Violet looked out the window, cracking her knuckles nervously. It was early morning, and it didn’t look good. After only a few hours of sleep, she’d been awakened moments before by the clattering of her window and a loud clap of thunder. Now she sat on the edge of the bed and tapped on the screen of her iPhone. She had a barely-there signal, thank God, that allowed her to check the weather, but her shoulders slumped as she looked at the warnings. According to the radar, a big storm was almost here. A big one. They were calling it a tropical storm, but there was chatter about upgrading it to a hurricane. She looked out the window at the gray, angry sky and pelting rain, gasping as she watched a big branch fall from a tree over the driveway, missing her car by a hair.

Her plan from last night—to leave Zach and get a room at the White Swan—had been upended by his declaration. After hearing those precious words, the pull to stay with him, to try to find a way to make things work between them, was all-consuming, despite her misgivings. She was grateful for the storm, for nature taking the decision out of her hands and forcing her to stay. It was like the universe was trying to tell her something by trapping her with Zach for as long as the storm chose to rage. It reminded her of her third-grade teacher, who would put quarreling children together in the coatroom and tell them not to come out until they’d made friends.

Except she didn’t want to be friends with Zach. She wanted more. She’d always wanted more. She leaned back on the bed, closing her eyes and listening to the wind howl and moan outside her window. Once upon a time, all she’d wanted in the world was for him to love her back.

And now he did. And he’d used her own words to tell her.

I love you. I’ve always loved you. And I’ll go on loving you until I don’t anymore.

She heard his voice in her head, and her heart pumped harder, the sound of his declaration infinitely hotter than any other words she’d ever heard. She smiled at the ceiling as a tear rolled into her hair. He loved her. Finally, finally, finally, Zach Aubrey loved her. He’d said the words. And part of her heart—a part that had been raw and raging and so sad for so many lonesome years—sighed in relief and gratitude.

She flipped onto her side and drew her knees to her chest as she stared at the drops and rivulets making their way down the glass expanse of the large window.

He loved her. And she could tell from his face that he meant it. So why wasn’t she rushing downstairs to fall into his waiting arms?

Because she meant it when she observed how different their lives were. And because he was right when he’d said she was a coward. She was fucking terrified. For years she’d lived her life in a state of pleasant, bland good-enough-ness. For too many years she’d been stuck as Greenwich Violet, trapped in a safe, self-imposed state of perpetual blah.

Trapped.

And now here she was, trapped in a house with Zach, in a state of perpetual turmoil. From the moment she’d found him again, she’d been overstimulated, oversensitive, hyperaware of herself and him. Battling, fighting, and crying, her senses heightened, her body constantly tingling, her brain buzzing with ideas and creativity and hope.

Oh God. Hope.

It was in there. In the bursts of happiness she felt in his arms, when he touched her, when he moved inside her. In the way she felt when she looked at him, at all of him—his indiscriminate piercings and gaudy tattoos that she was growing to love for their edgy beauty and heartbreaking meaning. It was in the way she panted when his eyes slid across her body, undressing her. Hope that flared up when he said he wouldn’t hurt her or couldn’t lose her or would always love her. Hope in the way her heart had snapped in half yesterday morning when she thought he was gone, and knitted itself back together when he returned. Hope because after a long, cold, sterile, nine-year winter, Zach made her feel messy and hot and alive. Hope because even after hurting her so deeply at Yale, Zach was somehow able to arouse in her a love so big and so bewildering, it frightened her to the point of running away. Because she could either run or she could surrender, and she was perilously close to yielding.

She sat up as something occurred to her for the first time since that dark Sunday so long ago: was this what Zach had felt that dismal evening at Yale—the fear of surrender? She took a deep breath, remembering his intense eyes holding hers, his untattooed, inexperienced, pale-skinned body facing hers, staring at her, right before he left the room. Here she was, a mature twenty-eight-year-old woman, and the feelings she had right now were leaving her breathless. Is that why he’d run from her? Because he couldn’t handle them? Because they frightened him to the point of running away? Her heart softened, remembering the panic in his glistening eyes as he covered his teenage heart with his hand.

She stood up, grabbing her brush to pull her hair back into a ponytail, but it was so wavy and wild now, there wasn’t any point. She shook it out instead, then pulled it back, braiding it loosely, letting tendrils fall around her face at will. She took a deep breath, looking at herself in the mirror.

