Work Text:
On day one of waiting, Anne wakes up to find her fountain pen clenched in her fist.
She doesn't recall having fallen asleep with it, but she certainly remembers stumbling to bed with an exhaustion that could only come from a day of such wonderful things. Diana, though she had made a virtuous effort to be a devoted friend, had drifted off around one o'clock in the morning, exhausted from her long day of travel. Anne, however, had been unable to bear the idea of letting today go—Gilbert, his hand on her cheek, his lips pressed against hers, the look of hope on his face as he gazed down at her. And the sight of her mother, drawn by her father as though she was the most beautiful thing in the world.
Anne knows now what it feels like to have someone looking at you like you are the most beautiful thing in the world. She wouldn't trade it for anything, raven hair be damned.
It had felt, last night, as though the day was too good to end. If she were to fall asleep (oh, but how could she possibly?) would she lose some of this feeling, so large and uncontainable? Anne had chosen to take the risk, but not before finishing her letter to Gilbert, signing her name with her best handwriting and feeling very much like every little thing about this letter mattered more than anything else in the world.
This morning, when she wakes up with the pen in her hand, it occurs to her that she had just written her first letter to a boy who loves her. She sits still in bed for a moment, pinching her wrist again, thinking about all the times she had imagined this very thing. What she would write, how mature she would sound, the way it would feel to seal off her words and watch them float off towards the most romantic boy she could conjure in her imagination. But it's Gilbert. And this letter is so much sweeter for everything that she hadn't had to say, hadn't had to tell or teach him. It is so much sweeter for everything he already knows.
The feeling expands in her heart again, swelling like a hot air balloon, and Anne sits up, clutching her hand over her heart and letting out a loud, relieved laugh. The precious emotion has not vanished at all and has instead become still more expansive, hitting crevices that she had never even known she had.
She thinks about the way Matthew had rushed to saddle Belle as soon as she'd told him that she loved Gilbert and had to tell him. Without a doubt, that there will be no need for formalities. Matthew and Marilla already think of Gilbert as family. Their family.
Her family.
Unceremoniously, Anne tosses her covers back and rushes across the cold wood floor of her and Diana's bedroom, throwing the window open and sticking her head out.
"Hello, dear old world," she whispers. "You are very lovely, and I am glad to be alive in you."
"Anne?" It hadn't occurred to her that Diana would be awake, so consumed was she in her own pocket of the universe, but Anne turns to see her bosom friend standing behind her, fully dressed, hands folded neatly in front of her. "Are you ready to go down to breakfast?"
She asks it despite Anne's utter dishevelment, her teasing given away by the smallest note of laughter in her tone. Anne throws a pillow in her direction as she rushes to get dressed, finishing her hair in record time with Diana's aid. They walk to the dining room arm-in-arm, purposefully matching each of their steps to the other's, making sure they are swinging just right into their first day of classes.
"Oh Diana, I'm so happy I hardly think I can eat."
"You can't skip breakfast, Anne," Diana says soothingly, ever the voice of reason. "You already missed dinner. Everyone will wonder what's become of you."
They settle into the quaint dining chairs at the long, elegant table, and Anne observes each of her classmates, old and new, as they file noisily into the room. She wraps her fingers around a knife and practically vibrates in her seat, unable to help it. In an attempt to contain her, Diana places her fingers on Anne's elbow.
"Thank you," Anne murmurs. "I feel as though I could burst out of my skin."
"What are you going to tell them?" Diana asks, casting a furtive glance at their classmates as they settle into their seats. "You have to admit, this is going to be something."
It hadn't occurred to Anne that her secret world with Gilbert, so ensconced in a bubble of his lips on her knuckles, could be exposed to others. Aside from Matthew and Marilla, Anne hadn't given much thought to what other people would think. Outside consequences, aside from the daunting task of having to wait until the next time she could see Gilbert in person, hadn't much seemed to matter in the warm light of yesterday. Anne can feel heat in her cheeks rising and knows that she's beginning to overreact, but can't bring herself to calm down as she goes from thrilled to positively panicked, rounding on Diana in a whisper-hiss.
"Oh, do you think Ruby is going to hate me?"
