Page 132 of Wreckage and Rain

"I'm not asking for promises."

"Ask me for one anyway."

"I'm asking you to be the man I just had sex with for the rest of your life."

He smiles. The crooked corner.

"That's a promise."

"It is. I'm giving you one. Just one. Make it count."

"I will."

He turns toward me. Lifts my hand off his chest. Kisses the inside of my wrist. The same spot from the list. He sets the hand back down.

"What now," he says.

"Now we sleep."

"In this bed."

"In this bed."

"All night."

"All night, Colt."

"And tomorrow."

"Tomorrow we drink Lorna's coffee and we eat pound cake and we go home."

"Home."

"Chicago."

"Yeah."

"Home is Chicago."

"Yes."

He pulls me close. I tuck under his arm, the first time I've tucked there since before everything. The position is the same. The body remembers. The man holding me is the same and different. A new marriage starts at minute one. It isn't a clean number. The clock just resets and we begin counting. I fall asleep with his heart under my ear and the smell of the Charleston garden in my nose and the new marriage settling into the room around us, like a cat into a chair, turning a slow circle before it folds down, deciding, finally, to stay.

Chapter 37: Chicago

Colt

The afternoon before we drive back north, we head to King's Diner. The lunch rush has cleared and Greg is wiping down the counter with the slow methodical motion of a man who has wiped that counter fifty thousand times in his life. Sarah is in the kitchen, prepping for supper, singing along to her playlist too quiet to make out the words. Autumn flew home to Charleston for the trip and has been at the diner for three days running. She's in the booth across from us with Jake. They're arguing about a fishing trip.

Summer is next to me, her hand on my thigh. She has eaten half her grilled cheese and pushed the rest across to me. She's been doing it since we were teenagers, and she did it again ten minutes ago without thinking. Her hand reached for the plate and slid it over while she was mid-sentence. That muscle memory coming back is something I'm going to spend the rest of my life being grateful for.

"So," Summer says to the room at large.

Autumn looks up. Jake looks up. Greg behind the counter looks up.

"Chicago is home now."

Nobody says anything. The music is still playing. Outside, the diner sign hums.