Something’s changed between Teresa and I.

I can feel it, in every look that she gives me as we drive in near-silence back to the cottage after dinner with her parents. It’s as though she’s seeing me in a new light.

I place the leftovers that her mother has sent us home with into the refrigerator. I hear water running in the bathroom, and then the sound of movement in the bedroom. I look down the back hallway, and see light in Teresa’s bedroom.

Why didn’t she say goodnight?

Maybe we haven’t become closer tonight, as I thought.

I sigh and walk towards the little couch. One by one, I pull the brown tweed cushions off of the back of the couch. I’m reaching for my stack of neatly folded sheets when I hear a noise behind me.

I turn.

Teresa’s standing there, at the threshold to the back hallway. She’s wearing a faded pink and grey nightgown, with spaghetti straps. It stops just above her knees. She looks at the ground, and bends one bare foot up, rubs it against the other calf, like she does when she’s nervous.

I’m frozen with the sheets in my hand, waiting for her to speak. Deep down, I know what she’s about to ask me.

It’s been in her eyes, since we left her parents’ house.

“Jabir,” she says quietly. “Would you… do you want to—” Her voice stops abruptly, and finally she finds my eyes with her own.

“Yes?” I prompt her.

“Do you want to sleep in the bedroom with me?”

I lower the sheets until they’re on the couch, and then I turn to her. “I’d like that very much,” I say.

I have to move slowly with her. This much is clear.

Teresa can be so bold, so courageous. I’ve seen her make her way alone in a foreign city, cross a roaring river, and speak truth even when it’s hard to do.

But sometimes, she reminds me of the white-tailed deer that graze on the palace grounds. With any sudden movement or loud noises, the deer will scatter.

I see that she’s frightened now, and if I move too quickly, she’ll be scared off. But she has no reason to worry. I was gentle before, and I’ll be gentle again.

* * *

Several hours later, Teresa falls asleep in my arms. I’m reminded of the night I spent with her, months ago, when I first visited the cottage. She feels so precious and fragile, lying in my arms after we’ve made love, and I can’t fall asleep. I just want to hold her, listening to her breathe, for as long as I can.

At some point during the night, sleep overcomes me. When I wake up, it’s bright in the bedroom, I can hear the clinking of glasses in the kitchen, and I smell coffee. She’s already up.

My body feels so relaxed. I stretch, and appreciate the warmth of the bed and the memories of the night before.

Then, I sit up. I’m searching for my clothes, which are scattered on the floor around the bed, when a drawing on Teresa’s nightstand catches my eye. It’s of me, unmistakably. She’s done a magnificent job; the charcoal sketch is so realistic that it almost looks like a black and white photograph.

I lift it up in my hands to examine Teresa’s work when I hear her enter the bedroom. I’m only in my briefs, because I got distracted by the picture before I could finish dressing. Not that it matters now.

She walks up to me, a steaming mug of coffee in her hand.

“You found my sketch,” she says. She laughs a little. “That’s how I kept from feeling sad, after you left.”

“Did it work?” I ask.

“Sometimes.”

“It’s a beautiful drawing.” I set it back on her nightstand, and then accept the cup that she’s holding out to me.

I can’t take my eyes off of the picture. That’s me, looking out and laughing with someone. But who? Who would I look at, with so much emotion behind my eyes like that? There’s only one answer, of course.

She’s captured me perfectly, but it’s only one half of the story. Without the other half, the story is incomplete.

“I love it,” I say. “But…I can’t help but notice that something’s missing. I think this drawing is incomplete.”

“Really?” she asks, stepping forward and gazing down at her work. “I worked on it for days on end. After a while, I couldn’t think of any new detail to add. What do you think is missing?”

I’d rather show her than tell her, so I stay quiet.

“Well,” she says, after I don’t offer up an answer, “if you think of it, let me know. I’d love to add it in. Maybe this afternoon, when I get home from Melrose. Janine and I are driving down, with her boys. She needs to get bulk groceries and I’m going to go to the art supply store.”

She walks to the bedroom doorway and places her hand on the frame. She looks over her shoulder at me. “I’ll bring the sheets in the living room to the laundromat and give them a wash on my way home. I don’t think you’ll be needing them on the couch anymore. Do you?”

I can’t help but grin. I find my white T-shirt crumpled on the floor and pull it over my head and shoulders. I see her watching me carefully as I stretch it down over my abdomen. “No,” I say. “I think not.”

I walk up to her and place a kiss on her neck, then her cheek, and then finally, her lips. She’s backed against the door frame now, and her hands are on my stomach, and then my chest.

“What time do you think you’ll be back?” I ask. Tonight can’t come fast enough.

“Three or four,” she says breathlessly.

“I’m going to miss you, Sunshine,” I say.

“I’ll miss you too, Mr. Moon.” Her eyes are deep pools that I could look into all day. “But I’m supposed to meet Janine at the park and ride at nine.”

“I suppose that means I have to let you go?” I have her trapped, my arms pinning her to the wall.

She nods.

“Okay.” I reluctantly remove my arms, and she escapes, giggling, through the doorway.

