74

"Remember when I tried to build a deck and flooded the backyard?" Leo's laughter was self-mocking as he balanced two plates of pancakes in his arms.

Amara gazed up from the tangled garden hose she was attempting to unravel, her morning coffee growing cold. "How could I forget? Liana cried because the goldfish she 'rescued' from the flood swam off."

He set the plates down on the picnic table, syrup dripping onto the wood. "Said fish was probably a koi. Fancy escape artist."

She snorted, the sound warm and unselfconscious. "You replaced her with a new one from the pet store. Named it Nietzsche."

"Philosophers are the best pets." Leo sat down next to her on the bench, his shoulder brushing hers. "Speaking of names…"

The hose fell out of Amara's grasp, spilling water onto her sneakers.

Leo's tone dropped. "I found something in the attic yesterday. Your wedding album. The one I… uh… 'lost' after the hospital."

Her breath hitched.

He pushed a small box across the table. "Not the ring. I… I couldn't find the receipt to have it resized. But I thought…"

Amara's fingers trembled over the box, her pulse racing.

Leo's laughter was tight. "It's a key. To the house. Duh. But also… there's a safety deposit box at the bank. Joint account. And a provision in the will I rewrote last month. One that states if you ever need to evict you, you get the garden and the cat. I'll have the truck and my humiliation."

She finally looked him in the eye, her eyes sparkling.

He shrugged, not meeting her eye. "So… it's not a proposal. It's an option. Like a… a choose-your-own-adventure book. You get to decide 'happily ever after' or 'amicable co-parenting.' No strings. Just… possibilities."

The key glinted in the sun—a simple brass skeleton, worn smooth by years.

Amara traced the numbers on the box. "What if I pick 'happily ever after' and wake up tomorrow wanting to burn the house down?"

Leo’s grin was lopsided. "Then we’ll rebuild. With better locks. And a moat. Maybe alpacas."

She laughed, but her voice wavered. "What if I’m scared?"

He took her hand, his thumb brushing the scarred knuckle. "Then we’re scared together. But separately, we’re really bad at DIY projects."

The moment stretched, charged with possibility, until Liana’s voice shattered it.

"Mom! Dad! The hose is spraying again!"

Amara shot to her feet, swiping at her eyes. "I’m coming!"

Leo pocketed the key, his expression unreadable.

As Amara sprinted toward the chaos, Leo called after her, "Tell Nietzsche to stop hogging the sprinkler!"

She paused, her hand on the screen door.

The key was still warm in her palm.

That evening, as Leo rinsed dishes in the kitchen sink, Amara appeared behind him, her reflection doubled in the windowpane.

"Did you ever think," she breathed, "that maybe 'happily ever after' isn't a destination? Just… an action?"  

He turned, soap bubbles adhering to his arms. "Deep. But yeah. My point exactly."  

Her smile was uncertain. "What if I say yes… but on the condition we re-do the vows? Something less 'till death us do part' and more 'till the next time I want to choke you'?"

Leo’s laugh was a release—relief, joy, the shuddering exhale of a man who’d stopped believing in second chances.

He pulled her close, the key forgotten in his pocket.

"Deal," he said, his lips finding hers.

The next morning, Liana found the key on the kitchen counter, a Post-it scrawled in her mom’s handwriting:

“We’re choosing ‘happily ever after’… but keeping the moat option on the table. –A”

Beneath it, in Leo’s messy script:

“P.S. Alpacas confirmed. They’re named Nietzsche and Descartes.”

As Liana snapped a photo to send to her best friend, her phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number:

“Tell them the timeline’s almost aligned. The box in Portland? It’s waiting.”

END CHAPTER 91

“What’s a timeline?” Liana’s voice was small, her eyes darting between her parents.

Amara’s laugh froze mid-breath.

Leo’s hand tightened around hers.

“The one where Grandma’s not dead,” the text read. “And the box? It’s got a key. To a door you’ve been knocking on for years.”

The front door creaked open.

A woman stood there—gray-haired, familiar, clutching a Polaroid of Liana at three years old, wearing a nurse’s uniform.

