Page 79 of The Break-Up Pact

Levi squeezes my hand and I look up at him and see a reflection of that magic in his eyes, too. Something lost but never fully forgotten, something that is changing its shape to adjust to the new shapes of us.

“Tell me where you left off in the story,” I say to Levi.

And he does. A lot of it is still easy for me to follow because I read the same notes Levi was working from. But once he starts digging in deeper, there are moments of thoughtful quiet between us that are punctuated by one of us lighting up with a memory or a new idea. Some of the pieces come back quickly, and others seem to stretch, like they’re taking their time waking up. We reminisce and remind and rebuild, breathing life into the old story even as Levi starts to shift some of the pieces and make them new. Like we’re not just walking down a path back to the stories we used to share, but a bridge between the past that built us and the future we’re building.

We reach the top of one of the highest of the small peaks on the trail, and it feels like a good settling point for now. Like if we get any further, there will be too much for Levi to have to remember to write down later. Not that it will matter—I already feel all the ideas pressing into me the way they did when I was a kid, and I carried them around with me for weeks. Some of them tightly enough that I still have them with me after all these years.

Levi settles his gaze on me, and there’s a quiet intensity in it that stirs deep in my chest. He steps in closer, shadows and light from the trees casting golden afternoon sun on his face, and I think for a moment he’s going to kiss me. I lean in with anticipation, but when my eyes are firmly set on his, he stays rooted in place.

“I know you think I didn’t put you in the story,” says Levi, his voice low and steady, “but that’s just it. You are the story. I started it for you. Before I wanted to be a writer. Before I wanted anything much at all. I just wanted to watch that look on your face whenever I told it.”

I smile up at him. “So you wrote me a story about the people I love,” I say. There’s an entirely different magic in understanding this; one that will never be written explicitly on the page but felt in the space between every word.

He couldn’t have known then that it wouldn’t be just a story, but a remembrance. Another way of keeping Annie’s love in our lives, of capturing that fire of hers that we can still feel the warmth of even now. I feel the same ache for her I’ll always feel, but the grief is shifting again in that way it has since I lost her—I don’t feel the guilt of it anymore. It makes so much more room for the love.

Levi’s voice is hoarse when he speaks again. “I want to keep making stories with you, June. Stories that are all our own.”

I nod, the words feeling like they’re sealing something between us. “Me too.”

He takes my hands again, weaving his fingers through mine. “I know I said I’d give you time. And I mean it. But I want you to know that everything’s settled now. I left my job. I squared everything away with the old apartment and finalized my lease here. I’m not asking for anything from you. I’m hoping. I’m—” He swallows hard. “You know how I feel. I know it doesn’t undo the past. But I’m still hoping for the future.”

I squeeze his fingers with mine, a smile curling at my lips. “Levi, nothing’s settled,” I say. “We’re two big messes right now, you and me. But I don’t need settled. And I don’t need any more time. I just needed—I needed to be sure of something in myself, before I let myself be sure of this. I needed to let myself move on. And right now I need…”

I search his eyes, and then trail my gaze down to his lips. I tilt my head just as he leans in, and the kiss feels like a final floodgate opening, like a swollen sky has split and finally let out a swell of perfect, warm rain to wash our hearts clean. Like we’re finally coming together with our whole selves, every certainty and messy, unformed part of us, every piece we’ve held back and pieces we haven’t even formed yet to give.

It sweeps up again under our feet, in the loose pines shaken by the wind, in the promise of a new season just as the one you’re holding on to gets chased away: magic. We’ve felt it before. Spent years trying to feel it again. One quiet promise, one soul-stirring kiss, and it all spills back and leaves this impossible happiness in its wake.

We stand at that peak for a long time, holding each other, sealing ourselves up tight. We talk about things of great and little importance, things present and yet to come. We talk about the wedding and talk further into the future—to Sana’s birthday and the long list of songs she has lined up for karaoke, to Dylan and Mateo’s one-year anniversary and the cake flavor they still haven’t decided on for the top tier, to what my parents are going to do with the house long-term. We talk like the future is a given. We talk long enough that the sun starts to dip low in the sky, nudging us back down the trail. He gathers my hand up in his again, and we start to make our way back home.

“We forgot to brainstorm scones,” says Levi before we reach the trail opening.

For the first time in my life, I might actually be too dazed to think about baked goods. “Right,” I say. “Well, we have a whole lot of misadventures to draw from.”

“I personally would not object to an Uptown Funk scone,” Levi suggests.

I raise my eyebrows at him, impressed that he came in with a snappy idea ready to go. “Ooh,” I say, remembering our shared cold pizza on the couch. “Pepperoni and sun-dried tomato with a mozzarella cheese crust.”

“Now that is a scone I’d enjoy,” says Levi.

“Domino’s, but make it bougie.” I twist my lip to the side, thinking. “Maybe a Gallery Game scone?”

“Carrot cake–flavored,” says Levi solemnly, “as an homage to those terrifying cartoon carrots.”

I give him a surprised once-over. “Wow. For someone who hates desserts, you’re an excellent partner-in-scones.”

Levi slows his pace then until we both ease to a stop. “I’ve got another idea, too.” He looks almost bashful when he adds, “Actually, I went ahead and took the liberty of making a test batch.”

Levi shrugs off the small drawstring backpack he brought with him, opening it up to reveal a Tea Tide scone sleeve. I can smell it before I can fully see it—the bright burst of orange and the headiness of milk chocolate. It’s heaven in a scone.

“I figured if you were going to make a Levi scone, I’d make you a June one,” he says, handing it to me.

I hold it up, taking in the flecks of orange zest and hunks of chocolate, the scone perfectly crisped. Levi wasn’t kidding. He really was paying attention to the scone-making in the back. And to me, with my old love for milk chocolate and new obsession with citrus. A scone that’s part old June and part new.

“Aw. I feel bad,” I say, on the verge of a laugh. “The Levi scone was a punch line. You actually made me a dream scone.”

“I heard your punch line is selling out when it rotates in on Tuesdays and Fridays, so I’ll take it on the chin.” Levi nods at the scone, and when he meets my eye, I see a quick glint of mischief in his. “Go on. Try it.”

I hold his gaze as I take a bite. He really outdid himself. The scone has a perfect, satisfying crunch on the outside and just the right density on the inside, the zesty orange flavor balanced perfectly with the richness of the chocolate. Just as I’m about to ask him how the heck he mastered the delicate art of scone-making just by watching, I feel it—a telltale crackle, pop, pop, tiny fireworks on my tongue, between my teeth.

---