Once Teresa leaves for the day, I eat some breakfast and take a nice hot shower. Then, I start the work that I’ve had in mind since examining her sketch of me.

I find a blank sheet of paper and a plastic bag of charcoal. Teresa has several easels in one corner of the cottage, and I pull one out and set it in the middle of the living room. Carefully, line by line, I begin to draw Teresa from memory.

The more I think of her, the more I can imagine that she’s in the room, standing right in front of me. I can see the way she’d look at me, a hint of mischief and adventure sparkling in her eyes. I can see the curl of her pretty lips when she smiles, and the way her wide-set eyes crinkle at the edges when she’s truly happy. I sketch in her neck, her shoulders, and the curves of her body.

Everything’s rough at first, but as the hours pass by I smooth and polish each contour on the page. Lastly, I add in her baby bump—the one that’s slowly emerged over the past few weeks—and spend a full half hour making sure it looks perfect.

I carry a second easel out to the living room, and place it besides the one I’ve been working with. Then I retrieve the sketch that she’s done of me, and set it up on the easel.

There.

The story is complete.

Neither sketch looks right on its own. Who is she looking at, with that playful grin? Who is she daring on? Who is she shining for? And my likeness now has a partner to laugh with. He’s no longer alone, laughing like a mad man. His energy is focused and directed; he’s the perfect balanced reflection of the woman at his side. He’s reflecting her bright light. Mr. Moon and Sunshine.

I want her to see how perfectly we complete each other’s stories.

I want her to feel this same sense of wholeness that I now feel.

It’s two now, and I know that she’ll be home soon. I turn the easels so that they are facing the door. Then, I venture outside and start collecting wildflowers. A sense of celebration fills me up—for who we are, for what we’ve become, together.

I pick flowers until I can’t hold any more in my hands. Then, I bring them inside and go out to harvest more. I do this three times, and soon, the inside of the cabin is alive with color. I arrange the flowers in vases, jars, cups… anything that I can find. I place them all around the room.

And before I know it, the door’s opening.

Teresa steps in, a paper shopping bag and her purse on one arm, a laundry basket in the other hand, balanced on her hip. She slides through the door sideways, trying to fit despite her luggage.

I go to her and take the laundry basket away. Her hair’s falling over her eyes and the shopping bag is sliding down her shoulder.

“Thanks” she says, straightening the bag and sweeping her hair out of her face.

That’s when she sees what I’ve done. She’s frozen, looking at our portraits, side by side.

I watch as tears well up in her eyes. Her hand flies up to her mouth. I see it happening before me—all of the pieces clicking for her as they have for me: we are better together than apart.

“I figured out what was missing,” I say.

“Oh, Jabir!” Her hand is trembling slightly. She walks up to the easels slowly. I slide in behind her, wrapping my arms around her.

“We belong together, Teresa. Without you, I’m incomplete. I want to stay in New Hampstead, with you and the baby.”

I feel her nodding. A tear splashes down her cheek, right onto my arm. I lean in and kiss her salty cheek. I feel her soft hair against my skin, and inhale the smell of her.

This is where I belong.

“There’s one thing that I have to take care of first. Is that okay?” My voice is deep and soft.

I feel her nodding, and then she turns her face towards mine. She kisses me. And right then and there, I know that I can do anything. Even though the next few days will be perhaps the hardest of my life.

* * *

One day later, I’m looking out at flowers of a completely different kind than the ones I picked around the cottage. Dalian flowers, I think, as I cross the palace grounds, are bigger and more colorful than the flowers in Pennsylvania. But they lack the subtle delicacy.

I stop in one of the palace dining areas to grab a strong cup of Turkish coffee. I’ve been traveling all night, and I want to feel sharp when I meet with my father.

The coffee does stimulate my brain, but it also increases my anxiety. Better get this over with.

I knock on my father’s office door. As sheikh, his office is central in the palace, and far larger than Hassan’s or my own. A bodyguard opens the door for me and greets me warmly. I see my father across the room, which is as expansive as a basketball court. He’s sitting behind his desk.

I have been in this office so many times, and never has it felt so big. Honestly, I don’t know that I’ve ever even noticed the size of it—it was one of those things that always I took for granted. But now the vastness of the polished room stuns me, and I feel as though it takes me forever to cross it.

My father stands up, rounds his desk, and greets me with a warm hug. I’m taller than him, and he’s rounder than me, but just as strong. He squeezes me with powerful arms.

“Son!” he says. “I wasn’t expecting you! Why didn’t you call?”

He returns to his seat, and I take one across from him. It used to upset me, as a boy, that most of my talks with my father took place with a desk between us. But now that I’m a man I’m used to seeing him behind his desk, and I find that it suits him. He is a sheikh first, and a father second. His sense of responsibility for his country encompasses all else, his family included.

“It’s a spur-of-the-moment visit,” I say.

“Visit? You mean you plan to return to America?” He folds his hands. “I’ve never known you to spend so much time away from home.”

This would be the perfect time to say it. I met a woman. She’s pregnant. I open my mouth, but hesitate for two seconds too long. He’s talking again.

