I nod, and again there’s silence, just the two of us sitting together at the long empty tables, wishing so much we knew what to say to one another.
“Is Andrea having a good time?” I try, gazing out at the ice.
“Oh, yeah,” he grins, nodding. “A real blast. She loves ice skating. Always has.”
“That’s good.” I stare down at my shoes. “I want it to be special for her.”
Silence comes between us, the sense that each of us has so much more we long to say. But framing all those things into words is the problem and for one long moment, we simply stare into one another’s eyes.
He clears his throat. “I’ve been wanting to apologize to you, Rebecca.” He blows out a ragged breath. “For a lot of things.”
I hold up my hands. “Michael, please. You don’t owe me an apology.”
He scratches his eyebrow thoughtfully. “Nah, see I think I do. I just careened into things with you, and didn’t explain much. I wasn’t fair to you at all. You’d been through a lot of stuff, too, and I should’ve thought about that more—”
“Michael, please don’t,” I whisper, reaching out and closing my hand over his. He stares down at it, like it’s a curious, unexpected find. “You have nothing to apologize for, okay?”
Without looking up at me, he says, “I promised myself that if you came—if I ever saw you again, really—I’d apologize.”
“For what?” I squeeze his hand. “For letting me into your life? Into your pain? For being honest with me about all that, and about how you felt? If anything, I should be apologizing to you.”
“I hurt you,” he says. “I know how much I hurt you.”
“But I’m strong, Michael. Stronger than you still think.”
His fingers thread together with mine. I don’t flinch; I don’t fight him. I hold my breath as he slowly strokes my hand, touching the jagged scar that flames through the center of my palm.
“Your lifeline,” he whispers, outlining my mark.
Tears fill my eyes. “Only you could help me see it that way.”
“Andrea knows everything,” he says. “About Laurel and me…” He stares out at the ice.
My chest clenches tight. “That must have been hard to do.”
“No. Actually it wasn’t.” He glances back at me. “You were right about that, of course. The truth was what she needed.”
“What changed your mind?” My lungs draw tight, the air getting tougher to draw inside. His answer matters more than I even want to admit.
“I wanted you to believe me. That I love you. If I ever saw you again, ever really got to talk to you, not some lame-ass late night call, I wanted you to know exactly how I feel. That I’ve loved you from the beginning,” he rushes, squeezing my hand. “I needed you to know that I’m a truthful guy. That it’s not all bullshit. I needed you to know that I want to make a family with you. It’s real, what I want. I want you, but it’s more. I want a life with you. A full, whole life.”
Bowing my head, tears blur everything. In the background I hear laughter, the sound of kids approaching. The sound of my future—my potential future—I think as my tears begin to fall.
“Michael, you didn’t have to tell her for me,” I manage to say, though my throat is closed tight.
“Actually, I did. But I needed it for Andrea, too. And for me.” He draws in a breath, and gazes beyond me, out at the ice, contemplative. “You know, Alex wanted to take Andrea to New York for her birthday last fall. He wanted to take her to Rockefeller Center for ice skating. And that never happened ’cause he died.” He looks back to me significantly. “That taught me something, Becca. That we only have today. That’s our only guarantee. Not even the whole day. Just this hour. This minute.”
“That’s why you had the party for her, isn’t it?” I ask, realization forming.
“We couldn’t take her to New York together, so yeah.” He glances around the rink. “This seemed like a good substitute.”
“You can still take her to New York.”
“And one day I will,” he agrees. “Maybe you’ll go with us.” He gazes into my eyes for a long moment. Hope, promise, love; everything he’s spent these months yearning for flickers in his golden eyes.
My cheeks flush warm, something fluttering wild inside my stomach. “I’d love that,” I answer, and he breaks into a gorgeous smile, his dimple showing.
“I’d love it too,” he answers softly. “For us to go as a family, all three of us.”
“A family?” My voice catches and he unfolds my fingers, revealing the center of my palm. Very slowly he traces his thumb across my scar.
“Your lifeline tells me you’ve got a bold future, Rebecca O’Neill.” He studies the jagged mark left by Ben’s knife in the center of my hand. “I see children, a husband. Maybe three children of your own… and one adopted daughter who worships every piece of ground you walk on.”
With an intense expression, he scrutinizes the scar that I’ve detested for so long.