“From now on,” Casey said, sitting up straight to catch her gaze, “whatever we are—friends, or colleagues, or any other thing—we go forward accepting each other’s mistakes with our eyes wide-open, okay?”
She nodded, dabbed at her nose.
“I won’t ever hold anything you just told me against you.”
“I won’t, either.”
“All I care about is what comes next. And if you need something from me, know that you can ask for it, and I’ll give you whatever you need, because I care. Not because I think you need saving, and not because I want something from you. Just because I think you deserve a fair shot at this new life of yours, okay?”
“I’ve never doubted that.”
“I want you to know,” he said slowly, carefully, as though handpicking each word, “that nothing’s different about how I feel for you. After hearing everything you’ve been through. I’m still crazy about you, no matter what you did when you were fifteen, no matter what happened to you in Lime or any other place.”
Her chest felt funny. Light and . . . and porous. Like a sponge, thirsty to sop it all up. “Really?”
“Yeah, really.”
Was that even possible? She’d never been able to forgive herself for her mistakes, or stop feeling dirty about her past. It had been impossible to imagine someone else managing it. Certainly not a guy. “The filth of your sins is a mark that will never wash off,” her father had told her. “No decent man will ever want you now.”
She’d ached so badly for him to be wrong, though for years her choices had fulfilled that prophecy. But looking at Casey now, in the wake of what he’d just said, and knowing how it had felt, every time they’d come together . . . A good man had wanted her, and still did, in spite of all those sins. Not a perfect man, but a good one. It seemed all but impossible. A miracle.
“I don’t understand how you can know all that stuff and still see me the same.”
“I can’t see you the same, no. I can see way deeper than I did before, knowing all that. But I feel the same, I promise you. I got absolutely no attachment to a girl’s innocence, or her being perfect, or ladylike, or any other thing. All I’ve ever cared about is how somebody makes me feel, and you make me feel like I want to do better. Be better. And I can honestly say, no woman’s ever made me want those things before. You and Mercy,” he said with a smile, hooking his thumb in the baby’s direction, “you guys accomplished the impossible. Must be the blue eyes or something.”
“Must be.” She felt shy, but behind that, elated. And confused about where she stood, but also hopeful, and undeniably free of so much pain and guilt and—
“I still care about you,” he said firmly. “I still want you. Now, you don’t need to tell me tomorrow or next week or even next year that you know how you feel, where you stand, but if you ever decide that maybe you still feel that way for me . . .”
Her smile faltered, trembling under the weight of everything she felt. “I won’t tell you tomorrow,” she said.
“And that’s fine. Like I said—”
“I can tell you right now.”
He stared at her for a long moment, blinked once, twice. And then he exploded her brain.
“Marry me,” he said.
“What?”
“Marry me, Abilene or Allison or whatever the fuck I should call you. Tomorrow or in five years—I don’t care when, just say you will.”
She couldn’t say that. Couldn’t say that or any other thing—she was too shocked.
“Nothing’s going to change how I feel about you. Not your secrets or me going crazy, not anything. I’ll ask you again one year from now, if you want.”
“I think maybe you should.” If only because she might need that long to be sure she wasn’t dreaming.
“I will, then. In the meantime, keep thinking about that house. Imagine every last thing about it, because someday you and me are going to find that exact place and make it just how you want.”
Her shock softened in a breath, so touched by those words, and to realize that this man knew her better than anyone else on the planet.