Regardless of her feelings for him, telling him she still loved him was another story altogether. In all her years with Shep, Violet had never once—not once—uttered those words. The last time she said “I love you”—the last time those words had passed her lips—was to Zach Aubrey nine years ago. From then on, she’d regarded them like a curse, as if saying them would lead to immediate heartbreak and pain. It didn’t matter if she had those feelings for him. Those words were buried so deep down in her heart, she didn’t know if she’d ever be able to say them again.

But certainly before she did, before she could, there were so many questions that still needed answers and couldn’t be glossed over with his impassioned declaration last night. By giving things a try—a deceptively casual phrase, which belied a host of risks—she was opening herself up to unbelievable pain. She’d lost so much of herself in the first round. She shuddered to think of what another broken heart by Zach Aubrey would do to her this time.

What she needed to understand most of all was why he had never returned to her. Why had he never come back to claim what belonged to him? Unless she understood the answer to that question, she’d never be able to trust him completely. She’d never trust that he’d always return to her, and she needed to believe that. She needed to know that he’d always, always find her again, or they could never have a future together.

***

Zach stared at the ceiling until dawn, gray and angry though it was, listening for the sound of her feet on the stairs, for any indication that his words had meant something to her, that there was still room in her heart to love him. He hoped that she believed, as he did, that whatever they had between them was worth fighting for—that it was worth figuring out a way to reconcile the differences in their lives.

At five o’clock, with his thoughts still driving him crazy, he had to talk to someone, and the only person he trusted enough—and who would actually pick up the phone at such an ungodly hour—was Cora. Not that she’d be very pleased.

“What the fuck, Zach! You better be dead or dying!”

He tried not to laugh. He didn’t want her to hang up, but just hearing his sister’s voice made him feel better. “I need to talk.”

“Apparently.” He heard something clunk on the floor and roll away, and then a man’s voice asking gruffly what the fuck was going on. “It’s my brother. Don’t worry about it. Go back to sleep.”

“Who’s that?”

“None of your business,” she whispered angrily, and he knew she was getting out of bed to go somewhere quieter to talk.

“Where are you staying anyway, Cor?”

“The restoration committee got me a place in Alex Bay.”

“So who’re you hooking up with?”

“I know you didn’t call me at five in the morning to talk about my love life, Zach. If that’s the case, I’m hanging up.”

“Don’t hang up. Turn on the coffeemaker, and tell me when you’re ready.”

After a few minutes, he could tell she was settled somewhere. “Okay. Fine. Now, what’s so important you dragged me out of bed at the ass crack of dawn, and why am I sure this has Violet Smith smeared all over it?”

“I told her I loved her,” he blurted out.

“Oh,” she groaned. “Oh, Zachariah. Oh no. Why did you do that?”

He considered pulling the phone out of the wall and chucking it across the room. Goddamn it, he hated telephones. And he hated Cora a little bit too.

“Because I do. I love her.”

His twin sighed dramatically. “Okay. Lay it on me.”

He told her all about Violet’s troubles with her book, his suggestion that they write the four songs for Malcolm, and running into Mrs. Smalley. He told her about Léonard’s and the concert and Flick and Violet’s insistence that they couldn’t work out. He found himself talking about their physical relationship until Cora yelled, “Ew!” and threatened to hang up again. He told her how much—surprisingly—it still hurt him that Violet had moved on so quickly sophomore year, and how much he hated Shep Smalley, a dead man, for touching the woman he loved.

“Which part do you hate the most?” interrupted Cora. “That she changed for him or that she had sex with him?”

“Fuck, Cora!”

“I’m just asking. It’s a fair question.”

“When I think of her with him, yeah, it makes me want to—” He clenched his fists until they shook, then relaxed them. “But I fucking hate it that she changed for him.”

“Try to let those two go, Zach. She had a right to be with someone. Lord knows you were with a bunch of someones too.”

“It still bugs me.”

“Get over it. Your rival’s dead.” Cora sighed. “As for her changing? Sort of sounds like now that she’s away from the Smalley’s, she’s changing back into who she used to be.”

Zach thought of her at the concert last night. She’d kept an open mind, even though she’d ended up hating it. Greenwich Violet wouldn’t have even considered going with him. Cora was right.

“Okay,” said Zach. “But what about the other stuff? How quickly she moved on?”

“You hate it that she didn’t wait for you. So is that what you wish? That you could go back in time and she’d wait for you?”

He took a deep breath and looked out the window, where the murky dawn illuminated the beating rain that fell in angry sheets.

“Yeah. I guess I do.”

