Page 114 of Caught Up In You

“Yeah,” is all I can say.

“I’m working on getting all the words right,” he says. “In therapy.”

My eyebrows rise. “Therapy?” It’s one of the sweeter things he could say to me.

“Yeah. Turns out I have an anxiety disorder.” He half laughs and gives a lazy shrug, but then he presses his lips together, his eyes worried. “That’s not the reason why I hope you’ll forgive me, but I figured I should let you know that I’m trying to get better. For you, but also for me. Maybe that helps to hear.”

I look down at the sixteen tapes laid out on the floor around me.

“To be continued?” I ask, my eyes dropping to the box in his hand.

“Oh, right!” He sort of jumps, like he’d forgotten this next part, and I laugh. Fuck, he’s so cute. He crosses the floor and hands me the box he’s holding. I pull the lid open to find more tapes.

Dozens and dozens of tapes.

All of them blank.

“We were in the process of recording this building love story, Wyatt,” Owen says. “We made all these memories in just a few months. And then I fucked it all up. I hurt you because I thought pulling away now would protect you from getting hurt even more later. And I’m working on that shit in therapy, but just know that I realize how messed up it was. I see that now.”

He pauses, sucking in a long breath, steeling himself. “If you want tape sixteen to be the end, I completely understand. I don’t deserve forgiveness for breaking your heart.”

He reaches down and grasps my elbows, tugging me off the floor.

“But I’d like to earn it, Wyatt. If you’ll let me, I’ll spend every day trying to earn your forgiveness. I want to spend the rest of my life filling these tapes with memories we make together. And when we run out, I’ll buy more. When I’m old and gray, I want to stare at a shelf filled with tapes, my messy handwriting and your brash script on the liner notes, each one a diary of ouradventures together. Each one a chronicle of how much I fucking love you.

“Please make mixtapes with me, Wyatt.”

There’s so much to say. So much to talk about. So much hurt to mend, both mineandhis.

But I desperately want to press play.

I suck in a breath, then reach up, threading my fingers into the hair at his nape.

“I fucking love you too,” I tell him, then rise up on my toes and kiss him. “I will absolutely make mixtapes with you.”

EPILOGUE

WYATT

October 14

The birthday girl is wearing her cake. As a birthday girl should when she turns one year old and her mother places a cake decorated to look like a botanical garden in front of her.

“Don’t worry, this is just the smash cake!” Hazel says to the crowd, laughing as Eden shoves green frosting up her nose. “I have a whole cake that’s just for eating.”

“I wish smearing frosting all over your face was socially acceptable for adults, because that looks fucking fun,” I say to Owen, who is standing behind me, his arms around my waist, his fingers hooked through my belt loops.

“Wyatt, you can smear frosting anywhere you want,” he says, his voice low and delicious in my ear. “I’ll happily help clean you up.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” I reply.

“Last time you said that, we ended up fucking in a bathroom during a party,” he replies.

“I’d hate to break tradition.”

I’m just starting to drag him toward my room when Carson comes skidding over, holding up her phone.

“What do you think this means?” she asks, shoving a text message in my face. I have to grab her wrist and physically restrain her so I can make out what she’s trying to show me. It’s a photo of a Florida lottery ticket, and beneath it, it simply saysWe won.

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