I pulled her into my arms.
“Do clichés get dinner?”
She stared at me.
“What?”
“I made lasagna.”
She laughed.
That became our answer to most things.
Not grand speeches.
Dinner.
Coffee.
Fixing a shelf.
Driving her to the gallery when her car battery died.
Her sitting in the library while I studied for finals.
Love arrived through ordinary things.
Six months after that first morning, we walked the same river trail where my mother had found us.
The trees had changed color.
Michelle stopped beside the same bench.
“Do you remember?”
“Unfortunately.”
She laughed.
We sat.
Her hand found mine.
This time, she didn’t look around first.
“Laura asked me something yesterday.”
“What?”
“She asked if this was serious.”
My heartbeat changed.
“What did you say?”
Michelle looked toward the river.
“I said yes.”
I stared at her.
She looked nervous.
Actually nervous.
It made me smile.