"I think Ruby's moved on with Moody," Diana replies, voice gentle. Then she hesitates. "But maybe a little bit."
"And what about Josie?"
"Josie will do what she does. Just be calm." It's said with a prim nod that feels more like an instruction. Diana places her napkin in her lap, folds her hands together, and raises her chin, looking like a proper lady.
"What if I just didn't tell them?"
"Anne! They'll find out eventually."
"But not on the first day of classes. If anyone's going to be upset, I'd rather postpone it for a lesser day than our first day at Queens College."
"Fine," Diana says, resigned to this as girls begin picking up their forks and knives and reaching for the food that has been placed in front of them.
"Anne!" Jane rushes to her side and plops down, grabbing onto her arm. "Were you sick last night? Do you feel better this morning? Did you get sick from wandering around town all day? Is your illness contagious? Should I not be touching you? Should you even be here?"
Anne opens her mouth to respond and her eyes catch Ruby standing in the doorway, looking wonderfully beautiful and at ease as she chats with one of their new classmates. She finds herself unable to speak, nerves getting the better of her and swallowing her whole. Normally she'd be babbling, but this whole thing feels so fragile, and she wants to go about it the right way. When she looks over at Diana and gives her a look that very clearly pleads for help, Diana, ever the best of friends Anne could asks for, takes the reigns.
"Anne had an eventful day yesterday and needed some extra rest," she says, to the general group, which isn't entirely a lie. They all look over at her curiously, but don't seem to question it as they take their seats.
"Eventful how?" asks Josie suspiciously.
Diana looks to Josie, then to Anne, then to the curious eyes of Jane, Tillie, and Ruby that are fixed on the two of them. She twists her lips to one side, then the other, and bursts into a broad smile.
"GilbertcamehereandkissedAnne!"
The eruption of noise from the Avonlea girls is enough to cause the other students at the table to jump, followed immediately by a bark of admonishment from their new house mother.
"He came here?" Tillie asks in awe.
"He kissed her?" squeaks Jane.
"Gilbert loves Anne?" questions Josie, seeming genuinely shocked at such a concept.
But Anne only has eyes for sweet Ruby, who is staring down at her plate, eyes fixed on the eggs that she now seems unlikely to eat. Anne wants to open her mouth, to apologize, but she's frozen with fear and with the absolute stubborn refusal to be sorry for something that has made her so happy. She loves Gilbert. Despite all of the denial and pretending, she feels that she must have loved him for longer than she could possibly know. If she traces the origin of them backwards like the curving roots of a tree, she finds that she isn't quite sure where the trunk lies. But how could where it started matter if the beginning of the story's ending has made her feel so entirely alive?
The truth is, she is not sorry for loving Gilbert. She is only sorry that she hadn't let herself see it earlier, and part of her reason for ignoring it derives directly from these girls sitting at this table, wanting their friendship and fearing their judgement.
"And I made it happen!" Diana is crowing with delight. "I was absolutely yelling him on the train, yelling, and when I mentioned Anne's letter he looked shocked, and—"
"Letter?" Tillie squeals, looking for all the world like she might just pass out.
"She wrote him a letter telling him that she loved him. Then he never saw it," explains Diana with cheeks flushed a rose-petal pink. Anne is torn between embarrassment and overwhelming joy. "So Anne thought he'd proposed, but he hadn't."
"What did he say when he saw her?" Josie leans forward in her seat demandingly. Diana smiles, suddenly sly.
"Nothing. He just kissed her."
The other three giggle, momentarily out of questions, so Anne finally manages to speak. She directs her careful words towards the friend that is still staring determinedly down at her plate, wordless.
"Ruby?" Anne says tentatively. "Are you alright?"
Ruby raises her eyes and looks at all of them, eyes wide.
"Oh," she says quietly, and Anne's stomach clenches. Then: "It's just so romantical!" Ruby slumps back against her chair, a dreamy expression on her face. She crosses her arms over her chest and smiles up at the ceiling. "You both thought the other one knew but then you didn't and now you do… oh."
She looks content as she sighs a second time.
"Are you happy, Anne?" asks Jane very seriously, her eyes eager. "Is this what you want?"
