Page 143 of How to Walk Away

A lone man in a tuxedo was sprinting down the steps toward us.

A man who at first looked weirdly like Ian.

A man who in fact kept on looking like Ian, even as he got closer.

And then turned out to actually be Ian.

My Ian, of all people. Not in Edinburgh. Here. In Bruges. Running to catch the boat to Chip’s reception, in a shawl-collared tux.

Ian. Here, apparently, to crash the reception, too.

I saw him, but he didn’t see me. Too busy running and looking deadly handsome.

I would have told you my reaction to seeing Chip and Tara was visceral—but I did not know the meaning of that word until I watched Ian sprinting down those steps.

My lungs stopped working.

If I could have turned my eyes away, I would have looked for a place to hide.

But I couldn’t turn my eyes away. I took in Ian’s new haircut—a little shorter, a little spikier—and the fit of his tux, noting how European men seemed to wear their pants a smidge tighter than Americans, like they’d shrunk them in the wash.

In a really good way.

Then Ian was vaulting over the wooden turnstile, and then he was on the dock, running—no: sprinting, charging,pumping—along it, after us.

The boat had already edged away. It was three feet from the dock by now, but Ian didn’t even falter.

He just leapt right off the corner of the dock and landed in a crouch on the one open spot of deck—about three inches from my knees.

It was a cool, badass, James Bond move like I’d never seen in real life.

Ian stood up then and faced the crowd. “This is the boat to the reception, I hope,” he said to them all.

Thevoice. That accent—again, after all this time. I felt my insides melting like warm butter.

The driver shouted something angry at Ian in Flemish—I assume something likeNot cool, man! You’re going to get yourself killed!—just as the guests all broke into cheers. Ian brushed off his suit, apologized to the driver, and waved an aw-shucks thank-you at the cheering guests before looking around to notice there were no seats left.

That’s when the boat driver pointed straight at him, like,Sit down, pal!Then pointed straight at the seat next to me.

Ian turned toward the seat, and that’s when he saw me.

Our eyes locked.

If there was a moment for me to die of intensity, this was it. But I couldn’t even do that. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. And from the looks of things, Ian wasn’t doing any of those things, either.

“Please take your seat, sir,” the boat driver said, in English, at last.

But Ian did not take his seat. Instead, he dropped to his knees on the deck. In front of me. Kneeling at my feet.

“You’re here,” he said, a bit breathless.

All I could think of was nonsense. “I’m not here.You’rehere.”

Every single person on the boat was watching us now, but as the driver revved the engine to pick up speed, the white noise of it gave us a little sound barrier.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he said.

Can you be late to a party you weren’t invited to? “You’re not late,” I said.

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