“Well, I think that’s your answer then. She told you she loved you, you ran away, she didn’t wait for you. Speed up ten years: you tell her you love her, she threatens to run away, you . . .”

“Wait for her,” he sighed.

“You’re going to need to give her the space to figure out what she wants. I am positive, from everything you told me, that she wants you, Zach. But, you have to give her the space to figure it out for herself. Don’t force it. Just wait for her. Back up a little, and she might just step forward.”

It sounded good to him. It made sense. It even appealed to him in some sick way that their history was returning only to invert itself. There was something comforting about it.

“But Zach,” said Cora, with uncharacteristic gentleness. “You are very different now. I mean, from what I can tell. You’ve changed. Both of you. I’m just worried—”

“About me?”

“I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“It’s worth it,” he said softly. “The way she writes, the way her eyes flash, the way she fights with me. Even in the few days we’ve been together, I see her coming back to me. It sounds stupid, but she stopped blow-drying her hair all straight and sleek. She’s . . . she’s coming back to me, Cora. I know it. No one has ever made me feel as much as she does. She’s like a drug to me. I can’t get enough of her. I can’t lose her again. I can’t.”

“Go big or go home, huh?” He heard the wistful tone in his sister’s voice when she finally answered. “I hope it all works out. God knows you deserve a little happiness.”

“You too, little sister.”

“Six minutes older and he can’t let me forget it.”

“Go find your happiness, Cor.”

“Yeah,” she said, and he could hear the wry amusement in her voice. “My happiness just farted so loud in my bed, I heard it from the kitchen. I don’t wish you my kind of happiness, big brother. That’s for sure.”

***

Zach looked up as Violet walked into the living room a couple of hours later, relief making his blood course faster, hot and furious and pounding in his ears. She looked completely beautiful in black leggings and her oversize Yale sweatshirt that swam on her small frame. Whether or not he had a right, he took it as a good sign that she was wearing that sweatshirt. She’d pulled her unruly hair into a loose braid that looked so sexy, he felt all that blood rush south. It was ridiculous what she did to him, how much he wanted her. All the time.

She didn’t move from the doorway and when he glanced over again he took a longer look. She looked calmer to the point of timid, which sort of pissed him off. He didn’t want her to be scared of him, or them. He wanted her to lean into the feelings between them, not away from them. He wanted her to trust him. No, not just that. What he really wanted was for her to love him again.

“Hey,” she said softly, looking toward the windows. “Bad out there, huh?”

“Yeah.” He was relieved to see she was wearing socks, not shoes, and didn’t have her bags by her sides. “You’re not going to try to go, are you?”

She shook her head.

Thank God for small miracles, he thought. He threw a log on the fire and squatted on the floor by the hearth. Whatever else happened between him and Violet, as long as he was lucky enough to be near her, her safety was nonnegotiable.

“Saw a big branch fall near my car. Anyway, I  . . . You called me a coward.” She cracked her knuckles, shuffling her feet. He recognized the gesture. She was nervous. He didn’t want her to be nervous, but he was determined to give her the space she needed to come to him. She finally whispered, “I’m not a coward.”

He swallowed, his thudding heart flip-flopping with eagerness. What did she mean? That she would give them a chance? Don’t force it. Wait for her.

“I went up to the general store when it opened at six,” he said. “Got some food for us. We should be okay for the next few days. It’s going to get a lot worse.”

“That was nice. Thank you.”

He poked at the fire again. Seven hours ago he told her he loved her, and now here they were, making pleasantries about provisions and the weather. Before him, sparks snapped and crackled, flying up the flue. “I’m betting we’ll lose power pretty soon.”

She gestured to the mountain of firewood. “You brought in a lot of wood. Thank you for making a fire.”

“Sure.” He hated the way she kept saying “thank you” in that smooth, modulated Greenwich voice. He hated the awkwardness between them, the way she stood in the archway and didn’t come all the way into the room. He hated the way his body hardened in response to being even this close to her, like he no longer owned it, like it didn’t belong to him.

Finally he couldn’t take it anymore. “Violet, I don’t know what to say. I don’t know where we go. I couldn’t sleep last night, couldn’t forget what you said about how we could never work—”

“I was pretty upset last night,” she said, stepping closer.

Back up a little, and she just might step forward.

“Maybe I’m pressuring you too much. Maybe you can’t just pick up something after nine years just because you want to, just because you feel . . .” He shrugged, wishing she could understand how much he wanted her in his life, how much he’d missed her, how much he loved her. “But I’ve met a lot of people. A lot of women. And nothing feels as right as you and me when we’re together. Nothing. So you can’t blame me for trying.”

