A/N:This will be my last note until the end, I promise. I wanted to point out to anyone interested that I've changed my homepage to my travel blog, so if anyone wants to read my essays, they're available at this moment.

You'll love me yet!-and I can tarry
Your love's protracted growing:
June reared that bunch of flowers you carry
From seeds of April's sowing.

I plant a heartful now: some seed
At least is sure to strike,
And yield-what you'll not pluck indeed,
Not love, but, may be, like!

-Robert Browning You'll Love Me Yet! - and I Can Tarry

The piece of paper in my hands is wrinkled, and slightly stained from the sweat from my palms. I've been holding it in front of me like a benediction for the last hour, and have crossed out three of the five options that are in my price range and looked good online. Maybe I'm untrusting, but I like it when there are pictures. Blame it on my generation's love of instant gratification.

So far, one apartment is circled, with a question mark next to it. The apartment in question is small, of course, but bright and clean-smelling, and only a slightly longer walk to work than what I do now. The next apartment, which had a lot of CAPITAL LETTERS in the advertisement, is ten minutes farther away. I have an appointment to see it, but it's not for an hour, and I waffle for a moment, trying to think of what else I can do to pass the time.

"Anne!" I turn sharply, cut out of my reverie by a familiar voice. Adam Croft, coach of the US soccer team, is waving at me from across the street. I start, then stare, then smile and wave back enthusiastically.

"Adam?"

"Get over here!" I wave a thanks at the car that stops to let me jaywalk, and I'm across the road in a flash—well, I run, anyway—and hugging Adam. He returns my hug enthusiastically.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, stepping back and looking up into his weathered, kindly face. He's smiling down at me warmly. I'm glad to see that he's glad to see me, as narcissistic and self-serving as that sounds.

"Where are you headed?" he asks me. "Can you take some time out for some coffee? I was going to find a café nearby while Nadya finishes wrangling our short-term rental apartment into order." He offers me his arm and I take it gladly.

"I was actually just thinking about how I could spend my time. I have an appointment in an hour, but I'd love to grab some coffee with you."

We head off, and I direct us to a small hippie-centric café called Java Moods, which is decorated on the inside by pictures of African villages and charcoal drawings of coffee cups and words scribbled on the walls in Sharpie from old customers. I could have brought him to the diner, but it's my day off, and I think he'd get a kick out of this place. He does.

"What's wrong with your rental?" I ask as he reads the obscure free verse on the side of his coffee mug.

"It's the large suite, and we have a lot of people staying there in the next couple of weeks, so she wanted to rearrange things with Mrs. Musgrove. I am, it seems, detrimental to the process." He says it genially, as if he takes no offense whatsoever at having terrible taste or poor rearrangement ideas. "It has to be able to fit us all in without making us want to kill each other."

"Why so many people?" I ask, amused.

"They wanted to have the engagement party here, although it would have been just as good in the Berkshires. Though this is less expensive, apparently."

I trace the line of the mug handle for a second, focusing on my breathing. You knew this was happening. "Engagement party."

"Yes," he says, as if I had forgotten my own name. His face clears for a second, and he leans forward. "Nobody told you?"

I think of Mary, still angry at me. I think of Charles, determined to please his wife. And then I think of Louisa, who I barely know anymore. "No, they didn't tell me."

"Well, that's something. It was all very sudden, you understand. None of us saw it coming."

I raise my eyebrows. "No? Well, engagement is a bit fast, I suppose, but—"

"Not just the engagement, but the whole thing. It's unlike him to be so secretive."

I swallow. Breathe. "He never told you that he was…I mean, he never talked about his intentions to you?"

"Nope. Not once. But I guess things like this are bound to be secretive. And we all thought, at least, Nadya and I thought that it was going to end up differently. Still, Ahmir isn't one to hold a grudge. He's agreed to be Ben's best man and everything."

I sit frozen for a millisecond that stretches into eternity. Then, carefully, as if my tongue were made of glass, I open my mouth and say, "Ben?"

Adam wrinkles his brow, looking at me from across the table. My heart refuses to beat, but I feel a pounding in my ears, in my lungs, in my brain. "Yes. Ben and Louisa."

