Page 105 of The Best Wild Idea
I snuggle into him, wishing this moment would never have to end. We chose a spot on the river where the Notre DameCathedral is peeking out across from us. It’s nearly done being rebuilt from the fire that destroyed some of its architecture a few years ago.
“I feel a little bit like that church,” I tell him, nodding toward it.
“A fucking work of art?” he asks, and I can hear the smile in his voice. It makes me grin.
“No. Healing. A little scarred, but lucky to be here,” I tell him, pausing to watch another boat drift by.
“You forgot to add utterly breathtaking,” he says, kissing the crown of my head.
I smile and rib him with my elbow, careful not to hit the other side of his body. His other arm is still carefully tucked into a sling. He has a few specialist appointments lined up for when we get back to Boston, all of them promising he’ll be good as new after a few months.
“I love you,” he whispers. “And I have never loved anything more.”
I smile. He always adds that second part, but this time the words open something deep inside me because Ihaveloved before, which possibly makes loving someone again even sweeter.
Not because I love Silasmore.
But because I love him differently.
This time I know how fleeting a love can be. How quickly it can disappear when you least expect it, and how the swift loss of that love can change you.
Fiercely. Unrecognizably. Irrevocably.
Because no matter how long ago those footprints were left, they leave a mark. Shifting our shape, the very essence of who we are, until we are never, ever the same again. And maybe it’s because we aren’t supposed to be.
I know that this time, loving this man, I won’t take a single moment of it for granted.
I have Grant to thank for that. That piece of his legacy was the best gift of all: a reminder to live our days to the fullest extent that we can. Without regrets, and without second-guessing what a life could and should look like based on the past.
Silas slowly picks up the bottle and holds it out in front of him, not taking a sip quite yet.
He winks at me.
“So, where do you see yourself in five years, Jules?” he asks.
I inhale sharply, but the memory of the three of us playing this game rolls through me, bringing only good feelings this time.
I smile back at him.
“Happy,” I tell him. “And with you.”
He kisses me, still holding the bottle out between us.
“I couldn’t have said it any better myself,” he agrees before adding, “Until then.”
Epilogue
Jules
Five years later
Nonna Lisi pushes Emmy’s tiny hands into the puff of dough that’s nearly as big as she is. The two of them scrunch their faces at each other, just a few inches apart, then burst into laughter at the very same time. Emmy turns to me and holds her hands up, completely covered in a sticky mess of flour and egg. Her eyes glow up at Nonna Lisi when I snap a photo of them. The view of the sea glitters out the open window behind her.
They continue working the dough together, Nonna Lisi tutting over the way Emmy’s alreadyquite the naturalwhen I realize that Emmy’s melodic giggle has become my very favorite sound in the whole world, tied only with her twin brother’s giggle, too.Andtheir dad’s.
I turn to watch Si, who’s on the other side of the worn, wooden counter, doing the same thing with our sweet little boy, Emmy’s twin, Grant. The two have flour almost exclusively covering their chests with an additional swipe of dough on Si’s cheek from Grant’s chubby finger. Si must feel me watching because he turns to look at me and mouths, “I love you” as our eyes meet across the sunbathed kitchen.
I jump when Nonna Lisi’s voice echoes across the little stone kitchen, startling me out of the moment.