She took a deep breath, those big brown eyes looking through him, looking into him, more intimate than any touch and more heartbreaking than any music. She was torturing him. He looked back at the fire. “But I’m sorry if I made you feel awkward. We don’t have to—”

“It scares me,” she said in a wispy voice, and she rocked on the balls of her feet, looking at the floor.

He stayed hunched in front of the fire but stared at her steadily. “That I love you?”

She nodded.

“Because you don’t love me?”

“No! I—”

He was surprised to see the burn in her eyes, the fierce dissent he hoped he was reading correctly. She opened her mouth like she wanted to say something, then closed it helplessly, looking away. She took a deep breath, her breasts lifting the ragged hem of the sweatshirt just enough to show a peek of skin over the waistband of her leggings. His gut tightened, but he forced himself to lift his eyes back to hers.

“Because we’re so different. Because I saw what you looked like in your element, and there’s no room for me there. Because you saw me in mine, and you didn’t like me there. And because . . . I know Yale was a million years ago, but I still don’t trust you.”

He placed the poker back in the stand and headed over to the chair he’d sat in on their first night, when they’d drunk Scotch together and kissed in front of the fireplace. He kept his face turned away from her for an extra beat so she wouldn’t see the relief there. If she’d told him she didn’t love him—couldn’t love him—he’d have had no more moves. If there was a chance she did, there was hope, and hope was all he needed because he’d wait for her.

“All I asked for was two weeks. You’re ready to bolt after six days. You’re not giving me—no , us—a chance. I want the whole two weeks.”

Now that he was seated, she stepped all the way into the room, sitting down on the edge of the couch, as far from him as possible.

“Everything between us has happened so fast, Zach. I’m trying to catch my breath.”

“It was always that way,” he said, watching her. “You were sleeping in my room after knowing me for three hours, Vile.”

She tried not to grin at him, but the grin won and she nodded her head like he had a point. He felt her resistance crumbling. He felt himself getting closer to having her and forced himself not to pounce, not to take what she hadn’t yet offered.

“The whole two weeks,” she said cautiously.

“Yes.”

The lights flickered once, then twice, then held. Violet looked around the room nervously before looking back at him. She took a deep breath, playing with her hands in her lap, and he waited, watching her. One strand of chestnut hair had escaped her braid, and his fingers twitched to close the distance between them and run his thumb and forefinger down that wavy strand, to straighten it and then let it go, watching it bounce away. He folded his hands and made himself appear casual, despite the way his body pulsed with want for her.

“Okay.”

She leaned her head to the side, and Zach heard the old song by Sarah McLachlan in his head: “Sweet, sweet, sweet surrender is all that I have to give.” He heard it for him, and he heard it for her, and he heard it for them, because they were crossing the threshold into possible, into hopeful. A storm raged and savaged the landscape outside, but for him, there was only now. Now, for him and Violet. Now, for second chances. Now, for them to find each other again.

Zach had been told he didn’t smile a lot. He grinned. He smirked. But he smiled at Violet, who owned his soul, who he hoped, in that instant, would be the better part, the best part, of his forever. The fire crackled as logs burned brightly, and he didn’t care if they never left this room again. He watched as her own smile grew until it brightened her whole face and a light laugh escaped her lips. Her cheeks flushed pink, and her eyes danced with mischief. She looked like herself—a complete transformation back to the girl he’d fallen in love with so long ago—and suddenly Zach felt a lightness he couldn’t ever remember feeling in his life, because as long as she’d give him a chance, he’d do whatever it took to make this work. For the rest of his life. Anything.

He leaned forward, raising an eyebrow and flicking his eyes to her breasts.

“Looking for something?” she asked in that old saucy voice, lowering her lashes to flirt with him.

His breath caught, and his erection doubled in size.

“Hey, Violet . . .” he said, biting the inside of his lower lip as warmth suffused his body.

“What?” she asked, sitting up straight, pushing her breasts out toward him.

“Be honest. Want to write or make out?”

She laughed, and he could see it on her face—she remembered saying those exact same words to him once upon a time. History wasn’t repeating itself. They weren’t rewriting it. But it was theirs to pillage and share, and he wasn’t going to let either of them run away from it anymore.

“Make out,” she whispered, holding his eyes as the lights flickered again.

“Then let’s make out,” he said, as the lights went out for good.