Page 101 of Weekends with You

“Raj, I’m not sure thereisanything you wouldn’t do,” Henry laughed.

“Bodes well for you two, then, doesn’t it?”

“We’re leaving now,” I said, shooting her a look before she could say anything else. She stifled her giggle with a swig of champagne and waved us off.

“Lead the way, then,” I said to Henry, letting him pull me by the hand away from our mates and down a path I hadn’t seen before. My nerves were twisting and turning alongside the vines, and I was sure Hen could feel my heartbeat through my fingers.

I trailed behind him, wondering how it was possible he knew the route. He held the lantern in the hand that wasn’t holding mine, and I studied the way his long fingers flexed around the wire structure.

“Hen, where are we—” Just then, the view answered myquestion, choking the words in my throat. We had emerged in a clearing beside a running stream, delicate lily pads and assorted pastel petals traveling along on the gentle current, uplit flower beds dotting its banks. It looked like we had stepped into a Monet. “How did you—”

“Research,” he said again. “I went to the website, looked at a map, that kind of thing. I even read a blog.” I faked a gasp. “I wanted this to be perfect,” he said. The seriousness in his face matched that in his tone, and I stopped laughing altogether. He gestured to a spot right alongside the stream, and we sank into the soft grass beside each other.

On cue, the voice sounded over the speakers once more. I hadn’t the foggiest how the sound was reaching every corner of the gardens, but I figured it was easiest to attribute it to the magic of the festival.

“Hopefully by now everyone has found a comfortable space, for it is time to begin.” We exchanged a glance, and I relished the second it gave me to admire the way his eyes reflected the fairy lights. The way they resembled the river and the gardens, the soft green of a watercolor painting.

“Attached to your lanterns are matches, a slip of paper, and a pen. Use that paper and pen to share your hopes, dreams, fears, accomplishments, missteps, desires, secrets—whatever it is that lights you on fire. It will look different for everyone, and this, my friends, is the beauty of the festival. Then, when you’re ready, ignite the paper and use it to send your lantern into the sky.”

In any other circumstances, I might have thought this was cheesy. I might have laughed with the rest of our mates at the whole ordeal, participated in whatever teasing they were up to about each other’s secrets.

But with Henry so close to me, without another soul around,with the very possibility of our future unfurling between us, the opportunity to turn the past and the heartache to flames and ashes, I thought it was enchanting.

“Take your time,” the voice said, noticeably quieter. “Send your lanterns up only when you’re ready, and together we’ll watch them take your secrets to the stars.”

Once the voice disappeared, the only sounds were the babbling of the stream and a distant orchestra. It was like we had walked away from the rest of the lot and into a fairy tale, and I tried hard to shake the feeling that it was too good to be true.

“Well,” I said, hardly above a whisper, taking the pen and paper in my hands. “What should we write, then?” I held my breath while I waited for his response, trying not to agonize over the possibilities.

“I had another idea,” he said, reaching into his pocket and producing a slip of paper of his own. It was folded neatly, and as he turned it over in his hands I spotted a single “H” on the outside.

I opened my mouth to speak but closed it again before I could say anything that would interrupt the beauty of the silence. Instead of reading the paper aloud, he handed it to me. “It’s the resolution I wrote when I came home in February,” he explained. “And as per your rules, I believe we’re supposed to burn them once we’ve accomplished them.”

I unfolded the paper and read, clocking the heat of his gaze all the while. It was a short resolution, only five words in his sharp, angular handwriting:

find what feels like home

I read it over a few times, stalling, before looking up to meet his eyes. “London feels like home now, does it?” I saideventually, searching in vain for something more meaningful. My heartbeat in my ears blocked any semblance of rational thought.

He laughed softly at my question, reaching for the matches. “No, Luce.Youfeel like home.”

My sharp intake of breath was audible, deafening, even, as we stared at each other under the warm glow of the garden. The lines that had spent the past two days writing concern all over his face had softened, and I could just barely detect the beginnings of a tentative smile.

“And I’m sorry it took me so long to see it,” he continued. “The more time I spent on the road, the more I realized that feeling I’ve been chasing for so long isn’t in any foreign country, or behind any stage, or in any airport. It’s right here, with you. Home isn’t on the road, and it isn’t in London, either, Luce. It is simply where you are.”

Tears pooled in the corners of my eyes, and I had no choice but to let them gather as he continued.

“I have spent the last year learning from an incredible woman that I need to think before I speak if I want to keep her around. And since I cannot imagine another second without her, it’s time I heed that advice.”

“She sounds lovely.” I smiled, a single tear rolling down my flushed cheek. In another world, I might have been embarrassed, but the way he was looking at me convinced me otherwise.

“She’s everything.”

Lanterns started to float into the sky around us, dotting the midnight blue like shooting stars. “So,” he said, gesturing to the lantern on the grass between us. “What do you say, Luce?”

A year’s worth of memories danced in his eyes alongside the reflection of the twinkling lights, giving me a glimpse into ourfuture. A future where we didn’t spend all of our time apart. A future where I didn’t have to guess how he felt about me. Where our dates didn’t have to be virtual, where I could kiss him whenever I wanted, wear his clothes, watch him work. Collect new memories like photos. Where we didn’t have to rely on games of chance to make us partners. Where we could choose each other, over and over again.

“Give me a match,” I said eventually. “Let’s burn this thing.”

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