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I laugh. “If you haven’t been dipping it in queso right after, then yes, you’ve been eating it wrong.”

“I’ll try anything once.” He leans forward, and I slide the chip into his mouth. He closes and chews. “Dang, that is good.”

Our gazes latch for a beat and my heart takes flight, flying high like it’s filled with helium.

“How is it I didn’t know that’s the best way to eat a tortilla chip?”

“Like my mom always says, Better late than never.”

“That’s true,” he replies, his dark eyes pinned on me, but I have a feeling we’re not talking about chips and salsa anymore. “Have I told you how proud I am of you for crossing that bridge tonight and not giving up?”

“No.”

“Well, I am.”

“It was scary”—a lump forms in my throat, but I push it down—“but I knew you were on the other side waiting for me.”

He touches his chest. “You saying that means the world.”

There’s a beat where we each absorb what the other said.

This is it, right?

What it feels like to be falling for someone and not holding back? To let the moments when they reveal a truth land, and let your heart absorb it?

I don’t know the last time I allowed my heart to absorb anything. Anything except the happiness from creating a Bitty Being.

This is also the part where people tell each other the things that matter. “Tonight, I saw a look in your eyes when I took off my blindfold. You weren’t just relieved—there was something more.”

He drops his elbows on the table and folds his hands. “I’ll admit, I had a hard time watching when you almost fell.”

“Why?”

“I guess it’s my turn to tell my secret.”

“You’ve got secrets? No. I don’t believe it.”

He scratches Flame behind the ears and then pushes a piece of lettuce toward her, which she takes in her mouth and nibbles. Gosh, but she’s. The. Cutest. Ever.

“You’ve got your hospital stories and I’ve got mine,” he admits quietly.

“You mean your sister, the one who had leukemia?”

He nods, and my breath goes still as Rhett lowers his gaze to his plate. I reach across the table and squeeze his hand. I know all about hospital memories—the squeak of sneakers on polished floors, the hum of fluorescent lights.

He looks up and smiles. “She fought hard for a long time, but we knew she wasn’t getting better. And she knew it, too. Near the end, we were all so tired. My mom asked me to stay by her bedside while she and my dad ran home real quick. She gave me her phone and said to call Dad if it looked like she was getting worse. Well, I . . . I was tired and fell asleep. Sarah passed away.”

He scoffs. It’s a bitter sound, like it came from the deepest part inside him, a dark place no light can touch.

“My parents returned right after she passed. My mom cried and asked why didn’t I call? How could I let my sister die while I slept? I just . . . I didn’t have an answer, and I’ve never had an answer for that. My parents—my mom especially—were so mad at me. She didn’t talk to me for months. Not one word. Just looked past me like I wasn’t there.”

He sighs. “Their marriage didn’t last, of course. The strain of Sarah’s death was too much on them. Too much on all of us.”

And suddenly my problems feel both smaller and heavier all at once.

His eyes shine with tears that won’t come. I squeeze his hand again. “You were just a kid. You shouldn’t have been saddled with that responsibility.”

“One side of my brain knows that, but the other side—the one that can take a company from nothing and build it into something—can’t accept it.”