"The destination being —"
"Oak bookshelves. East-facing window. A reading nook big enough for two people." I step closer. "Four months, you said. Give or take."
"Give or take."
"Then I need four months. Maybe less. Long enough to prove I can stand on my own. Long enough to know that when I move into that house, it's because I chose it. Not because I had nowhere else."
"Dev —"
"I've seen the blueprints. I've touched the bookshelves on paper. I know where I'm going, Silas. I've known since you told me the window faces east." I put my hand on his chest. His heartis hammering under my palm. "But I need to walk there on my own feet. Not be carried. Not be rescued. Walk."
"Month to month," he says again. His voice is rough.
"Month to month. And I'll be at the bar every Wednesday for book club and every Saturday for breakfast and most evenings for dinner because Jason is teaching me to make risotto next week and I refuse to miss that. And some nights I'll stay in your terrible bed because I want to, not because I have to. And some nights I'll sleep in my apartment with my books and my herbs. And both of those things will be good."
"Both."
"Both." I take a breath. "And then one day, maybe three months from now, maybe four, I'll pack my backpack. And I'll walk to the five acres. And I'll look at the bookshelves and the reading nook and the window that faces east. And I'll unpack. For real. For the last time. In a home I chose."
He's crying. Silas, quiet, steady, reads-in-corners Silas, is standing here with tears on his face. Not many. Just enough. The kind that comes when you hear something so exactly right that your body can't contain it.
"You're going to unpack," he says.
"For the last time."
"In our house."
"In our house."
He pulls me against him. Right there. He holds me and I hold him and the lease crumples slightly between us because neither of us cares about the paper right now.
"I love you," he says into my hair.
"I love you. Now let go of me so I can sign my lease."
He laughs, wet, broken, the best sound he makes. "You're very practical for someone who just delivered the most romantic speech of my life."
"I'm a Virgo."
"You're impossible."
"I'm signing a lease. Let go."
He lets go. I smooth the lease against my thigh, straighten the pages.
"Month to month?" my new landlord asks.
"Month to month."
"Your boyfriend seems nice."
"He built me bookshelves."
"In the apartment?"
"In another building. It's a long story."
"The good ones always are." She slides the lease across the counter. "Sign here. And here. And initial here."