“If we’re what?”
His teeth scrape over his bottom lip.
“Oh my god!” Understanding clatters through me. “Miles, no. You don’t think that Peter and I are . . . Absolutely not.” I actually laugh. And then a horrible thought causes me a full-body twitch. “Wait—you and Petra aren’t—”
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “When I got over there, she was trying to tell me how the whole thing was a mistake. So I told her about you.”
“That we slept together?” I say, bewildered.
He gives a surprised laugh. “No, Daphne. That I love you.”
Hearing it again feels like swallowing a lit lightbulb. “Oh.”
“I didn’t mean to tell her first.” The tops of his cheeks redden. “That I’m in love with you.”
My eyes sting. My limbs go shivery and a heaviness presses in on my chest.
He loves me. Present tense.
And I love him. He knows me, and I see him.
“And when I told Petra . . .” He swallows. “I guess—she kind of got into my head. I mean, I was already in my head, but she said things that fucked with me.”
“What do you mean?” I say.
His expression verges on pained.
“You can tell me,” I promise.
“It’s just,” he says, “Peter told her about your dad. And Petra started saying this stuff, about how you’d been through too much. That you weren’t the kind of person who could deal with uncertainty. She and I are, but not you and Peter.”
“And what, she’s the expert on what I can and can’t deal with?” I ask.
He smiles faintly. His hands circle my wrists, his thumbs running up and down my veins as his face softens. “They broke up because Petra decided she didn’t want kids, and Peter did.”
“Oh,” I say.
His gaze drops, his touch stilling. “And she reminded me that’s something that matters to you too. And I already knew that. It wasn’t a surprise. But . . .” He chews on his bottom lip, his gaze so warm and fluid I feel like I could swan-dive into it, like it would rush up to meet me on every side.
“She pointed out that I’m not exactly equipped for that,” he murmurs, “and all I could think about was her family, and what they thought of me. They were nice, but they never thought I was good enough. And then there’s my family shit, and everything your dad’s put you through. And I just thought . . .” His Adam’s apple bobs. “Suddenly it seemed selfish of me. To love you.”
At the tenderness in his face and touch, the need in his expression, my heart cracks.
“To try to be with you, when I know what you want,” he says under his breath. “I can’t give you a family like the Collinses or the Comers. I feel like . . . like there’s so much space between who I am and who I want to be, and there’s no one to show me how to get there. And it doesn’t really make sense, but I thought . . . maybe if I could get through to your dad, if I could help fix that, then it would prove I’m capable. Of giving you everything you want.”
“Miles,” I begin.
“That’s why I freaked out,” he continues. “And as soon as I saw you again, I felt so stupid. Because I’d spent the last two days acting like you were Petra.
“Because deep down, she always thought she was settling, and so I did too. I always felt like I was making up for something, or trying to win her. And I thought that made me lucky, to be with someone who chose me even though no one in her life ‘got it.’ ”
His voice thickens: “I didn’t learn what love was supposed to feel like. It doesn’t feel natural, or come easily to me, to let anyone close. But you—you make love so easy, Daphne. You make me think I already deserve it, exactly how I am.
“And I feel lucky every time you look at me. Not because I think I’ve managed to earn you, but because it feels like you don’t need me to. Like you just . . . like me.” He shakes his head, voice fraying as he corrects himself: “Like you love me. That’s how I feel with you.
“And I know I’m not who you pictured yourself with, but I think I could be, eventually. If you’ll let me. So don’t go. Because I don’t want you to. Because you’re my best friend, and I’m in love with you.”
“Miles,” I say again.
“I know we’re really different,” he says, “but I love all the things about you that aren’t like me. I love that you feel your feelings. I love that you know what you want. I love that you’re always where you say you’ll be, when you say you’ll be there.”
“Miles.” His brows pinch together, a mix of hope and fear on his face that I feel deep in my own gut. “Can I show you something?”
His features flatten. After a second, he nods.
I take his hand, his pulse thundering into my palm, as I lead him down the sidewalk. We turn right at the cross street and stop, at the house on the corner, facing the broken gate and crooked For Sale sign.
His eyes dart to the front door, then back to me.
“You’re right,” I say.
He blinks.
“When I moved here,” I say, “I had a picture in my head. I knew exactly what my house was going to look like, and who I’d spend the holidays with, and I knew who we’d go out with on the weekends, and I had an idea of how many kids I’d have and even what their names would be. I could basically picture every single day of the rest of my life.
“I’m not spontaneous,” I say. “Surprises make me nervous, and I’ve moved around too much to want to, like, live in a van, or backpack for months.”
“I don’t need that,” Miles rasps. “I don’t think I even want that anymore, if I ever did.”