“Hello, dear,” she said, her voice trembling. “I’m Clara.”

The photo in her hand was dated 1992.

And Liana’s face was unmistakable.

--------

"Mom, if you say 'I need space' again, I'm gonna start a GoFundMe for your therapy appointments." Liana's words were muffled behind the bathroom door, phone pressed to her ear.

Amara's mirror image trembled. "It's not like that."

"Sure as heck sounds like it." The bathroom door trembled as Liana leaned on it. "Dad's standing out there telling alpaca jokes and you're… hiding. Again."

"I’m not hiding." Amara’s hands shook as she tucked the key into her jewelry box. "I just… need to think."

"About the wedding thing?" Liana’s sigh was audible through the door. "Mom, he said it’s a choice. Not a deadline."

Amara’s throat tightened. "Some choices need more than ‘I do’ or ‘I don’t.’"

At the diner, Leo stirred his coffee until the sugar dissolved into bitter oblivion.

"Third cup today?" Ms. Chen slid into the booth, her artist’s smock still splattered with Liana’s abstract paint. "You’re either plotting world domination or chickening out."

Leo snorted. "Chickening out’s a full-time job."

She nodded toward the empty seat across from him. "She’s not coming, is she?"

He traced the rim of his mug. "Said she needed to… rediscover herself. Or something."

Ms. Chen's eyebrow jumped. "Deep. But fair. You ever wonder if she's waiting for you to stop trying so hard?"

The question hung, a paper airplane gone astray.

Leo's laugh was hollow. "How do you stop trying without… giving up?"

"Maybe 'trying' isn't the verb she's seeking."

That evening, Amara caught Leo on the porch, the bank keychain still clutched on his thumb.

"I said no," she exploded.

He did not look up. "Figured."

".But not forever." Her voice cracked. "I just… I can't love us both until I stop hating the pieces I shattered."

Leo's thumb stopped moving.

She walked over, her shadow merging with his in the gloaming. "Remember when Liana was six and she drew this picture of us? The one where I had three arms and you were a robot?"

He finally glanced at her, a ghost of a smile twisting on his lips. "Told you were a multitasking goddess and I was 'cool but glitchy.'"

She wept harder, tears spilling over. "She painted our hearts blue. Told us it was 'the color of sorry.'"

Leo's hand came over hers, the key cold against her palm. "What if… what if I'm not asking for forever? Just… a 'for now' that doesn't need apologies?"

Amara's breath caught. "And if 'for now' isn't enough?"

He shrugged, but the vulnerability he had shoved into AA meetings and sleepless nights was in his eyes. "Then we pick up the pieces again. Together."

The next morning, Liana woke to discover a note stuck to her bedroom door:

"Baking cookies. Therapy's at 3 PM. –Mom"

Inside, Amara had left a Polaroid of the three of them at the lake—her, Leo, Liana mid-laugh, water droplets catching the light like diamonds.

On the back, in Amara’s messy script:

“Love’s not a marathon. It’s a relay. My turn’s been too long. –A”

Beneath it, in Leo’s handwriting:

“P.S. Alpacas are confirmed. They’re named Nietzsche and Descartes. Also, I’m not a robot. Mostly.”

As Liana pinned the photo to her bulletin board, her phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number:

“Tell her the box in Portland isn’t just for her. It’s for everyone who’s been waiting in the shadows.”

“Who’s been waiting?” Liana’s voice was urgent, her fingers flying over the keyboard.*

The reply came instantly:

"Those who never left. Those who love her more than she knows. And those who need her to agree before the clock breaks again."

Liana's breath was suspended.

Her bedroom door creaked open.

Amara stood there, red-rimmed eyes but unyielding. "Who are you texting?"

Liana's thumb hovered above the screen.

The message beeped again:

"Tell her the key is not for the box. It's for the door she's been standing watch in front of since 1992."

Amara's blood froze.

Liana's whisper was a knife: "What did happen in 1992, Mom?"

The Polaroid on the bulletin board shook in the stunned silence.

And somewhere, a key was turned in a lock that shouldn't be.