"Ben and Louisa. Ben and Louisa?" I say, trying with all my might to remain calm and contained. I keep my voice down, at least. No one looks at us, or just at me, where I sit frozen to my seat. My brain is hurting with the strangeness of it.

"Yeah," he's smiling now, but a look of frustration is crossing his face as well. "You mean no one told you about that, either?"

I shake my head dumbly, my mouth slightly open. I'm too surprised to speak. I take a deep breath to steady myself, annoyed that I hide the effect this news has on me so poorly.

"Ben and Louisa are getting married. Not soon, I don't think. At least, not as soon as the engagement party. Which is in a week," he says, looking directly into my eyes as if chastising an unruly child, "and we all expect you to be there."

"Ben and Louisa?" I say again, dumbfounded. He laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

"I know. It's strange, isn't it? We all thought Ahmir was the one for her, even if she's young. They definitely seemed to like him best. But after the accident, she and Ben started spending more time together. He would bring books in for her, and read to her—"

"Poetry," I say, a little hiccup of hysterical laughter bubbling up in my throat. "He read her poetry."

"Exactly. And I guess she was in just the right state of mind for that to work on her, and God knows he was ready to have someone fall in love with him. So there we are."

"And is—and is Ahmir alright about it? Is he angry?"

"Not at all. Which is the weird bit. You'd think he'd be a little disappointed, but he cooked them dinner and hugged them both, and when they were gone he had nothing but good things to say about the two of them together. The way he talked, you'd think he never thought about Louisa in any other way besides friendship. So Ben and Louisa are engaged, and Ahmir is still single, and we're all going to be together in less than a couple days. In fact," he says, checking his phone, "most of them are arriving in four hours or so, and Ahmir should be here a little later. He hasn't really told us what day yet."

I sit back in my chair, my heart beginning to beat again and making up for lost time. I open my mouth to say something, anything, to respond like a normal person, but the door opens and Nadya steps in. She's every bit as regal and as beautiful as she was before, but when she sees the expression on my face, a rare grin appears, and she looks from Adam to me and back.

She does know. I was wondering if she did. She nods, just so slightly, and I have to look away. Adam turns around to see her approaching, and gets up to greet her as if they haven't seen each other in days. I take that moment to blink away the tears that have gathered in my eyes unbidden, wiping my eyes as best I can with the back of my hand, taking deep breaths to calm myself. Drinking coffee, which does not calm me down.

Nadya sits down at the table, and leans in toward me. I'm glad she refrains from touching me, because I feel as if I will burst into tears at the least provocation, and a sympathetic hand on my shoulder would probably break me in a matter of seconds.

"Have you heard the good news?" she says quietly, as Adam runs to the counter to order her a drink.

I can only manage a nod. She smiles again, this time tenderly. "It is good news, isn't it?"

I nod again, breathing carefully. In, and out, and in, and: "Very. I'm glad for them both."

"Aboslutely," she says, turning to accept the drink from Adam as he sits down. They start talking, but it's as if they're speaking in a language I only half understand. I join in half-heartedly until it's time for my appointment, and I get up quickly, grateful for a reason to move and exercise.

The apartment it so beautiful, so gloriously bright, that I agree to it on the spot. I've never seen a place as wonderously lovely in my entire life.

Jay is done for the day. He takes off his apron, checking the pockets to make sure there's nothing in them that shouldn't be. It's pouring outside, and he swears violently, so quietly that only I can hear. "It's pouring, man." He says, leaning on one hand on the counter. "Do you want me to come pick you up at the end of your shift? You don't want to have to walk in this."

I look outside, at the enormous puddles forming on the sidewalk and in the gutters. I smile, and turn back to him. "Don't worry about me. I've got my boots."

"You're insane," he says, shaking his head. "You sure? It's not out of my way, and I don't want you getting pneumonia and dying or anything. You're my best waitress."

"That's a dirty lie and you know it. No, go home. I'll be fine, I promise." He punches me lightly on the shoulder, and I punch him back, picking up a rag to wipe down the nearest table, recently vacated by a paunchy out-of-towner in a fishing hat.

