The "What If" Guy (34 page)

“Henry?” Elliott cried from the top of the hill. I looked up and saw him speeding toward us on his bike. “Henry!”

“El.” Henry released me just as Elliott let his bike crash to the ground. Elliott ran to his side.

Henry embraced Elliott, ruffling his hair. “How are you, son? I’ve missed you so much.”

“Me, too,” Elliott said.

Henry grinned at me, that lovely, lopsided grin that made the already hot August afternoon boil like the planet Mercury. “You’ve gotten taller,” he said to El.

Elliott looked up, his darkly-lashed eyes bouncing between my face and Henry’s. “You’re back? Is he back? You’re really back? What’s going on?”

“There are some things I need to speak to you about.” Henry put his hands on Elliott’s shoulders and bent down to his level, his mouth drawn into a serious line. “I left you and your mother to take care of some things in California. It wasn’t fair of me to leave without saying goodbye to you, and for that, I am sorry. I know you thought that I’d left you forever, and for that, I’m sorry, too. I never meant to hurt or scare you.”

Elliott’s eyes were huge. “Okay.”

Henry held out his hand for El to shake. “I promise you that I’m never leaving again.”

Elliott’s gaze flicked to mine. “Is he really staying?”

I nodded happily.

Elliott slipped his small hand into Henry’s much bigger one and they shook slowly. “Well, then.” A small smile tickled the corners of El’s mouth. “Welcome back.”

Sal hung his saggy face out the truck window and barked loudly. “I almost forgot,” Henry told him. “I didn’t come alone.”

“Holy crap,” Elliott squeaked. “You got a dog?”

The dog would seal the deal for Elliott. His eyes danced behind the lenses of his glasses. He stood on his toes to pet Sal, and the dog immediately licked his cheek. Elliot giggled.

Henry smiled. “Will you help me take care of him?”

“Sure,” Elliott said. “Is he a beagle or a hound dog?”

Henry turned and examined Sal. “He’s a beagle in need of Botox, I reckon.”

“You better get a house with a fence,” Elliott said.

“That was the other thing I wanted to talk to you about.” Henry glanced at me nervously, then walked with Elliott to the open window of the truck.

I watched them curiously, wiping the last of my tears off my face, and heard the bell above the pharmacy door ring as Doris and Helen popped their heads out.

Ramona and Ray Fisk busied themselves washing the outside windows of the grocery store.

“I’d planned on talking to Billy about this, but since he’s gone, you’re the man for the job.”

Doris and Helen stood outside of the pharmacy, blatantly watching us with silly grins on their faces. Henry reached through the open truck window and pulled out a small, black, velvet box, making all three of us—Doris, Helen, and I—gasp in shock.

I raised my trembling hand to my mouth. “Henry?”

“Elliott.” Henry’s voice shook. “I love you very much. And I love your mother very much. It would be an honor and a privilege to be your dad, and it would make me the happiest man in the world to be married to your mom. May I have your permission to ask for your mother’s hand in marriage?”

I held my breath, begging Elliott to say yes.

Ramona’s voice echoed between the buildings. “Ray, turn around. He’s got a ring.”

Henry laughed and swiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “What do you say, Elliott?”

This can’t be real.
My mind was spinning. Life didn’t happen this way. I never got the happily ever after. I was just a down-on-my-luck single mom who’d run into her “what if” guy and hit him in the face with an encyclopedia in October—and a pack of erasers today.

“You got it, Mr. T,” Elliott said.

They hugged. Doris and Helen sniffled.

I raised my face to the sun and closed my damp eyes.
Thanks, Dad. Thank you so much.

There were footsteps and whispers, and then the whiney groan of a droopy dog.

“Will you please look at me?” Henry asked.

I lowered my chin slowly and raised my eyelids, squinting slightly in the bright, August sun. Henry, the love of my life, the man I’d been head-over-heels for since the age of twenty, knelt before me, an open ring box in his hand. The stone, a tear-drop-shaped opal secured in a silver antique setting, glittered in the sunlight.

“Autumn Cole, will you marry me?”

I looked into his eyes, those pools of pewter I’d never tire of, then glanced at the people around us—the Fisks, Doris, Helen, and Elliott, as well as a few passersby that had stopped to watch the drama unfold. There were smiles on every face—the faces of the people who loved me, who’d loved me for thirty-three years, and who would love me until my last day. These were the grinning faces of my family
.

I brought my eyes back to Henry’s, put my hands on the sides of his face, and bent to kiss his mouth so softly, so tenderly that I felt his breath quicken under my lips.

“Yes.”

Epilogue

I married Autumn on October sixteenth, exactly one year to the day after she literally stumbled back into my life and clocked me in the face with an encyclopedia.

Three months later, I formally adopted Elliott, and he became my son. Though, in my heart, he was my son long before that.

Six months after
that
, we welcomed our daughter on the evening of Flag Day. Feeling that my late father-in-law had had a hand in her arrival, we named her Billie Tobler, and placed one of his old paintings in her bassinet next to her fuzzy red curls.

