Page 42 of The Hang Up
We don’t need fireworks.
We don’t need a big finale.
Just this.
The quiet after.
The promise kept.
The forever we fought for.
And when I carry her to our room, her head resting on my shoulder, her fingers playing with the collar of my shirt, I know, deep in my bones, that I will spend the rest of my life making her as happy as she makes me.
Sometimes, love is written in stone.
Ours was carved in wood.
And it was always meant to last.
EIGHTEEN
Lena
Five Years Later…
A breeze flows off the lake tonight, soft and sweet and warm enough to keep the windows open. The scent of summer clings to the air, grilled peaches from the stand by the highway, honeysuckle curling around the back porch, a hint of sawdust from Holden’s workshop out back.
And something else.
Home.
Real, full-hearted, happily ever after home.
I rest my hands on the edge of the kitchen counter, the marble cool against my palms, and watch them. My husband, barefoot in flannel pajama pants and a black T-shirt, twirling our four-year-old daughter around the kitchen in slow, looping circles.
She squeals with laughter, her wild brown curls bouncing, her tiny hands gripping Holden’s strong ones like she never wants to let go.
“Again!” she yells, head thrown back, cheeks flushed with joy.
Holden grins, his eyes catching mine over the top of her head.
“Daddy needs a break, baby bear,” he says, breathing a little heavier, but still smiling. “You’re getting big.”
“I’m four!” she announces proudly, puffing her chest out. “That’s not big!”
Holden chuckles and sets her down gently, brushing her curls off her forehead before dropping a kiss there.
“You’re perfect,” he says softly.
My heart squeezes so tightly in my chest that I have to press a hand over it because this is everything. This kitchen, with its soft white cabinets and sunflower yellow tile backsplash we picked out together. The squeaky floorboard in front of the fridge that Holden keeps promising to fix. Hazel’s artwork pinned to the fridge door, some with glitter still clinging to the edges. The sound of laughter. The love in this place is so tangible that it settles into every surface.
This life is ours, and it was worth every single second it took to get here.
Hazel races toward me, arms outstretched, her pink unicorn socks slipping on the hardwood as she slides into my legs. “Mama! Daddy’s tired.”
“Poor Daddy,” I say, scooping her up and resting her against my growing bump. “We’ll have to give him a cookie later.”
Hazel gasps. “A big one?”