“Not that I’m complaining,” he says. “Jabir, you’ve increased productivity of our American factories by nearly one hundred and fifty percent! Every week, Hassan brings me new numbers—”

He reaches for a stack of folders and flips open the top one. “Every week, we marvel at the statistics. Double the number of cars per month coming out of Illinois. A twofold reduction in late shipments from New Hampstead. Eighty percent more steel frames being approved without defect in Delaware. There’s no end to it!” He looks up gleefully.

Now. I have to say it now, before he praises me any further. I can’t stand knowing that what I’m about to say might overshadow all of the good things he believes I’ve done in America.

“Father,” I say.

“Yes, Jabir?”

“There’s another reason, for my stay in America. I’m truly glad that it’s benefiting our company, but I need for you to know the truth.”

“Truth? What truth?” He closes the folder. “What are you talking about?”

“The reason that I went to the U.S. in the first place. Remember, Father, when Hassan and I first traveled to the Northeast, back in November?”

“Yes…?”

“Well, on that trip, I met a woman. We conceived a child. I returned to Pennsylvania to be with her. To help her…in any way that I could.”

My father looks incredulous.

“A woman! That’s what you’ve been up to, this whole time?”

“She lives in New Hampstead,” I say, looking down at my hands. “Her father works at the factory there.”

“The daughter of an employee, hmm. An American girl. Hm. I should have known. You’ve always been guided by your heart, not the numbers. Here Hassan and I are, studying the statistics like that’s the whole picture.”

“Hassan knew, sir.”

“Your brother knew about all this? The girl—and the baby? But you didn’t tell me or your mother?”

“I didn’t know how.” I feel my shoulders slump with guilt. I’ve held back this information for far too long. “I should have told you, but things were going so well. I felt that you were trusting me with more and more responsibility. I felt that you were treating me, finally, like a man.”

“And you think that this will change that?” my father asks. “Son, you’re more of a man now than you’ve ever been. Going to the mother of your child, and helping her, as you’ve done, was the right thing to do. That took courage; that took bravery.”

I look up, and he meets my eye and gives me a curt nod. “I respect that,” he says. “Much more than if you chose to reject the child and hush the whole thing up. No, you are facing your destiny, not running from it.”

“But, Father, aren’t you upset that this will pull me away from my responsibilities to our country, and to our businesses?”

“Quite the opposite. Jabir, this only proves that you’re more ready to be a leader than even I could have suspected. Leadership requires true integrity, in moments where no one else is watching. Your actions prove this, beyond a shadow of a doubt. In fact…” He pauses, and places his hands into a triangle. He taps his fingertips together. “In next week’s meeting with the royal council, we will begin to put things into place for your succession as Sheikh of Dalai.”

I’m stunned. Speechless. I can barely breathe.

When I find my voice, I hear myself as if from somewhere beyond my body. “Father, I’m honored. I—” I stand up, and extend my hand. He reaches for it, and then we shake, our palms pumping up and down. My eyes lock with his. “I’m honored beyond measure,” I say. “I— I’ve been waiting to hear that. Wondering if I ever would… for my whole life.”

“I know that, Son,” my father says.

We stop shaking. There’s more that I have to say. I feel my heart hammering in my chest.

Am I really going to say this?

I think of Teresa. I think of the way it felt to kiss her tear-stained cheek, and the way I’ve promised to come home to her. I can’t have both. I can’t be the man that she needs me to be, and ruler of Dalai.

“Father, I cannot accept. Hassan will make a better Sheikh than I. I belong in New Hampstead, with Teresa and our child. I want to be a father first, and a sheikh second.”

My father nods. He doesn’t look surprised. I see that he was expecting this.

“I can continue to look after our businesses in America,” I offer. “And we’ll visit Dalai as often as we can. But my home is there, now. Not here.”

“I understand,” my father says.

He steps around his desk and embraces me. Once again, I feel the firmness of his grip. He’s a strong man, my father is—inside and out. I hope that as a father, I’ll be able to have as much strength. But I also hope that I’ll laugh more than he has, and be more affectionate. There won’t be a desk always between my child and myself.

“You’re a wise man, Jabir,” my father says, squeezing me and patting my back. “Sometimes, I think you know more than I do, and honestly, I wouldn’t have it any other way. Sons are supposed to surpass their fathers. I gave you what I could. Now it’s your turn to pass your own strengths, wisdom, and passion on to your own children.”

“I will do my best.”

“I know you will. I’m proud of you, Jabir.”

Before I know it, he’s back behind his desk. But it doesn’t bother me.

“I’m proud of you.” His words have gone straight to my heart. I take them like the gift that they are—a gift I’ve always wanted to receive—and exit his office.

I carry his words with me over the next few days. Packing up my belongings doesn’t take long—most of the possessions that I treasured here in Dalai would be meaningless and unnecessary in New Hampstead.

After making some final arrangements so that I can complete my move back to the States, I find myself once again crossing the ocean in an airplane and then driving up the winding road to my new life.

When Teresa greets me at the door to the cottage, I feel like I’m finally arriving home. The last few months have been filled with so much uncertainty, but now, she wraps her arms around me, and all of that uncertainty is gone.

I’m home.

And I’m here to stay.