Elliott is the perfect big brother to his baby sister, as well as his brother, Leo, who came eighteen months later. He was my right hand man with those babies, always available to bounce one of them on his shoulder or play his cello to lull them to sleep. He also went on to play with the Spokane Junior Symphony for six years, until he left for Chicago to attend the Columbia College for music. He graduated with honors two weeks ago.

Autumn’s career took off. Her murals are featured in homes and businesses all across the state, and in Oregon, Idaho, and Montana. I often find her on the porch, painting while the kids play at her feet, her face speckled with paint, her hair blowing with the breeze.

And she still works with Doris and Helen at the pharmacy once a week.

We remodeled Billy’s old house, top to bottom, and still live at the top of the hill. We still walk down that hill to go to Fisk’s for overpriced canned goods, to the Halloween and Christmas festivals, and to take Billie and Leo to the park. Fairfield is our home, and we love it here. Fortunately for us, Fairfield loves us right back.

As for me?

I still work at the school, teaching history to uninterested sixth-, seventh-, and eighth-graders. I spend my days talking over the sound of text messaging, whispering, and note-passing, and I wouldn’t change a thing.

Why? Because every night, I come home to the most beautiful woman in the world, tangle my hands in her wild, red hair, and kiss her so long and so hard that my knees go weak. And yes, even after all these years together, my knees go weak.

How could they not? My Autumn is breathtaking, to say the least. Her light blue eyes, her creamy porcelain skin, her curves—every detail about Autumn thrills me. Sure, there are a few more wrinkles nowadays. For both of us. But every line on her skin and every soft edge on her body tells a story about our journey together.

I promised her that there would never be another, and I meant it. Autumn is the love of my life, and time hasn’t changed that one bit. I am a blissfully happy husband and father, and I thank God every day for my fortune. Autumn and Elliott stumbling into my life was the best thing that ever happened to me, bar none. My life as a husband and father has been more fulfilling than any other adventure I could ever have.

In fact, I’m coming full circle as a father. In the morning, I’m meeting Elliott in Spokane to pick out an engagement ring… because he is proposing to Tabitha Judd on Flag Day morning.

Acknowledgments

The “What If” Guy
was a labor of love born at one am in a hotel room in Bellevue, Washington, while my mother sawed logs in the next bed over. It’s based in the tiny town of my youth where I discovered my love for reading and writing. I owe a debt of gratitude to the town of Fairfield for being that tiny speck on the map I love so much.

A wholehearted thanks to Entangled Publishing and Liz Pelletier for taking a chance on me, from the bottom of my cheese- and all-things-vintage loving heart. Every published writer has their moment when they get ‘the call.’ I am so thankful for Heather Howland. Not only for seeing my core story through my incessant need to repeat myself and improper use of dialogue tags, but also for calling me on April Fool’s Day to ask, “How strongly do you feel about the word ’wetly’?”

No writer would ever be successful without a most excellent editor. Tracy March, you are brilliant, and you deserve props for muddling through my
eye
rolls,
eye
colors, and
eye
-talics. Thank you for believing in my voice, and making it sing.

A special thanks goes to Caroline Phipps. It takes a brave woman to put up with my artiste (with a French accent) personality. There is a special place in heaven for a fourth editor, who comes in blind and still does her job so well.

Danielle Barclay, you’re the most thorough and consistent publicist this debut author could ask for. It’s not always easy to hang with someone as clueless as I am, but you do so with a smile and a chipper perspective and for that, I am infinitely grateful.

To my mother the librarian, thank you for inspiring me to love books and for your unwavering affection. It all started when you brought home a copy of
Home Song
by LaVyrle Spencer. To my brothers, a special thank you for crafting me into the neurotic, slightly obsessive-compulsive creature I am today. To my father, I always knew you loved me, even when you couldn’t show it.

And, of course, thanks to my nerd and four monsters. In order to properly articulate love, you have to have experienced it. Thank you for giving me such brilliant material, my loves. Now pick up your socks.

A heaping bowlful of gratitude goes to my writing partner, Jess Macallan. There are times when I need a swift kick in the a**, and I am proud to have your boot in my a**. But no spooning!

My girlfriends, or early ‘fans’—you know who you are—you ladies are the reason I never gave up. I have the coolest friends ever. *jazz hands*

Here’s to more stories, more laughs, more tears, and more romance to come.

- Brooke Moss

Brooke Moss
lives in beautiful eastern Washington state with her nerdy husband, four dirty-faced kids, and one dim-witted dog. When she’s not changing diapers and spinning tales, Brooke watches entirely too much reality television, often changes the color of her hair, and fancies herself a cheese aficionado. She loves to write stories that are equal parts hilarious and heart-wrenching, and enjoys finding the love story in every ordinary couple’s past. Now, if she could just dig out from under that pile of dirty laundry...

Find Brooke on the web at
www.brookemoss.com
.