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"Even better. I don't trust your speeches."

"I have one sentence."

"Go ahead."

"I'm sorry." My voice comes out rough. "I'm sorry, Carolina. I'm sorry I said that in the hall, and I'm sorrier I didn't say the rest of it. I don't want you to think for one second that I was sending you away. I was scared. I've been scared since the cider tent, and I handled it badly, and I let you walk out of my house."

She says nothing. She stands with the skillet at her side, listening. I keep going because I can't stop.

"The rule was never only for Faith. My mother told me that tonight, and she was right, and I hate that she was right. I made the rule after Shannon because I thought if I never let anyone get close enough to want, nobody could leave. Then I told myself it was for Faith, because that's easier to say out loud."

I swallow. "I said 'before we know what this is.' I know what it is. I've known since you put your hand on my shoulder in that tent. I was afraid to say it, because once it's said, it's something I could lose."

The wind moves in the orchard behind me. Somewhere down the hill a screech owl calls.

"Tell me what it is," she says quietly.

"It's you."

Her breath catches. It's a small sound, but I hear it.

"It's you. I haven't wanted casual since the cider line. I want slow, and real, and in daylight. I want to walk down Main Street with your hand in mine and have Dolores see it. I want to tell my daughter the truth, which is that I like you very, very much, and you might stay, and I'm not going to promise her anything I can't keep, but I'm not going to hide you either."

I'm shaking a little, and I don't care. "I'm not asking you to give up anything. I'm not asking you to move or choose. I'm asking you to let me try."

For a long moment she doesn't speak. She lowers the skillet, slowly, and sets it down on the porch boards with a soft clank against the wood. When she straightens, she's looking at me with her whole face open.

"I wasn't angry that you were careful. I'm not stupid. I know what a child costs, and I'd want you to be cautious. I was angry because I could hear every other thing that sentence meant, and you didn't say any of them."

"I know."

"I'm not leaving, Ethan."

I stare at her.

"I mean, I haven't decided everything. I'm not going to pretend I have." She wraps her arms around herself. "But I called Ridgeline at eight o'clock tonight and left a message that I'll be proud of for the rest of my life. The answer is no. It's always been no. And I called Margaret Doyle. She wants to show me the clinic at nine tomorrow. She's retiring in December, and nobody wants the job."

"The clinic."

"I haven't said yes. I might say yes. I might say no. I might say yes to the clinic and no to the commute and spend a year figuring out what a woman does with forty acres of apple trees." She half laughs. "I'm not doing it for you. I want to be very clear about that. I'm doing it because there's a swing in that orchard that my grandmother hung for me when I was seven, and a town where nobody's going to ask me to wait in a parked car. It's for me. You're the best part. But you're not the reason."

"That's the best thing anyone's ever said to me."

"It isn't romantic."

"It's the most romantic thing I've ever heard." I take a step closer. "You're staying for yourself, and I'm a very good part of it."

"A very good part."

"I'll take it."

She laughs. It breaks in the middle. Her eyes spill over. She wipes them with the heel of her hand, furious.

"I've been polite about this for the last two hours."

"I noticed."

"I was very calm. I changed a lightbulb."