“Told you,” Josh says, as if he can predict the future. But maybe he can. He’s always known what he’s wanted, and he’s getting everything that he asked for. I haven’t always known. But now I have what I want, too. The rest, the unknown…it’ll come.

And I’m looking forward to it.

The medal programme ends, we turn off the television, and – as we wrap ourselves around each other – we’re faced with the truth that our time together is coming to an end, too. Josh holds me tighter, but it’s not enough to stop the clock. The next evening, the Olympic flame is extinguished. The games are over. And he’s gone.

Chapter thirty-four

It’s midnight. It’s sweltering.

It’s the top of June.

I cross Amsterdam Avenue underneath a clear sky. I’m nervous, but it’s a good nervous. An anticipatory nervous. In the past few months, the last traces of shyness and doubt have been removed from my step. I’ve found the Right Way.

And I’m walking straight towards it.

The golden light of Kismet winks at me. There. In the window. Everything about this moment is exactly how I pictured it. His shoulders are rounded down, and his head is cocked to the right. His nose is nearly touching the tip of his pen. He arrived earlier this evening on a flight from DC.

I stop directly in front of the window. The light changes on the surface of his paper, and he looks up. We smile softly.

I touch my hand to the glass. Hi, I mouth.

Josh touches the other side. Hi.

He nods towards the door for me to come in. I open it, and I’m greeted by the warm fragrance of strong coffee. He stands. I walk straight into his embrace. We kiss, and we kiss, and we kiss. He tastes like Josh. He smells like Josh. He feels like Josh.

“You’re so real,” I say.

He touches my cheek. “I was thinking the same thing. I love the real you. I’ve missed the real you.” His finger is splotched with fresh ink, and I feel the tiniest wet drop against my skin. He tries to wipe it away, but I stop him.

“Please,” I say. “Leave it. I’ve missed the real you, too.”

Josh squeezes both of my hands with both of his.

“What are you working on?” I ask.

“The last page.” He gestures towards the table, where a pencilled sketch is being turned into inked brushstrokes. It’s a drawing of us, in this café, in this moment.

I smile up at him. “It’s beautiful. But what comes next?”

“The best part.” And he pulls me back into his arms. “The happily ever after.”