“That’s my point,” I say.
He shakes his head once, brow knitted tight.
“I knew exactly what to expect for the rest of my life,” I explain, “and it was comforting to me. But then it blew up, and all I could think about was running, getting away from the mess. Then one day, after we started getting close, I was walking to work, and I saw this house.”
My voice goes husky. “It was the first time in a year that I wanted something new. When you told me how you felt”—I swallow that same glowing lightbulb down—“that you loved me, that’s why I panicked.”
He looks toward the run-down bungalow. “Because I don’t fit.”
My throat burns, like there’s too much pressure building in my chest, steam that needs to be let out.
“Because I could see it,” I say. “Right away. I could see a whole new life, all these new things to want, and that’s fucking terrifying, Miles.”
His hands fly up to cradle my jaw. “I won’t hurt you, Daphne.”
“You don’t know that,” I whisper.
“I know how hard I’ll try,” he says. “Just stay. I love you. I want you. Stay.”
My hands climb up to the back of his neck, another uncontrollable baring of my heart.
He swallows hard. “Come home. Please.”
“I can’t.” I shake my head. Before he can argue, I go on: “No matter what you said today, I’d already made up my mind.”
He draws back, a shadow passing over his face.
I wasn’t intentionally obfuscating the point, but seeing his shattered look, I realize I’ve phrased this the worst way possible.
“No!” I say. “I mean, regardless of what happens between us, I’m not done here.”
His head just barely cocks, a wave of love pummeling me at the familiar gesture.
“I’m getting my own place,” I explain.
After a flicker of confusion, he looks sidelong toward the For Sale sign.
“Not that. I can’t afford that. I found a one-bedroom. Close to Fika.”
“I really don’t understand, Daphne.”
“You mean so much to me, Miles,” I say. “So much. But you can’t be everything. You were right that I’d love it here. I do. And you’re a huge part of why I want to build a life here. But I can’t build it around you. If this ends, I need to know that I don’t just disappear. I need to have my own stuff that’s not about anyone else. Whether it works out between us or not, I need that.”
“I want it to work,” he insists. “It can.”
“I think so too,” I promise. “I can’t imagine ever meeting anyone more wonderful than you, so if it doesn’t work, I’m going to stay single, go to a sperm bank, and get into CrossFit.”
A goofy smile overtakes his face. “You really think so?”
“Not the CrossFit part. I’m incredibly lazy,” I say. “But the rest of it. You’re wonderful. You’re the reason for the word wonderful. It really shouldn’t be used for anything else. You make me want to see the best in everyone. You’re the person I want to be with when everything’s going wrong, instead of just wanting to skip over those times entirely. I love that you’re so present that you always forget to keep track of your phone, and I love that when you’re late, you never make excuses but you always have a good reason.
“You’re the most generous person I’ve ever met, even to people who’ve given you no reason to be generous, and you always come through for the people you care about. I honestly can’t totally figure out why someone as good as you would love me, when I can be kind of a pessimistic asshole. But I do feel like the luckiest person in the world, to be who you want. Because I want you too. I love you too. I love you in a way that feels brand-new. You make every single thing that went wrong feel like it was just a step in the right direction, and it—it makes me excited. For life to keep surprising me.
“You aren’t what I pictured,” I say. “You are so, so, so much better than what my cynical little brain could’ve ever come up with.” My voice wavers and cracks at the end, and even if I knew what to say next, I don’t think I’d be able to get it out.
Miles studies me, his eyes soft now as I try to pull myself together. He tugs my hands up to his chest, holding them over his heart.
“That’s it?” he asks quietly. “That’s the speech?”
“It was longer than that, but I’ve slept like four hours in the last three days, so that’s what’s left in my brain,” I say scratchily. “You’re so nice and so hot and so fun and funny, and you smell really good, and the brownies you made for last night were amazing.”
“And you love me,” he says softly.
“So much,” I agree, “I feel like, why would anyone who can’t date you even bother dating? And somehow, you like me.”
“Love,” he corrects. “Somehow, you love me.”
“I do,” I tell him.
I do. I am. Right now. Every muscle in my body is busy loving him, on the sidewalk in front of my new dream house, the first rays of a new morning filtering across the street.
One of his hands pulls free from the tangle of our fingers and slides into my hair.
“Can we go home now?” he asks.
“Actually,” I say, “my apartment isn’t ready until next week.”
“In that case,” he says, “do you want to come back to my place?”
