"I know. I'm starting to know. But I'll mess up. I'll default to the mask. I'll catch myself editing and sometimes I'll catch it too late and you'll find out from someone else and it'll hurt."
"I can handle the hurt if you're trying."
"Then I'm trying. That's my promise. Not perfection. Trying." I squeeze his hand. "But I need something from you too."
"Anything."
"When you have something hard to say, say it. Don't wait. Don't curate the timing. Don't hold back because you think I'm too fragile or too stressed or too fresh off the latest crisis. I needthe full version of you too. Including the parts that are frustrated with me. Including the parts that want more than I'm giving. Including the parts that are scared."
"I can do that."
"Starting now?"
"Starting now."
"Then tell me something you've been holding back."
He's quiet for a beat. Then: "I've been adding bookshelves to the house plans."
"What?"
"The house. On the five acres. Knox's contractor is building it. And I asked for built-in bookshelves, floor to ceiling, both walls of the second bedroom. And a reading nook with a window seat."
I stare at him. The streetlight. His face. The careful, nervous set of his jaw.
"When?" I ask.
"Two weeks ago. After you mentioned bookshelves once, on a sidewalk, while we were walking home from Lucia's."
"I mentioned bookshelves once and you redesigned a house."
"The second bedroom was going to be storage. I changed it."
"You changed a room in a house that doesn't exist yet because I said the word bookshelves one time."
"It exists. The foundation's poured. Dave has the revised drawings."
"Silas."
"You said you wanted bookshelves and a reading nook by a window. I told the contractor. That's the thing I've been holding back. That I'm building a house with your name all over it and I've been afraid to tell you because it feels like pressure and I don't want to be another person putting expectations on your timeline."
I'm crying. Again. For the third time today. I'm going to dehydrate at this rate.
"That's not pressure," I manage. "That's the most — Silas, that's —"
"Too much?"
I pull him closer by our joined hands. "Floor to ceiling?"
"Both walls."
"And a reading nook?"
"Window seat. Storage underneath."
"What does the window face?"
"East. Toward the library, though you can't see it through all the trees."