Anne doesn't have to think much before replying. The balloon in her chest is, if anything, only rising higher now that the final rope has been sliced through.
"I can say with confidence that I have never experienced such overwhelming happiness." She says it sincerely, as though making a solemn oath to her friends. They all catch it, see it on her face and in the passion behind her eyes, and exchange small, secret smiles. They are the only ones who were there for the whole story, from slate to certainty. As they all sit at the breakfast table together, they bear it in the way that only friends can.
"Wait," Tillie bursts out. "Do you remember the time we made Anne ask Gilbert about reproduction?"
Moment over, the girls dissolve into peals of laughter again, and this time Anne is able to join in.
"Anne, could you please relax?" Diana begs from the settee. She's got her dress draped out around her knees, looking like a princess, and Anne almost feels bad for the anxiety that she's giving her friend. Brows as beautiful as her bosom friends' should not be furrowed, after all. Diana deserves only the best things.
Unfortunately, instead of the best of things, Diana had gotten stuck with Anne for a roommate.
"I just don't understand why he hasn't written yet."
"Perhaps because it's only been two days," suggests Diana wryly. "You know the letter has to get here, right?"
The part of Anne's brain that is capable of logic seems to have dissolved the moment Gilbert had swung himself out of the carriage to kiss her goodbye. While she'd temporarily resurrected it for classes, she now finds herself with the awful reality of having no homework left, curfew well past, and most of their friends asleep, the distraction of the day having gone to bed alongside them. All she wants to do is run downstairs and check the spot where they keep the post one more time. Instead, she forces herself to collapse onto her bed, hands clenched at her sides.
"Is there any chance that I could have made all this up in my head?" asks Anne, checking to make sure. "Maybe I'm just delusional."
"Certainly not," replies Diana. "If you are, we'd be sharing the same delusion."
"We are kindred spirits after all." Anne says it with as much amusement as she can muster. "I can see that happening, you know."
Diana crosses her eyes goofily, intent on making Anne smile.
"I love you enough that I most certainly would dream with you," she promises. "But not about Gilbert Blythe."
Anne's still giggling when there's a rap at the door, brisk and impatient.
"Anne?" rings out Josie's voice. "Anne, some of your mail got mixed up with mine and there's a letter from-"
In a breath, Anne has already bolted over to the door and hauled it open, needy hands reaching out for the letter. Josie smirks as she hands it over, head tilted to the side.
"Gilbert," Anne says, finishing the sentence. She pulls the letter to her chest and presses it against her heart before ripping it open, too impatient now to use great care.
"You were reading a letter at dinner," Diana points out, coming to stand at the door. "How come you didn't give it to Anne then?"
Josie shrugs one shoulder.
"Because," she says, and then flounces off to her room with a little more bounce in her step than usual.
After momentarily considering giving into the fury that is pulsing through her veins, Anne chooses instead to give into the letter in her hands. Unable to look at anything else, she collapses onto the floor on the spot and sweeps her eyes over the words.
Dear Anne,
I began staring at this blank page the moment I got back onto the train and, if you asked me how long I've been sitting here or what stop we're at or how many people have passed by since we began moving, I would not be able to tell you. All I can think about is you, and the fact that you hold my heart, and that I now know that I hold yours.
It defies logic that I am uncertain of how to write this letter, but now that I feel I can say anything to you, I am not sure where to start. I could start by telling you the moment I knew how I truly felt about you, or the moment I knew I would never be capable of feeling such a way for anyone else. I could start by telling you all the things I know about you, the things I learned over the years, the things I kept close while I was out at sea or collecting honey from my bees or studying for exams by your side. I could start by telling you what I want for the future, that I've been thinking about a life with you for so long that there's now an image of it in my head, so real I could draw it on paper. I dream of a home with a hearth-fire in it, a cat and dog, the footsteps of friends, and you, Anne.
Yet despite my collection of ideas and hopes and knowledge, things that I never thought I'd be able to reveal to you, I now must confess that the thing I crave the most is to know what you think about all this. The thing that I want more than anything is to never stop talking to you, never stop writing you, never stop being challenged by you. I've spent all these years with every single one of my thoughts, but have only had bits and pieces of yours. Anne-girl, I was so prepared to have to miss you. Now that I know I don't need to, now that I know that I can write you with all of my intentions clear, none of the pesky details seem to matter.
