably one of the youngest in your class, so you’re always ready to work a little harder than everyone else to meet your goals. You’re motivated. You don’t settle.”

“And does the description fit me, do you think?” he asks with a twinkle in his eye.

“So far, yeah, I’d say my theory holds.” I look toward our hands on the top of the sofa. He shifts his incrementally toward mine.

“And when’s your birthday?” he asks as the forgotten movie playing on his TV reaches what is probably a hysterical climax.

“November 3rd,” I reply.

He scratches his beard with his free hand. “So, let’s see. A fall birthday. Not too deep into the holiday season yet, so as a kid you probably didn’t feel like your day was overshadowed. That means you’re confident. You know your worth. And you were one of the oldest in your class. Maybe that makes you a leader. People can count on you.” He studies me closely. “But I think maybe you have a fear of letting people down.”

His blue eyes—the color of a cool lake, yet as warm as the sun that shines upon it—are impossible to look away from, even as he peels back my layers, encouraging me to reveal the deepest parts. Not only to him, but to myself.

“You’re allowed to choose your own path, you know,” he says when I don’t reply. “Choose what makes you happy. Don’t worry what anyone else says.”

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