Trouble (Dogwood Lane 3)

I notice that his right hand, the one with the gorgeous tattoos, is behind his back. I wonder if that’s why he hasn’t reached for me or if it’s because he doesn’t want to. If I’m still misreading this. Maybe I still have too much hope.

“You caught me in here when I almost fell—”

“And I’ll keep catching you if you let me.” His left hand runs across his face. “I’m sorry I embarrassed you. And I’m sorry for acting like a child. And I’m sorry for not being the man you may have thought I was.” He takes a step forward. “But I’ll try to be him. I’ll listen and pay attention and—”

“I just want you to be you.” I reach out and touch the side of his face. “Genuine and funny and handsome and kind. I don’t want perfect.”

He blinks, a smirk on his cheeks. “But I’m close to perfect, right?”

I kick at him, which makes him laugh. It’s music to my ears.

“I made you something,” he says. There’s a flush to his cheeks that hits me right in the heart.

His arm comes out from behind his back. He hands me a piece of cardboard. I take it and turn it over, and the tears flow down my cheeks.

In colored markers, a mural has been drawn. What I’m assuming is Dogwood Lake is colored in blue. And a pair of dice—both fives. And a paintbrush and a set of lips. There are an orange circle and a yellow circle that intersect, making a big red heart. I’m guessing those are our auras.

The brightest yellow happy face I’ve ever seen is tucked in the upper-right-hand corner, and a bag of chips sits along the bottom with some ants marching out. There’s a bag of pretzels on top of an airplane, and a dog that I think doesn’t actually refer to an animal.

Then the fucker put a heart in the bottom corner.

That’s the last thing I see before the tears get to be too much. I wipe them away only to have them fill up again.

“I was looking at your sketch this morning,” he said. “The detail was insane. It’s so good, Ave.”

I smile as my nickname rolls off his tongue.

The tears slow. He’s so handsome, even blurred, with his unshaven face and unkempt hair. I wonder if he had the night I had last night.

“I thought I could make you a mural of my own, to try to show you what you mean to me.” He grins shyly. “I’m trying to talk to you in your language.”

“Just talking to me in any language helps,” I say with a laugh. “But this is amazing, Penn. Thank you.”

“It’s markers on cardboard,” he deadpans.

“It’s perfect.” I hold it to my chest. “Now will you move?”

“Not yet.”

He takes another breath and glances at Harper. My heartbeat thumps wildly as she smiles back at him.

“I’m proud that you would want a guy like me.”

“I don’t want a guy like you. I want you.” My voice cracks as tears fill my eyes.

His smile stretches across both cheeks, hitting the corners of his eyes. “If you will give me another chance, I’ll be honored to tell everyone I know and see that I am yours and that you are mine. You can label it whatever you want.” His forehead mars. “I only have two requests.”

I sigh, dropping my shoulders, and Harper and Lorene both exhale. We all laugh as Penn looks at the floor, grinning softly.

“But you were doing so well,” I tease.

He looks up, his eyes full of mischief. “First, you have to accept that I’m going to mess up and be patient with me. I’m trying. I’ll need help, but I’ll get there. Eventually.”

“You know, Penn—I never thought you had it figured out to start with.”

He laughs. “And second: the only label I don’t want is, like, the married kind. I’m not ready for that.”

I laugh, tugging his sketch to my heart. I take in this beautiful, brave man in front of me.

What the future holds for us, I don’t know. Hopefully it works out, but there are no guarantees. There were no assurances when I came here, either, and it’s the best decision I’ve ever made.

Besides the one to give Penn my heart. Because whether he knows it or not, he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

“Deal,” I tell him.

He beams. “Want to jump and I’ll catch you to prove I mean what I say?”

I smile at him. Someday he’ll realize he doesn’t have to do all the work. The onus isn’t on him—it’s on us. It’ll take us both, working together, to make things work. He’ll get there someday.

“Nope,” I say. “But you can hold my hand, and we can do it together.”

He grins, taking my palm in his and guiding me down the steps. I don’t make it down all the way before he wraps me up in his arms. He pulls me into his chest, burying his head in my hair. His Saint Christopher’s medal presses against my cheek as I let myself nuzzle him.