The next day, I leave this note for him: I love our house. It may not sound like much, but it’s a big deal. In those four words I’m validating his decision to buy it, and I don’t refer to it as his house. Apparently he checks his lunchbox an hour early, because he shoots me a text at eleven that says: I love living in our house with you. Look under your pillow.

I run upstairs and fling all my pillows off the bed. He’s hidden a note for me! My heart lights up like a Christmas tree and I scramble over my mattress to devour every letter of the short message. Nicholas wrote me a note and took the time to slip upstairs and slide it under my pillow. Every step of the action resonates.

Good morning! You have excellent taste in music. (And men.) I’m so glad we stayed in Morris. I believe in you! You can do anything you set your mind to and I know you will achieve all your dreams. You are, and will always be, the most beautiful person I’ve ever known.

My smile’s so wide it’s hurting my facial muscles, and I lie on the bed and kick my legs and squeal. I’m certain that the ghosts who are watching think I’m a lunatic, but I don’t care. I put the note back under my pillow and run a lap around the yard to work out my restless energy.

Beautiful! He thinks I’m beautiful. And he believes in me. Or so he says, the devil on my shoulder adds, but I flick the devil off. I’m going to let myself be happy about this.

I’ve forgotten what it’s like to feel this alive. Colors are brighter, bolder. Sounds are louder. I brainstorm ways to thank Nicholas for his thoughtfulness and decide to have flowers sent to him at work. To my knowledge, no one has ever given Nicholas flowers in his life. To him, they’re impractical and he probably associates them with the crushing obligation he feels toward his mother, so I would like to change that. After I call up the local florist and none of her suggestions sound particularly inspiring, I ask if she can put together an arrangement made entirely out of myrtle. Myrtle is generally used as filler greenery in a bouquet, too plain to be the main event, but in the Nightjar world collecting myrtle gives characters vitality points. I think the significance will make him smile.

Nicholas’s car rumbles up the drive shortly after six, which means he hasn’t made any stops after work, and I run to greet him right as he’s shutting his door. He turns and looks down at me, a grin instantly appearing on his face. His eyes are bright and flickering like firelight, and a swarm of butterflies threatens to fly up from my stomach and right out of my mouth. He’s holding my myrtle bouquet.

“Hey, you,” he says, nudging my arm with his elbow.

“Hi.” I take his lunchbox from him. (Look, I can be gallant!)

“Thanks for the vitality boost,” he says. “It came in handy when a three-year-old bit my finger.” He shows me an indentation of tiny teeth on the tip of his index finger.

“I hope you bit the kid back.”

“Her mom wouldn’t turn around long enough for me to get away with it.”

Has Nicholas ever looked this happy? No. What a shame, to know I’ve been accepting anything less than this smile he’s giving me right now.

I think he wants to touch the way we used to. I think he wants to kiss me. But he’s restrained. He leans his forehead down to mine. “You’re cute,” he half laughs, then pulls away and taps my nose. We stroll up to the house and if I’m not mistaken, there’s a new spring in his step.

We pass our evening setting up the Christmas tree and making popcorn garland. He fashions me a popcorn necklace, so I make him one, too. We take turns tossing popcorn into each other’s mouths. I’m marveling how every day is better than the one before it when he checks his phone and his face falls.

“What is it?”

“Text from Mom.”

I pile a load of unsavory words onto a cutting board and dice them up into tiny pieces. Deborah has not called or initiated a text in days. When Nicholas texted her to test the waters, the responses he got were about as angry and self-pitying as you’d expect. “What’d she say?”

“Uh.” He looks up at me, and his expression is so full of apology that I get a tug in my stomach and feel vaguely ill. “I forgot that I even agreed to do this. I told her yes weeks ago, and they’ve made plans for some big welcome, or else I’d try to back out.”

“Back out of what? What did you agree to?” Ridiculously, arranged marriage pops into my head and I’m ready to clash swords with some faceless woman in a bridal veil. I’ve got a ring! I saw him first!

“A trip to Cohasset, Minnesota. About fifteen years ago when Dad was still plugged into the investment world, he invested a chunk of money into a friend’s start-up beer brewery, and it did well enough that he bought himself a partnership. Once a year he goes and checks out the brewery and they go over the year’s figures in a meeting and decide how they want to grow the company. This year, though …”

He scratches his head. “Well, Dad says he doesn’t care what happens to the company anymore and he’s tired of long trips. He just wants to stay home. Mom’s worried about missing out on potential investment opportunities, so she gave me a pile of spreadsheets to look over and begged me to go as his proxy.”

“Oh.” I pick at a thread in the rug. “What day is the meeting?”

“Mom says a man named Bernard is expecting me at ten a.m. this Saturday.”

“Ten a.m.? How long does it take to get to Cohasset?”

He makes a face. “I don’t know. I think, like, seven hours? I’ll have to leave early. They’ll keep me busy all of Saturday, and with a seven-hour drive back I’ll have to stay in a hotel and leave Sunday morning.” He checks the weather app on his phone. “Snow and precipitation all day Sunday. Of course. I have no idea how long it’s going to take to drive back. I might get in late.”

“That’s the whole weekend,” I reply glumly.

“You could come with me.” Hope flares in his eyes. “You wouldn’t have much to do at the brewery, but we could look up other stuff in Cohasset to entertain you. We’ll play music in the car and get a ton of road snacks.”

My focus zeroes in on the hotel part of this equation—namely, if we’d share a room. Would he request one bed or two? A bolt of excitement strikes, but it all goes dark when I remember: “I have an interview Saturday morning.”