My mom and I enjoy a low-key Sunday. We relax, watch movies, and laugh a lot. With yesterday’s confession behind us, she seems lighter, unencumbered by at least one of the regrets she’s carried for so long. She’s still a woman of many layers, but not so mysterious anymore. And infinitely more beautiful because of it.

On the flight home, I put the truth in black and white as I finish my letter to James. Giving both myself and him the resolution we sought three-and-a-half years ago. The truth about the weekend my mother disappeared, which changed the course of my father’s life and all of ours. A truth both less sensational and more momentous than expected.

After we land and I collect my car from longterm parking, I drive straight to the place my heart sings for. To him.

When I’m getting off the freeway, I call to make sure he’s home. And when he doesn’t answer, I figure he’s writing and I have the unique opportunity to surprise him. I stop at my favorite Thai place and grab takeout, then drive to his house.

As I pull up, I’m surprised to see the driveway blocked by an idling cab. The gate stand open, James’ car in the port. The first tendrils of fear rise but I shove them down, unwilling to be controlled by doubts. There are hundreds of logical explanations for a cab being parked outside his house.

Right? Right.

Parking against the adjacent curb, I grab the food and lock up my car, then head toward the driveway. The cab’s window is down, so I wave hello.

The cabbie tips his head. “‘Evening.”

I glance at the house, at James’ BMW in the carport. “Are you picking someone up?” I ask, because it’d be rude to ask if he has the right address.

“Yep. Lady called a half-hour ago. I’m a few minutes early.”

My fingers and toes go cold and numb. The tendrils of fear become thick, suffocating vines. “A lady?” I repeat weakly. “Did you catch her name?”

The cabbie’s eyes narrow. “Nuh uh, not going there.” He points at the house. “If your man is in there with another chick, I want no part of it.”

I force a smile. “Understood. Have a good night.”

One difficult step at a time, I walk up the driveway to the side door. Please, please, please. I don’t know what I’m asking for. Mercy, maybe. A swift end to my misery.

The hum of anxious blood in my ears, I press the little silver doorbell.

And wait… and wait.

A little voice whispers, Just leave. Walk away. I tell it to shut up and press the doorbell again.

Rufus barks somewhere in the house.

Finally, I hear a voice. A female voice. “Coming!” she calls, then says more softly, “Cab’s here, James. Call me tomorrow?”

I hear his voice but can’t make out the words.

Frozen, I watch the door open. Stare at the woman who stops abruptly. Her eyes widen as she recognizes me, then a slow smile spreads across her face.

“Well, well,” Jessica purrs. “If it isn’t the prodigal student. Still stalking your professor, pet?”

In lieu of throwing a bag of food in her face—or better yet, a can of gasoline and a lit match—I turn around.

Walk down the driveway.

Get in my car.

Start the engine.

Pull away from the curb.

Drive past the cab.

Drive.

Drive.

Drive.

U-turn.

Accelerate back the way I came.

I’m done running.

* * *

I hold down the doorbell until I hear Rufus going berserk, loud footsteps running, and James’ angry voice muttering about skinning someone alive.

The door swings open. “What the fuc—” Shirtless and dripping from an interrupted shower, James blinks at me in stupefaction. “Iris? What’s the matter?”

“Hi, James. You said you weren’t seeing Jessica anymore.”

He frowns. “I’m not.”

I guess I’m angrier than I feel, because I have to clench my hands to keep from slapping him. Or strangling him. Or trying to take a bite out of his neck.

“I want the truth,” I grind out between my teeth. “Was all of this just to get back at me for three years ago? Make me fall in love with you again so you could rip it all away?”

He crosses his arms as a breeze picks up. Goosebumps lift across his chest. “What the hell are you talking about? Jesus, it’s cold. Will you come inside?”

“Nope. Tell me the truth. Did you fuck her today, when she was at your house?”

Confusion.

Dismay.

Comprehension.

Anger.

“Are you kidding me? For fuck’s sake, is it always going to be like this?” He pauses, eyes smoldering. “Will you ever trust me?”

Doubt stirs through my rage like heavy ink, cooling and dampening. I recall Jessica’s smart business attire, her perfectly coiffed hair, and the crisp lines of her lipstick. Had she looked like a woman just fucked? No, she hadn’t.

“I want to trust you,” I say in a more reasonable tone. “But you told me you weren’t seeing her, and I brought you dinner, and she answered the door, and… and… she’s such a bitch!”

He bites his lips but can’t disguise the laughter brimming in his eyes. “Unfortunately, Jessica was the architect I hired to help with renovations when I bought the house. She was here yesterday to finalize the transfer of the remaining work to one of her associates. You must have just missed him. His name is Gerald. Trim fellow, very tall. Has a mustache like a circus ringleader.”

I manage, “Oh.”

“You brought me dinner?”

“It’s probably cold now.”

He grins. “I have a microwave.”

I wince as I meet his eyes. “You don’t hate me?”

“Not even remotely.”

“Okay. I’m sorry. I’ll, uh, go get the food.” I turn away, but his voice stops me.

“Iris? You realize I heard you, right? The bit where you said you’re in love with me again?”

Heart hammering, I face him. No more running. I meet his gaze, sober and soft now.

“Of course I love you, Beckett. I’ve always been in love with you, and I probably always will be.”

His smile blooms like a sunrise, slow and dazzling. He nods toward my car. “Go on, then, before I catch pneumonia.”

My brows skyrocket. “You’re not going to say it back?”

James chuckles, infinitely pleased with himself. “I will, just not right this second.” He glances at an imaginary watch on his wrist. “You have to wait, oh, give or take forty-five minutes. Long enough for my balls to thaw.”

“Wow,” I deadpan.

He winks.

Forty-five minutes later, we’ve eaten and opened a bottle of wine, and he still hasn’t told me he loves me. Of course, James is visibly tickled by my growing disgruntlement and makes me sweat it out for another fifteen minutes.

Then he says, “I want to show you something.” Rufus and I follow him to the study, where he points to a large cardboard box sitting on the floor next to his desk. “Take a look inside.”

Curious and not a little confused, I lower to my knees and open the top flaps. At first, I don’t know what I’m looking at. All I see is my name in sloping white text emblazoned on satiny black.

Six of my names.

On six identical covers of identical books.

His name, in a more subdued font, is beneath the title.

The title.

“You wrote a book of poetry about me,” I whisper. “This is the book you were talking about at the signing.”

“Ask me when I wrote the first poem.”

Blinking tears from my eyes, I turn. “When?”

“Six years ago, when Richard first told me about his daughter.”

I stand up. “And the last?”

“There will never be a last, little muse. You have my heart, my soul, and whatever afterlife waits for me. You are the first and the last. I need you, and I will never choose poetry over you. You are my poetry. I love—”

I swallow the rest of his words with a kiss.