by Laura Miller
My gaze quickly falls to the floor. “I do,” I say, looking back up. “I do like it here. I’m just getting used to it, that’s all.”
He keeps his light brown eyes on me. “Baby, you’ll tell me, right? You’ll tell me if you’re bored here or if you want to do something different. I mean, I don’t have any art connections, but I can try ...”
I stop him. “I’m fine. I love you. I choose you, Berlin.”
For a few seconds, his narrowed eyes study me, but then soon, a little smile starts to edge its way up his face. And before I can think another thought, he picks me up, so that one of my legs is on either side of his waist. Then, he grabs my backside, and I let out a high-pitched cry.
“Well,” he says, “in that case, I’ve got three days with my sexy fiancé. And then come Sunday, she’s gonna drive my car. And then I’m either gonna be out of a job or we’re not gonna make it to see Monday. So, I say, let’s make the most of these three days. What do you say, pretty girl?”
I scrunch up my nose and bury my face into his shoulder, while he presses his lips into my hair.
“I say that sounds like a dream,” I sing, with a wide, happy grin.
Chapter Twenty-Two
You Need to Go
Two Months Later
Iva
“Hey,” I say, walking into the room. “How was your flight?”
“Good. ... Long.”
He toes off his shoes at the door.
“How’s it been back here?”
“Lonely,” I say, throwing my arms around his neck and reaching up on my tiptoes to kiss him.
He sets his things down, wraps his arms around me and lifts me up into an embrace.
“Oh, I missed you so much,” he says, kissing me on my lips.
After a long while, he gently sets me down and then gives me a half-worried look. “What’s wrong?”
I force out a puff of air. “Oh, it’s just wedding stuff, that’s all,” I say, trying to play it off.
“What kind of wedding stuff? You sound like you have bad news.”
“Well, good and bad.”
Little wrinkles form on his forehead. “What is it?”
“Good or bad, first?”
“Give me the bad, so it makes the good better.”
I squish my lips to one side, not wanting to tell him. I don’t really feel like talking about it all now. He just got home, and all I want to do is forget everything but him. “The caterer bailed. She said it’s too many people. They can’t do it.”
“Rose’s?”
I nod.
“Why?”
“Well, Berlin, it’s, like, five hundred people. It kind of makes sense. You had to go and make yourself famous.” I fold my arms across my chest, and at the same time, feel my lips pushing up my face. “And famous people don’t get married in small towns.”
He walks by me and plants a kiss on my cheek. “The only famous person I see here is Moose.”
I look over at his lazy tabby cat. “Moose knows how to do famous.”
“He sure does,” he says.
Berlin plops down into a kitchen chair and just stares back at me.
“What?” I ask. I keep my smile, even though the caterer thing really did wreck my world today.
“Can we just elope?”
I muster up a fake pout and then walk over to him and straddle him on the chair. He wraps his arms around me, and I fall into him.
“That would have been a better question four months ago—before I did all this work,” I whisper near his ear.
“So, it’s too late then?”
I use his shoulders to push myself up, and I meet his silly, defeated grin.
“Damn it,” he says, shaking his head.
I fall back against him with a playful groan.
“So, what’s the good news?”
I press my teeth into my bottom lip and smile. “I think I found a dress.”
“Really?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Can I see it?”
“Uh-uh,” I say, moving my head back and forth against his shoulder. “It’s a surprise.”
He laughs. “I’m already trying to figure out how to keep my manhood intact while I watch you walk down that aisle. And you’re not helping any.”
I laugh, too. “I’m sorry, baby.”
“Well, my manhood aside, that is good news. I’m happy for you, babe. ... Oh, hey,” he says, patting my backside. “You packed for Nashville?”
“Nashville?” I push myself back up.
“That get-together thing before my race. You’re coming, right? All the girlfriends are coming.”
I look at him sideways. I’m not sure if he’s messing with me just yet or not. “Berlin, I have my art show this Saturday.”
“That’s this Saturday?”
I nod.
“Well, can’t you just move it? Aren’t you the only one in it?”
I feel my body involuntarily slump. “Yeah, but invitations have already been sent out, and ...”
“Oh!” he says, sounding excited for me. “Well, how many people are going?”
My shoulders sag even more. “I only have three RSVPs, and one is your sister.”
He’s quiet for a few moments after that. And I’m not expecting them, but tears start to sneak into the backs of my eyelids. I’m not sure what triggered them, necessarily, but if I were being completely honest with myself, I’d say that they had been waiting to fall for some time now.
He immediately wraps his arms around me and pulls me into his chest.
“Iva.”
I brush away the tears with the back of my hand and try to gather myself.
“You ...” He stops, and it makes me take notice. Something is wrong.
I look into his eyes. They’re sad, and instantly, a shot of fear races through my body.
“You’re not happy here,” he says.
It’s not a question. It’s a statement. And it’s true. But I don’t want it to be true.
His lips part, but no words come. There’s something else he wants to say. And my heart sinks. I don’t want to believe I’m not happy here. I love him. He’s my happy.
