CHLOE
Five Years Later
“Come on, come on, come on.”
A laugh comes from beside me, and I tip my head toward the older woman who has been sitting next to me on the flight from New York to Seattle.
“Eager to see someone special?” She flicks her gaze down to where my fingers play with the ring on my left hand. “A spouse, perhaps?”
“My husband.”
She smiles warmly. “Ah, young love. I remember those days.”
I return her soft grin, not bothering to correct her that there’s nothing young about the love I share with Callum.
How could there be with all the hurt I’ve put him through?
Guilt crashes through me as it always does when I think about those three years we spent apart.
I remember clear as day how that version of me felt when I decided to take that internship in London, just like I remember the look of hurt on Callum’s face when I told him about it. I don’t think I’ll ever forget it, and it’s my daily reminder to keep moving forward in our relationship, no matter how many dark days we have.
I wish I could say that things have been sunshine and rainbows since Callum gave me a second chance, but that would be a lie. We’ve both worked hard to get our relationship where it is today and have spent countless hours in therapy, individually and together, to mend what I broke. It’s not perfect, but it’s us—and that’s the most important part.
“How long have you been married?” the older woman asks.
“About fifteen years.”
Her brows lift, and I grin, because it’s definitely not the first time I’ve received that reaction when people hear that.
“My, that had to have been hard, getting married so young.”
“It was,” I agree. “But as hard as it’s been, I wouldn’t change any of it.”
It took me a long time to be able to say that, especially those first few years after I came to Seattle. I spent a lot of time feeling guilty about being so selfish until one day in therapy, it hit me—my selfishness saved me and, by extension, us.
I was so excited by the breakthrough that I called Callum right after the session and spent the next twenty minutes crying.
Unsurprisingly, he was kind the whole way through it, and when I finally ran out of tears, he laughed at me.
“As much as I missed you while you were gone, I’m glad you were selfish. The last thing I wanted was for you to wake up one day and regret me. Because I’d never regret you, Clover. No matter the tears, the heartbreak, and the hard times. Never.”
Sadly, I didn’t get to jump his bones for that perfect response until four days later, when he came back from his road trip, but we definitely made it count when it happened.
“Good for you, dear,” my seatmate says. “Sometimes it’s the hard moments that teach us the most. I’ve been with my husband for fifty years now, and some days it feels like we’re still two young thirty-somethings trying to figure out who we are. It gets easier, sure, but you’re never done doing the work. Just remember that.”
“I will,” I promise her, just as it comes our turn to finally exit the plane.
I grab my bag from the overhead compartment and only sigh four times as the line to leave moves slower than a sloth.
When I finally break free of the aircraft, I practically run through the airport toward baggage claim, not even bothering to stop for a bathroom break, even though I’ve been cooped up for the last six hours.
It’s just as the old woman said—I’m eager.
I’ve been in New York for the last week at a writer’s conference. I am more than ready to see my husband again.
And when the escalator finally descends, I get my first glimpse of him in seven long, long days.
He’s wearing a simple pair of jeans and a sweater that clings to him just a little too well. He has a Seattle Serpents-branded hat pulled down low, but it doesn’t matter. People recognize him anyway. It’s why he doesn’t see me first, his head bent as he signs random things they’re shoving his way. He bobs his head, grinning—or at least his version of one—at whatever they’re saying.
As much as I love seeing him like this, in his element and being the pro hockey star that he is, he’ll always be just Callum to me, the guy who opens my Diet Cokes and brings me chocolate even when I say I don’t want any.
He’ll always be mine, I’m making sure of that.
I step off the escalator and to the side, waiting patiently as he finishes up with his fans. Once they’ve dispersed, he lifts his head, his eyes finding me instantly, as if he knew I was there the entire time.
This time, when his lips pull upward, it’s not into a polite grin but rather a smile—my smile.
My feet move on their own, almost like they’re tied to some invisible string, and pull me right to him until the tips of our shoes are nearly touching.
“Clover.”
The old nickname that I’ll never get tired of drops from his lips, and everything is right in the world again.
He reaches for the bag that’s strapped to my back and slips it off my shoulders and onto his. “How was your flight?”
“Uneventful, just like I like ’em.”
“Good.”
One. Two. Three.
That’s how many seconds pass before he’s pulling me into his arms and slanting his mouth against mine.
I sigh, relishing the way this always feels like coming home.
The first few times I left town after we got back together, I could see the unease in Callum’s eyes. He was scared, and rightfully so. Then every time I came back, just as I always promised I would, he’d hold me close, almost like he was afraid he’d lose me again.
Now, though, when I leave, there’s none of that. We’re in a good place. A real place. I’m no longer pasting on smiles and pretending that I’m okay. I actually am.
“I missed you,” he says against my lips.
“I missed you more.”
He sighs softly. “Not possible, Clover.”
Then he’s kissing me again.
It takes me a while, but I catch on to what he’s doing—distracting me.
“Hey,” I protest, pulling away. “Where is it?”
He smiles, then shakes his head. “Nope.”
“Come on. Just tell me.”
“Not a chance.”
“Callum…”
“Clover…”
I reach for him. Or rather, his shirt. I tug, trying to pull it up, but he smacks my hands away with a laugh.
“No. You can find it later. Tonight. Maybe. Depends on how tired I am after my game.”
“Maybe?” I lift a brow. “Are you sure about maybe? After seven long days?”
“And eight hours. Seven long days and eight hours,” he amends, and I love watching in real time as he calculates that it means it’s been even longer since he’s had me naked in our bed. “Okay, fine. Definitely tonight then. Tiredness be damned.”
I laugh. “That’s what I thought.”
This has become our tradition of sorts.
Years ago, Callum got clover tattoos to mark each year I managed to keep our relationship in limbo. So when the anniversary of my leaving came around the following year and he got another one, I was confused.
“I don’t want them to just mark the years we were broken. I want them to mark the years we fought, too.”
So, at some point every year, he gets another. He always does it when he’s out of town or I am, and then I get to play a fun game of “Find the Clover” whenever I return. It always ends with us both naked, and it’s safe to say I am very much looking forward to that tonight.
The alarm sounds, signaling the arrival of the bags, and Callum grabs my hand and drags me toward them as they begin to fall one by one onto the belt.
Every few moments, he presses his lips against my head as he holds me to him, and I grin, sinking back against his tall, hard frame.
Some days, it’s easy to dwell on those years we lost because I was struggling and scared. Others, it’s like they never happened at all.
But every day? Every day I’m reminded of why I fell in love with Callum in the first place, and it’s because of little moments like this. Like greeting me at the airport and insisting on carrying my bags for me, no matter how early or late it is, and even if he has a game that day.
Despite being born on St. Patrick’s Day and my Clover nickname, I’ve never felt very lucky in my life. I never felt pretty enough, small enough, smart, or good enough.
Or at least I never felt those things before.
Now, I do. I feel it all and so much more.
And it has everything to do with the tattooed man walking beside me, his fingers laced with mine, lips pulled into a soft smile, and my name inked on his skin again and again.
We might not have taken the traditional route to get where we are, but one thing I know for sure—we’re going to keep fighting. I am going to keep fighting.
It’s forever. It’s always.
It’s us.
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