The bell rings on the counter, and I turn to see Artie leaning over, tapping it to get my attention. I cast him an exasperated look, and he puts on an innocent face. "Garcon? Oh, garcon?"

"You do know that garcon means boy, right?" I say, throwing the rag across my shoulder and coming over to stand in front of him. Next to him, John Reed (referred to by all who know him by his full name) shakes his head at me.

"He just likes having your attention."

"Is your boyfriend coming today?" Artie says, leaning forward on his elbows.

"My who?"

"Your boyfriend. The blonde kid. Not good enough for you. Elliot."

"Not my boyfriend, and none of your business. Did you want something?" I say, casting a glance down at the one cup of coffee he's been nursing for an hour or so. John Reed snorts, shaking his head.

"He looks like your boyfriend, and he quacks like your boyfriend," says Artie, with a knowing smile. I roll my eyes, planting my hand on my hip.

"Either order something or shut up, Artie."

He orders one of the all-day breakfast sandwiches without even looking at the menu. I send it back to Amelia, the tattooed cook, and continue cleaning up after mister out-of-town. As I turn to get new glasses to put on the table, I see a figure hurrying down the street, hunched under a black umbrella. My breath catches in my throat, and I freeze for a second, staring stupidly out the window. There's no reason I should know it's him, absolutely none, but it is him. I can tell. The way he walks, the way he carries himself. It's definitely him. He walks past the diner and out of my line of sight. I look down at my hands, full of glasses, and start myself up again, slowly, sluggishly.

He's here. It's been exactly three days since I saw Adam, and now Ahmir is here. In the same city. And I will see him. My heart lifts with happiness and with a strange sort of pride. I didn't collapse this time. I did what was right this time.

Part of my wants to run after him, but I don't know what I would say. What could I say? How would I act? Would he want to see me?

Amelia knocks on the wall next to the window where I place the orders, our compromise after I almost went insane from the infernal sound of the service bell. I go to grab Artie's plate, and I hear the door open, and boots being wiped against the mat. I hand Artie his plate, and pour a woman at the end of the counter another cup of coffee.

"Annie!" Artie calls down to me. "There's no sausage!"

"You have high blood pressure, Artie. Just be glad they aren't egg whites. Although I can make that happen." He makes a gagging sound, and I laugh, grabbing the fresh coffee pot and making my way to the new customer, who's sitting in the booth nearest the door.

When I look up to greet him, I stop in my tracks, coffee swishing dangerously around in the pot.

He's staring at me with equal astonishment, his eyes opened wide, his lips together. The umbrella on the floor is sopping wet, and the bottom of his jeans are soaked to the knee. But he's beautiful. He's oh, so beautiful. Ahmir's always been beautiful.

I find that, in fact, I do know what to say.

"Would you like some coffee?"

He stares at me for a moment longer, then opens his mouth, then looks at his coffee mug, upside down on the table. Then he turns back to me.

"You cut your hair."

I blink, half amused and half terrified by this non sequitor. "Yes."

"I like it. It's, umm, what do they call them, the short ones?" He looks terrified, too.

"A bob?" I guess. I haven't moved.

He points at me as if I've just answered the million-dollar question, then says, "That's the one." It should be noted that he says it rather lamely.

We stare at each other for a moment longer.

"Hey, Annie!" Artie shouts from the counter. "Is this your boyfriend?"

"Shut up, Artie!" I yell back, not daring to look at the counter, not daring to look at Ahmir.

"Do you want to sit down?" Ahmir gestures to the seat in front of him. "Or, I guess you shouldn't. Are you working?" I look around at the mostly-empty diner. John Reed and Artie watching us with interest, the woman at the end reading the newspaper.

"It's okay," I say, putting the coffee pot down on the table. It's enormous, and full of hot coffee, and it's distracting to both of us, directly in between us. Ahmir smiles first, and I laugh. I push it to the side, and we look at each other, still smiling. But we say nothing.

The silence stretches.

"How is your family?" He finally asks, which is digging a little deep in the conversation barrel.

