Rain whips against the window inches from my face. It calls to me, my eyes fixed on the raging sky, my body gravitating toward the steel clouds that dissolve into the black landscape.
A jolting flash flickers and dies, and in that explosion of light, I see him beneath the window.
My heart stops, and I fall against the glass, pressing closer and begging my eyes to adjust to the darkness.
He can’t be real. I’m losing my mind.
Another flare of light burns the sky, winking in and out through a series of jagged bolts. In the span of that illumination, he stares up at me in the rain, finding and holding my gaze.
My breaths rush out, heaving my chest.
He’s here.
He’s really fucking here.
His eyes widen, blinking against the downpour. He looks surprised, like he didn’t expect me to be here, either.
Rain sluices off the brim of his hat and crashes against the solid silhouette of his wide stance. He doesn’t move, doesn’t look away.
He waits.
I slip away from the window and press my back against the wall, fighting to catch my breath.
He still loves me.
In the bed across the room, Raina doesn’t stir, deep in sleep, escaping the torment of her pain.
No more waiting.
I run to the door on silent feet, down the stairs, and smash into the falling sheets of rain.
His shoulders jerk back when he sees me, his hands slipping into his front pockets, his entire body soaked and dripping.
I pause a foot away, my voice stuck in my throat, my gaze glued to his.
“Where did you go?” Muscles twitch along his jaw, his eyes flinty. “I thought you left, and I fucking lost it.”
My mind spins, and I shake my head in confusion. “How did you—?”
“I live at the motel.” He stabs a finger toward the center of town. “Your car’s been gone since yesterday.”
“What?” I swallow. Blink. Swallow again. “You live here? For how long?”
“Six months.” He squints at me, challenging me to go off on him. “I drive home a couple of times a week to catch up on work. Otherwise, I’m here.”
I clutch my neck, trembling, drenched, but somehow still standing as eighteen months of pain release from my body.
He never left. Never walked away.
He never abandoned me.
“I bought a truck you wouldn’t recognize, so I could follow you. Watch you. I couldn’t…” His hands lift to his face, and his shoulders roll forward, his huge frame shuddering beneath the deluge of rain. “I can’t let you go.”
“Jarret…” I cup a hand over my mouth, muffling a cry.
“Living without you is a form of death. A death I refuse to accept.” He lowers his arms. Then he drops to his knees, head bowed, buckled at my feet. “You can’t hide your pain from me. Your isolation, the bruises under your eyes, the permanent sadness on your lips…” His gaze lifts, stark against the strobe of lightning. “I see you. I see your misery, heartbreak, longing. It’s lived in your eyes since you left, trapped in turmoil. But I see love, too. It’s still there, Maybe, and I swear to God, if you would just accept it, if you would give me a chance, I’ll set you free. Let me take part in your pain, walk with you, sit with you, watch over you, something, anything… Just…let me join you in the hurt.” His throat bobs. “Come home.”
The downpour ebbs into a gentle drizzle, beading droplets on the hard planes of his upturned face. I stand over him, drowning in rain, affection, love, and acceptance.
I reach toward his jaw, slide trembling fingers along his whiskers, and apply upward pressure beneath his chin. “Stand up.”
His brows gather, and he slowly rises. I keep my hand on his face, cradling the sharp edges and shivering with a flood of emotion.
“Yes.” I put all the answers into that one word.
“Yes?” His breath hitches, eyes searching.
“You’re right, about all of it.” I step closer, slipping my boots in the space between his. “I fucked up, and I’ve come to terms with that. I accept the mistakes, the secrets, the guilt, the wrong turns, and the dark back roads. I accept everything that’s happened that led us here, and ninety years from now, I’ll remember you standing in the rain, begging me to come home. And I’ll never regret that I did.”
Raindrops cling to his lashes, and amid the wetness, wells something deeper, stronger.
Happiness.
“Ninety years?” He touches my cheek.
“Give or take. No regrets.”
“Then I can finally give this back to you.” He shoves a hand in his pocket and pulls out the engagement ring. “Maybe, will you—?”
“Yes.” I hold out my hand, fingers extended and shaking. “You’ve been carrying it all this time?”
“Every day.” He slides the diamond band onto my hand, fitting it snugly in place.
I pull back to take a closer look, but his fingers clamp down, holding tight to mine. He stares at me, and I stare at him, doused in a milestone of acceptance.