I’m terrified of what he’s going to say next.
“You need to go to New Zealand.” His voice is scarcely over a whisper.
I watch the honey swirling around his toffee-colored eyes. “What?”
“I, uh ...,” he says, but then stops. “I was talking to some people this past weekend. They’re really into art, and I mentioned this Sinclair guy, and they knew who he was. And they were impressed that you did, too.” He pauses again. “Baby, apparently this guy has more connections than I could ever dream of having when it comes to art. You need to go and paint and be where people appreciate you.” His voice is gentle, yet sure.
“But ...”
“You’re not supposed to be here,” he says.
“But your contract.”
He doesn’t say anything. He just nods once. And right then, my heart breaks. He wouldn’t come. If there’s anything that means as much to him as I do, it’s racing, and I know it. And even if he said he would, I would never let him give it up. He was meant to race. He was meant to do this with his life.
But it still hurts. I try to hold back the pain, but the more I try to hold it in, the more my throat aches. And soon, a sob escapes me. And then another. And another. I’m terrified. I’m terrified to leave him. But I think I’m more terrified to stay. And I think he sees that, too.
“Iva.” His eyes are red, like the color of the sun at sunset. “I see you crying at night. When you’re looking out the window, I see you crying. And I saw the letter.”
“What?”
“I saw the letter you got a couple weeks ago—the one from Sinclair that said the opportunity was still there. And I saw the way you looked at it—with regret. Iva, I don’t want to be the reason you regret anything. Life’s not meant to have any regrets. You were meant to dream big dreams. And you were mean
t to paint those dreams. And the bottom line is that you can’t paint those dreams here.”
I try to control the flood of tears now racing down my cheeks. “I can’t leave you,” I whisper. It takes every ounce of energy I have to utter those words.
“You can,” he says. And for the first time ever, I see tears in his eyes.
I shake my head. “No, I can’t.”
“But you will,” he says.
And with those three, little words, everything changes.
It’s as if I can literally feel my heart being ripped out of my chest. This can’t be happening. This is just like the first time. All those feelings of losing him are rushing back.
I shake my head, even though I know he’s right.
“I want you to go,” he whispers. “It’s an opportunity ... to be noticed, to do what you love for a living.”
I briefly force my eyes shut. “I don’t want you to want me to go.”
“Iva, if you only knew how hard this is for me.” A tear falls down his cheek. I kiss it away. And then we just sit there, listening to each other breathe, consumed by the fragile uncertainty that hangs in the air.
“What if ...?” I say, brokenly, through my tears. “What if I go for a little while, and then I come back? What if I do that?”
There’s a moment where I forget to breathe. And then, he tries to smile. And I can’t tell you why, but him smiling makes his eyes look even sadder.
“I would like that,” he says.
“Then, I’ll come back,” I say.
I try to push away the tears with a smile of my own.
“Berlin.” I place a hand on either side of his face, and his eyes quickly find mine. “But what if I have to be there awhile?”
My gaze casts down to the little space between us. I want him to say he would come to me.
He lifts my chin, and it forces my attention back to him. “Then you buy the best piece of New Zealand real estate you can find, and you paint a beautiful life there.”
It’s not what I wanted to hear.
“And I’ll come to you,” he says. I meet his dark stare. “Once this contract’s up, I’ll come to you.”
Instantly, a raw smile rushes to my face. His words are a warm comfort. But I also see the fear in his eyes. It’s the same fear I know is in mine, too. We jumped into this too quickly. Without a thought, we thought we could just forget the seven years that passed between us and pick right up where we left off. But that’s hard to do. I love this boy no less than the first day I fell in love with him. But we’ve each planned our life without the other.
“Nothing changes,” he whispers into my ear. “You hear me?”
I nod.
“I want you, Iva. I always have. I always will. The heart wants what the heart wants, and it wants you. Plain and simple. It’s already made that pretty clear.” He presses a kiss into my hair, as a rogue tear slides down my cheek. “You’ve never asked me to be anything I wasn’t. You just took me as I was. And some days, I still can’t figure out why your heart picked me. But I’m so happy it did.” He pulls me closer to him. “Thank you for loving me—for who I am, and for who I’m not.” There’s a pause, and then I hear his deep, rasping whisper in my ear: “But now, it’s my turn to love you for who you are. And you’re an artist, Iva. And budding artists don’t live in Channing, Kansas.”
I breathe in the smell of his cologne, and I close my eyes. It’s the smell of home, of love, of Berlin Elliot.
My heart is breaking.
“This isn’t the end, Mr. Elliot,” I breathe out, tears consuming my cheeks.
I feel his head nod against my face.
“This isn’t the end,” I say, one more time, pulling back and meeting his red gaze.
He shakes his head. “I don’t believe in endings—especially when it comes to you, Miss Scott.”
It’s a Friday afternoon. I pick up my carry-on luggage, and I feel my chest lift with a breath.
In words, this isn’t the end. Nobody said it was. Not me. Not Berlin. But it doesn’t take away that fear in my heart—that fear in my heart that comes with leaving him on the other side of the ocean.
