Chapter 24

                                        

                                              
Twenty-three. That's how many minutes it took before I heard the garage door opening—who was counting though? I'd been pacing between the kitchen and den, touching the locket clasped at my neck over and over. Repeatedly forcing myself to stop touching it—then touching it again. The weight of it felt strange and comforting at once—like wearing someone else's centuries-old heirloom that somehow felt made for me.
The door from the garage opened. Caden's keys hit the hall table with what felt like more force than necessary. I heard his footsteps pause in the kitchen—I could swear he was out of breath.
"Felicity?" His voice carried that same nervous energy from the phone call.
"Right here," I said as I rounded the corner. I'd jumped up from the couch, once I heard him come in. I'd thought the couch would help me look casual, but who was I kidding? My heart was hammering against my ribs and wait—was I the one who was out of breath? I forced myself to calm down. In for five, out for five.
We stood there, facing each other—him in his work clothes, me in a t-shirt and leggings. He looked disheveled in a way that was totally unfamiliar—tie loosened, hair mussed, eyes bright. He was holding a pizza box from Florina's. He must have swung by on his way home. It's been our favorite pizza place since even before we got married. The sight of that box made something flutter in my chest.
"You got the pizza," I said, pointlessly stating the obvious because I didn't know what else to say.
"I stopped on the way. Got your favorite—extra basil, two slices of pepperoni, ricotta, and eggplant," he said. (It's delicious. Don't judge!). He set it on the coffee table, his movements careful, deliberate. "And I may have also grabbed some caramel corn too. It's in the car. I was just—I wanted to make sure you were still here first."
His vulnerability hit me square in the chest. This man was always so sure of himself—yet now he was scared I'd disappear in twenty-three minutes.
"I'm here," I said softly. "I'm not going anywhere."
Relief washed over his face so completely that I had to look away for a moment. When I looked back, he was staring at the locket around my neck, his expression unreadable.
"It's perfect on you," he said, his voice rough. "Even more beautiful than I imagined."
I touched it instinctively. "Caden, this is—I don't even have words. The locket, the donation, the volunteer work. How long have you been planning all of this?"
He leaned against the side of the kitchen table, leaving space between us but angling his body toward mine. "God, I wish I could say months? But truth? When you left, I sat down and talked to Macy—told her about the purse. I talked to her about what happened. She was so upset that she hadn't even thought of you when she found the purse though—in her defense, it was all my fault ... I am the one who hid it inside her closet." He rubbed his hands down his face and mumbled, "such a stupid mistake."
He stood up straight and continued, "Macy and I talked. We knew you didn't want the purse back; you'd said as much—and I couldn't blame you! I knew it would always come with the awful memories of what happened. So we talked. She was the one who came up with the idea of donating it for a good cause. Then I thought of the necklace. And we both decided on the inscription—it was her idea for the picture though." He said that last bit with a smile.
"It was?"
"Yes—and I realized something."
I felt tears prick at my eyes again. "What was that?"
"That it was never about the purse. It was about you feeling invisible. About you feeling like your feelings didn't matter to me." His voice cracked slightly.