Page 106 of The Hitman’s Final Job

For a whole month I wondered what I’d say to him if we met again, even if I wasn’t sure it was something I could face. I’ve been sitting on the porch at the farm in the early morning with my coffee and the valley ahead of me, thinking about what I would say if I had the chance to say it.

None of those versions feels right out here, fifteen-hundred miles away from my safe space.

“I loved you before I knew I did,” I say. “I loved you before I knew who you were. In Warsaw, at the hotel, when you sat down at my table and said you were one of my favorite people, I loved you then.” I squeeze his hands, shaking them for emphasis. “I loved you in my kitchen and in my garden and on my porch at five in the morning, and I loved you under the fireworks, and I’ve been loving you for a long time before I could even name it as what it was.”

Silas doesn’t squeeze back, but I keep going.

“And even if I could have helped it,” I say, “I wouldn’t have. Even if there had been a version of this where I had a choice, I would have chosen it anyway. Because being with you was the only time in my life that I felt like I was the main character—not the scientist. Not the single father. Not the man who eats dinner standing by the counter because sitting down at the table is a reminder of how alone I’ve allowed myself to become. With you I’m the main character. The one the story is about.”

Silas releases a breath. “What are you saying, Vaughn?”

I smile. “I thought it was obvious.”

I release his hands and put one hand on the back of his neck and the other against his cheek because I need to feel him closer, and warm and real and here, on this pavement in Atlanta.

“I’m the one who needs to apologize, Silas. For how I behaved that night at the hospital.”

Something moves through his expression. “Vaughn⁠—”

“I shut down,” I say. “I know I did. You told me the truth, and I⁠—”

“Your son was fighting for his life,” Silas says, his voice quiet and certain. “And I chose that moment to tell you I’d been lying to you for weeks … years. I don’t think there’s a right way to react to something like that. I don’t think you owe me an apology for how you responded.”

The traffic light changes, and more people gather to cross, so I pull him away, closer to the building.

“Maybe so,” I say. “But it took me far too long to realize something.” I hold his gaze, hoping he sees honesty and adoration in mine. “I don’t think I care. About who you are or who you’ve been. I’ve been sitting with it for a month, and I keep coming back to the same place. If you weren’t a … hit man … if you weren’t on that last job, I wouldn’t be here now, and I really want to be here, living this life because”—I stroke his cheek, his beard longer than I’ve ever seen it rasping under my thumb—“the way you make me feel is more important than any of it. The way I feel when you’re with me and the way I feel when you’re not. And I know⁠—”

Silas kisses me. He grips my shirt in his fists, stopping me from moving away—as if I would. I respond with everything I have. My tongue swipes over his, tasting him, playing, claiming.

When we break apart, we’re breathing hard. We’re chest to chest, and his heart beats against mine.

He drops his forehead to mine.

“I love you,” he says. “I love you so much. I’ve loved you for so long that I don’t remember what it felt like before. I really tried not loving you. That’s why I stayed away, but one evening with you in Warsaw, even with everything that was happening, I just knew.”

“I know,” I say. “I know.”

He pulls back slightly and looks at me.

“I don’t know what to do with my life,” he says. “I’m serious. I have a suitcase and an apartment that’s for sale, and I have absolutely no plan, and I—” He swallows hard. “I’m so lost, Vaughn. I don’t know who I am when I’m not doing the job.”

I study him, thinking about a man who grew up in a system that kept moving him on. Who spent years working to get himself to college. Who has been a weapon for ten years because someone decided his particular gifts were useful and he needed somewhere to belong.

“Come to Pine Ridge,” I say.

He cocks his head, a question in his eyes.

“Come home. Your family is there,” I say. “Rowan is there, at least for now. Tess and Clayton are there. The Knot Today folks who gave Sir Squash-a-nova a commendation for realism are there.” I hold his gaze. “I’m there.

“The vegetable beds need attention,” I add. “I’ve been doing my best, but the drainage is still not right, and you’re the only person who knows what it needs.”

Something moves through his expression. The almost-smile becomes a real, unfiltered one.

“The drainage?”

“Yes,” I say. “It’s a genuine problem. I need help.”

I’m so full of bullshit.