I'll answer any follow up questions you have to ask me because it means that I will know what you need to know. And that, more than anything, should tell you how I feel. If I need to say it in more certain terms, I will do that a thousand times over, but until then, until I can say it out loud to you, I can tell you the thing that is the simplest and truest to me: I have loved hearing what you had to say since the moment you smashed your slate over my head. And so much has changed, but that never will.
Yours,
Gilbert
Anne doesn't realize that her fingers are trembling until she's finished the letter. She lets it slip from her hands, a frown sewn into her forehead as she leans over it and reads it again, bent over like she's praying. After she's finished for the third time, she finally looks up at Diana, expecting to feel tears in her eyes, and instead finding them bone-dry.
She doesn't feel like crying. She feels like she is glowing, glowing from the inside-out, so that her hair is caught in the fire of it and her eyes are ablaze with the light of the hearth he had described.
"Anne?" Diana says, delicate. Anne can't bring herself to look away from Gilbert's letter and instead focuses on memorizing the handwriting that she had learned years ago. She wonders if he had learned hers too, without her even noticing.
"He wants…" She trails off, not knowing what to express first. "I want." That's better, isn't it? It sounds right. Anne nods affirmatively, drawing in a breath. "I want... exactly this."
Day fifteen of waiting involves two morning hours during which Anne can barely manage to hold a conversation. She fumbles with simple things, like the pins that she is placing in Tillie's hair and the corset that she helps Diana into. At several points during breakfast, her fork slides clean out of her hand because she's forgotten that she's in the middle of eating. Her friends exchange fond glances with each other, which Anne pretends not to notice, choosing instead to tilt her head to the side and watch the little hand on the clock tick antsily around in a circle.
Eventually, Anne is whisked upstairs and frog-marched to Diana's vanity. Her sloppy hairdo is pulled down, replaced by a style patiently crafted by Ruby. She winds up wearing a bracelet that is Tillie's and one of Josie's ribbons. With a final spritz of Jane's best perfume, Anne is deemed beautiful enough to be seen. Only then does it occur to her that the waiting is over.
It's been fifteen long days since he kissed her for the first time. There was school, the beginning of classes, getting to know new students, all of it coinciding with the newness of them. Gilbert had asked if he could come to see her- his pen, she had noted with some glee, seemed to have been shaking a little as he wrote the words- and hadn't been able to make good on the request until the following weekend. They wanted a whole day together, they decided, so they were going to leave the house to be together and talk, really talk, the way they have begun to get used to in their letters.
She has spent so much of her life being patient, but now her friends are laughing as Diana and Ruby dance in a joyful circle together, teasing Anne about something that she had utterly missed because she's been engrossed in her daydreams. Watching them, Anne finds herself wondering if she had ever fathomed, so long ago, what she had been waiting for.
"Could I have a minute?" she asks Diana, who nods and presses a kiss against Anne's cheek before tugging the rest of their friends out of the room. The absence of their laughter makes Anne feel a little muted, like someone had stripped some of the color away from her bedroom.
Anne sits back on Diana's stool and blinks at herself in the mirror, doe-like. She tries to detach herself, to see the person that Gilbert has been writing to each and every day between his classes or before he goes to bed. It had all happened so fast, but she thinks that he might have pulled back and looked at her at one point, really looked at her. Looked at her the way he's looked at her a dozen times, but now Anne knows what it is, and it suddenly makes her face feel foreign to her. No longer is she able to locate the parts of her appearance that had pained her for so long. She feels, instead, like there is grace in her lack of grace; beauty in the things that had once made her think that she was missing something. She looks at herself and sees a girl who is loved by a boy and finds herself becoming shielded by it, drawing in the resolve of loving him too.
Anne reaches down into herself and pulls out the courage that is accompanied by certainty. It's something that she has been carrying around with her since the moment she had taken the two steps forward needed to kiss Gilbert after he asked her if she had feelings for him. Now she uses its weight to push her shoulders back and smooth the line of worry on her forehead.
