Page 22 of Surrendering To The Forbidden Mountain Man

"Ben complains about everything."

"He complained that you reorganized his garage."

"His garage needed reorganizing."

She grins. The door closes behind her. Her boots on the stairs, then the Subaru starting in the lot, engine turning on the first try now because I replaced the starter last month.

The apartment goes quiet. Coffee steam. Morning light. The distant sound of a truck on Main Street.

My hand finds my jacket pocket. Inside, a small box. Velvet. Been there for two weeks. Bought the ring in Durango on a supply run, walked into the jeweler's without a plan, and walked out with a silver band set with a single blue stone. Blue because of her eyes. Simple because she'd hate anything that wasn't. The jeweler asked if I wanted an inscription. Didn't hesitate.

"Worth it."

Her word. The one she said in this bedroom six months ago with her head on my chest after the first time. The one she said in the hallway the day I came back with the box and the letter. Two syllables that carry more weight than any military commendation I've ever received.

The ring has been in my pocket for two weeks. Brought it to dinner at Ray's last Tuesday. Didn't do it. Brought it to the clinic when I picked her up Thursday. Didn't do it. Carried it through a security check on the south gate, a grocery run, and a Saturday morning hike on the trail behind Main Street.

Not because I'm scared. The fear left the day I unpacked my boxes into her closet.

Because the way I want to do this needs to be right. Needs to match what she gave me. A card and a photograph, kept for sixteen years. A speech in a field at six in the morning. A woman who waited twelve years because she believed I was worth it before I did.

The closet door is open. Top shelf: my thermals, folded military-clean. Her shelf: scrubs sorted by color. And on the floor of the closet, against the back wall, the box. Shoebox size. Lid slightly ajar because we open it more often now. Not to look at the past. To add to it. A movie ticket from our first date in Durango. A napkin from Mabel's diner where she wrote "Mrs. Holloway" in pen and then crossed it out and blushed. A photo Ben took at Thanksgiving of me and Mira and Ray at the table, all of us laughing at something Ben said about the turkey.

My hand opens the lid. The cream envelope. The graduation photo. My letter on military paper. The ticket stubs, the napkin, the Thanksgiving photo. Growing collection. A history being built in real time.

The velvet box fits in the corner, next to the letter. Lid closed. Blue velvet against yellowed paper. Old and new. Fear and courage. All of it in one shoebox on the floor of a closet in an apartment above a hardware store in a mountain town that took me back without asking where I'd been.

I close the closet door. Leave for the south gate.

The wiring fault takes twelve minutes. Jasper's splicing is worse than sloppy. After the fix, there's a check on the main gate camera, a conversation with Hank about the property at the edge of town, and a text from Ben.

Ben:

Dinner tonight. Dad's making his pot roast. Don't reorganize anything.

Me:

No promises.

Ben:

You good?

Me:

Yeah. Real good.

Ben:

Cool. See you at 7.

By six thirty, the apartment smells like her shampoo. She's showered, changed into jeans and a green sweater that makes her eyes electric. Hair half-up, the way it falls when she twists it without thinking and pins it with whatever's closest. Tonight it's a pencil from her desk.

"Ready?" she asks.

"Almost. Grab my jacket?"

"Where is it?"