That night I made myself pasta and watched a documentary about the restoration of an old theater. Around ten, Donovan sent a photograph of the hospital maintenance team's coffee cups lined up beside a box of sandwiches. His caption said, "Romantic dinner for twelve exhausted technicians. You definitely got the better menu." I laughed and sent him a picture of my slightly overcooked noodles. There was no promise that he would rush to my door afterward, and I did not need one.
On Sunday we ate at the restaurant we had chosen, and Donovan brought me a small bunch of daffodils from the grocery store on his way there. I knew they had not cost much. He admitted that he had stood in front of the flowers for several minutes wondering whether they were too ordinary for Valentine's Day. I told him the truth: I liked them, and I liked that he had thought of me while doing an ordinary errand.
He smiled, then grew serious. "I need to tell you something about the other night," he said. "When you called and said you were disappointed, I got scared for a second. I thought we were about to have the same fight all over again." I felt the old urge to defend myself by pointing out that I had behaved differently this time. Instead, I asked what had helped him feel safe enough to answer.
"You told me what you felt without making me guilty for it," he said. "Then you let me answer honestly." He paused. "I know that sounds basic. But basic is what I want. I want us to be able to say what's true without somebody hiding a trap in the next sentence." I nodded, and for once the plainness of his request felt more intimate than a grand declaration.
We began using the word dating again later that month. The decision came after another walk, when Donovan asked whether I wanted to consider us exclusive while we continued rebuilding trust. I said yes, but only if he felt free to say he needed more time. He answered that he would not have asked if he did not want to try. We held hands while crossing a bridge, neither of us pretending that making a choice now erased the choices that had come before.
Our reunion did not produce the swelling soundtrack I had once imagined. We did not announce it on social media or tell everyone that love had conquered an obstacle. We went to dinner, talked about our schedules, and agreed that if one of us ever felt uncertain about the relationship, we would discuss the uncertainty rather than stage a crisis. We also agreed that neither of us owed an immediate answer in the middle of an argument, provided we came back to the conversation at a time we had named.
I told Kendra the news over lunch. She smiled but did not jump from her chair or declare that everything had worked out as it was meant to. "How do you feel?" she asked. "Happy," I said. "And a little frightened, but in a way I can talk about." She raised her coffee in a small toast. "That's a start worth celebrating," she answered.