Page 59 of A Me and You Thing
There, standing on my doorstep, looking delicate and fragile, her expression scared, yet hopeful, is the love of my life.
Quinn.
My wife.
My beautiful Quinn.
Quinn.
Quinn.
Quinn.
I’m not sure if she’s real or a figment of my imagination. I only know that I see her, I want her, and I’ll do anything within my power to make her stay.
Forever.
Her eyes glisten with tears. “Sawyer,” she whispers. “I’m home.”
Chapter Nineteen
Quinn
OUR EYES MEET and lock. I’m breathing hard from running, as though I ran all the way here from Nicaragua. My face is wet with tears I can’t contain and I’m barefoot. I must look a sight, perhaps a bit like a beggar. I feel like one. I’m showing up on his doorstep, begging for his love.
“Quinn?” he manages, his face as white as his t-shirt, his expression blank with disbelief.
I nod, unable to speak.
He still hasn’t moved. “Quinn?” he says again, this time through trembling lips.
“It’s me.”
Somehow, he’s able to move. His hands reach up and hold his head, like he’s wondering if he’s gone crazy and he’s seeing things.
“I’m real,” I tell him.
“I... this can’t... how did...”
He gives up trying to form a sentence and takes a step forward. And then another one until we’re face to face. His breathing is unsteady as his chest noticeably heaves up and down.
“How?” he says as one hand shakily reaches for my face. His other hand follows the same path until my face is framed by his hands. Then like a blind man memorizing a person’s features, his fingers wander over my face, then down to my shoulders, and over my arms as if he’s checking that I’m real. He clasps our hands and entwines our fingers together. He rests his forehead on mine. We stand there like that for a few minutes while he tries to regain his composure.
I soak in his presence, content to be close to him, content to be in his sphere of existence.
“You’re alive,” he whispers. It’s not a question. He says it a couple more times. “You’re alive. You’re alive.”
Then he comes to life as the initial shock wears off. He wraps me in his arms in the tightest hug I’ve ever felt in my entire life, so tight I can barely breathe, so tight I think my skinny body might break in half. But his strength and his love feels so, so good. I’ve yearned for him—even when I didn’t remember him—I don’t know how he didn’t physically feel my longing.
There’s no doubt I feel the angst in his embrace. I feel his sorrow and anguish. His shock. His astonishment. And so, so much love. Love as intense as I’ve ever felt it.
His shoulders shake, and I know he’s crying. Like most men, Sawyer is not a man who cries. I mean, he was emotional at our wedding and the birth of our babies. I think that’s the only time I ever saw him become so emotive that tears were involved.
His lips shower my neck with kisses. He moves to my cheek, then, at last, he takes my lips in a tender kiss. We’re both out of breath, pressing our mouths together, and then breathing each other in, then going back for more. We cry a little and laugh a little in between each kiss. It’s an I-can’t-believe-this-is-happening moment. Neither one of us knows what to do or how to act. Do we cry or laugh?
We do a little of both while we hold each other tightly, filled with a strange sort of dazed elation. I run my fingers over his face, wiping away his tears.
Then he takes me with another bone-crushing hug, and I simply absorb his love. He’s clearly in shock. I know I need to wait for the news to process.