Berlin knows I’m leaving today. He’s in Nashville, getting ready for a race, as I stand here. We spent every moment we had earlier this week wrapped up in each other’s arms. And each moment made me question this decision that much more. But I’m also excited. I’m excited the opportunity is still open to me. I’m excited to learn more about my passion. I’m terrified to leave, but I’m excited for this new adventure, too. I’ve been dreaming this dream for a long time. And today, I get to live it.
I glance down at my hand. Next to the canary-and-white-diamond ring on my finger, there’s my passport and a one-way ticket to Christchurch, New Zealand.
I take one more, long look at the home Berlin and I shared for exactly four months and eight days. It was such a short time, but it might as well have been a lifetime because in those four, short months, we got to live out a dream we thought we had forever lost.
But then again, maybe it was never really found. Maybe we were still just dreaming.
My eyes get stuck on the couch in the living room. I love that dumb, big couch. I don’t even know how many times Berlin and I drifted off to sleep, while some old movie from the forties played on the television in the background.
I swallow down the ache in my throat, as my stare gradually wanders up to the big glass doors that lead to the backyard. There’s a porch swing there, where we spent every warm night we had remembering Sweet Home and the life we shared there. And intertwined in those memories were always the dreams of the life we were going to have here, too.
Sweet Home was our beginning. But every piece of this house tells a story about our second chance. And there’s a part of me that wishes I could take the whole thing with me.
I close my eyes, as if to keep it all in. And then, slowly, I force out a breath, and I shut the door.
The unknown is a scary place. But Berlin and I made it through seven years. We can make it across an ocean.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The Time in Between
Two Years Later
Iva
I look down at the diamond ring I’ve been wearing for a month now. But I can’t stop thinking about him. And you would think him would be the man who gave me the ring. But tonight, him is Berlin Elliot.
Some people dream about a second chance with the one that got away. I used to be one of those people.
But I don’t dream that dream anymore.
I got my second chance.
But as it turns out, second chances aren’t really all they’re cracked up to be. It’s true. It’s one more opportunity to dance around the room before the song ends. And it’s fun and exciting and beautiful. It’s everything you wished it could be ... and maybe even more.
But then, it ends.
The song must end.
It always does.
And then you’re left just humming the words to an empty room and an empty heart.
Two years ago, it was a clean break, like that of an ax splitting open a log. I didn’t know it at the time, but the moment that ax hit the wood, that was the end of us. Looking back, it was more swift than it seemed. But it was no less painful.
Berlin and I talked on the phone a lot at first. I’d stay up until all hours of the morning just so I could hear his voice. And I’d go to work, and then I’d go paint. And I could barely keep my eyes open, but I was happy.
And I can’t even tell you exactly when it all started unraveling. All I remember is that there came a day in the middle of the afternoon when I stopped, and I glanced up at the clock on the wall. And I just stared at that clock and thought about him resting his head on his pillow half a world away. And that’s when I realized that it had been a month since I had last spoken to him.
The realization almost shattered me. I had no idea where the time had gone.
We had planned so many things—life, trips, ad
ventures. But then, he got into the heart of his race season. And I started helping more with art shows in the evenings. So, by the time I got home at night, he was just starting his day; he was literally a day behind. And soon, we were talking on the phone less and less, mostly because of the time difference. And we never could get our schedules to match up, so we could see each other. I flew home a couple times in the last two years, but he was always in another big city and in another big race, and each time, we missed each other, and I returned to New Zealand, with only having seen his car on the television. And we talked about him coming to visit after the season was over. But we never made it that far. And truthfully, I don’t know who raised the white flag first. I don’t know if it was me or him. But I really don’t think it was ever a conscious decision on either of our parts. In the end, I think we both just fought so hard that eventually, we ran out of fight.
As it turns out, an ocean is mightier than we had once believed.
It was a Tuesday, nearly a year after I had first left the States when he left a voicemail—the voicemail that sealed our fate. It was in the middle of the night. The message said exactly two words: I’m sorry. And with those two words, I knew what he had done.
It was the day he re-signed his contract.
I cried myself to sleep that night. And the next day, I took off his ring. I put it in my momma’s red, velvet box, and I tucked it away in the drawer in my nightstand. And no matter what I tried to tell myself, my heart was broken without him.
But then, the days came and the days went. And I met Adam. And life blossomed again. I felt joy. And for the first time in almost a year, I laughed—like really laughed, until my stomach hurt. And it felt good. And after that, I never called Berlin again.
But I was still angry at him for a long time. I hated him. I loved him, but I hated him. I hated him because life wasn’t fair to us. I hated him because I was here and he was still there. I hated him because he had done what I had done—he had chosen the one thing that he knew he could count on. For him, racing put life into his bones. For me, art allowed my soul to breathe. And neither one of those things had ever let us down, had ever made us cry ... had ever broken our hearts. And the thing is, we can’t say that about each other. When I didn’t have Berlin and he didn’t have me, we both had those things. And I think that made all the difference.