I raise an eyebrow. "They're fine. Thank you for asking."

"And how are you?" watches me intently.

I smile again. I love him so much, it's physically painful.

"I'm doing well. Really well."

"You're working here? How long?"

"A little over a month and a half now." He smiles broadly.

"That's amazing."

I lean forward on my elbows, and shrug. Then I think better of it, and I nod, and say "Thank you. Nobody else thinks so."

"Well, I'm not everybody else." The words hang in the air for a second, and I can't look at him. I can't look away either.

"How are you?" I ask finally.

"I'm well. I'm, uh—" he stops for a second, then collects himself, and says, "I guess you've heard about Louisa and Ben."

I watch him. I'm waiting for a sign that he's angry or disappointed. None comes. "I have heard about it, yes."

"I think they'll be good together. She's a little young, but," he says rapidly, eyes on my face, "but she's nice, and smart, and—" he stops, collects himself, "I think he'll be good for her, too."

We look at each other from across the table. There's so much I want to say, so much I can't bring myself to say. Not yet.

"It's good to see you," he says, quietly. My heart speeds up, and I clench my hands in my lap so I can stop them from shaking, but it just makes the shaking worse. I'm about to answer him when the door opens, and Mike, the waiter with the shift after mine, steps in. He doesn't blink when he sees me sitting across the table from a customer.

"Annie, you're off the hook," he says jovially. "You can go home." I look from him to Ahmir and back. Ahmir's face is blank; he doesn't give me one indication either way about which way I should go.

"Okay," I say, standing up. Mike makes his way behind the counter and puts on an apron.

"Do you have a car?" Ahmir is suddenly standing next to me.

"Umm, no." I say, looking outside and back at him, and struggling with the ties to my apron.

"Here," he says, moving my shaking hands away from the knot. His hands go to my waist, and he stands close, close enough to feel the heat off his body. Close enough to make me shiver. He undoes the knot deftly, in a second, then gathers up the apron and hands it to me. I hold it in my hands so tightly that it's probably wrinkled from my grasp alone.

"Thanks." I move to get my jacket, stowing my apron under the counter. I move uncertainly toward the door. I don't want to leave. I should leave.

I don't want to leave him.

"You're not walking, are you?" He sounds incensed by the very idea of it.

"Yeah, I guess so," I say, peering out the window, then looking back at him. I don't move. He doesn't move.

"But it's raining."

"Not that much," I say, and it's true that the rain has eased up a little from the torrential downpour it was before. "It doesn't bother me."

"Well, then here," he says, picking up his umbrella, still wet, and putting it into my hands. "I've come prepared for fall here. Take it."

"But it's yours," I say, stupidly. "You'll get wet."

"It doesn't bother me." We stand looking at each other for a moment, then I put both hands on the handle.

"Thank you. But you still shouldn't get soaked because of me." The door opens behind me.

"Well I could always—" he's cut off by a voice from the door.

"Oh, good, I didn't miss you, Anne." I turn around, surprised to see Elliot standing in the door. He's only damp. He must have driven. "I was worried that you'd set out on your own, and we'd be dragging the river for your body. Come on, get in the car, I'm taking you home," he looks over at Ahmir, gives him a quickly, smiling once-over, nods a hello, and says "How's it going?"

I stammer an introduction between the two of them. They shake hands.

"I'm not taking no for an answer, Miss Elliot. If you get the flu, it won't be on my watch." He holds the door open for me.

There's no way I can refuse him politely. I turn to Ahmir, whose face is blank once again. A muscle twitches in his cheek. I try to smile ruefully at him, and I shrug, and I hand him back his umbrella. How can you say what you want to say? How can you even begin?

"Thanks anyway, Cap." His nickname, my nickname for him comes out of my mouth before I can stop it, and his eyes flash to mine for just a second before Elliot ushers me out the door.

In his Porsche, I curse myself for being weak. I curse Ahmir for being confusing, I curse Elliot for coming at just the wrong time, I curse the rain for raining, and I curse myself again and again and again for not saying what I should have said. For not saying what I've been telling myself I would tell him, if I had the chance.

I love you. I love you. I love you.