It's Gilbert. But also, it's Gilbert. And Gilbert is, and will always be, Gilbert. So, without a doubt (because she has never been able to not be) she will be Anne.
There's a screech from outside, and Anne jumps in her seat, a reflex. Rushing over to the window, she sees Gilbert being bombarded by her best friends. He's shifting awkwardly as he is assaulted by several loud voices of the girls with whom he had grown up. Anne leans her head against the cool window pane and watches them for just a moment, just long enough to allow a smile to bloom across her lips. Then Gilbert looks up at the window and catches her gaze as though he had known she was there. And without anything resembling coherency in her mind, Anne turns around and rushes down the staircase, bursting out the front door.
She slows down when she's approaching him, aware that all of their friends are watching, and that Jane is unable to stop the giggles from escaping her mouth. Gilbert tips his hat at her with his left hand and Anne realizes that he is holding a picnic basket in the right, checkered cloth and all.
Suddenly, all she wants is to be alone with him.
"Gilbert," she says, trying to sound older than she is. "Would you care to join me for a walk?"
Anne watches his familiar Adam's apple bob up and down as he swallows before nodding, turning sideways to offer his arm to her. There's a small uptick at the corner of his mouth and his eyebrows are curved mischievously, like he's already prepared to ask her if she wants to stay out past curfew or run off on some enchanting adventure that only belongs to them.
They don't speak when she first tucks her hand into the crook of his arm, startled by the conviction with which she does it. Gilbert is too, by the expression on his face- the ever-present sideways smile and fluttering eyelashes shooting down her spine until she feels them in her toes. Anne licks her lips nervously and they begin to make their way down the lane, pebbles crunching underneath their shoes.
"I suppose this is better than the notice board," says Gilbert, sly as he looks at her out of the corner of his eye. Anne lifts her chin and lowers her voice into its bossiest form.
"Next time you should be clearer when you're advancing your proper advance. I'm not sure which advance this is."
Gilbert laughs through his nose.
"I think this is the third one."
Anne looks thoughtfully towards the clouds.
"Do you have to re-advance your advance after you've used up your first advance before a proper advance?"
"Perhaps we should ask Mrs. Lynd. She would certainly know the answer."
"She knows every answer," replies Anne, holding back a laugh.
They round a corner towards the well-trampled path just beyond the house, slowly and aimlessly moving forward together. As they walk, speaking about classes and new schoolmates and what feels different against all of the sameness, Gilbert carefully drops his arm and reaches down to fold her fingers into his. She can feel him checking her expression to see if she's alright with it, but Anne is determined not to give in to any of the doubts he might have about her feelings. She stands up a little straighter and pulls him further down the lane, noticing the exact moment that his posture relaxes next to her.
Unable to help herself, Anne turns her head towards him and beams. Gilbert stops walking, taking a few moments to blink at her a little hopelessly. He reaches up to take his hat off and ruffle a hand through his hair for something to do with his nervous energy.
"Anne, may I-?" he begins, and she sighs, placing a hand on his chest to lightly push him back against a tree so that she can step up on her tip-toes and press her lips to his.
They aren't practiced at this, but she still delights in the way he moves against her, so full of warmth and certainty. He shifts his hands around at intervals, touching her cheek and her hair and once, thrillingly, pressing hard into the small of her waist, making her feel tiny and safe underneath him.
"You don't have to ask," Anne says breathlessly, looking across at him with all the fondness in the world bunched right up against her heart. "Not anymore."
She traces a line from his temple to his chin, more curious than anything else, but Gilbert looks windswept by the end of it, like the earth herself had knocked the breath out of him.
There's a small nod from him, curt and disciplined, and then he squeezes his eyes shut for just a moment before opening them again and returning to kissing her in earnest, mouth hot and eager on hers, fingers curled at her waist. Being alone with him, and being with him like this, feels to Anne like the strangest cross section between childhood and adulthood. To be doing something so intimate but to feel so much from it feels like a dichotomy. It had always seemed to her that grown ups felt less, were far less excitable, experienced emotions differently than she did. But now that Anne is behaving the way they do, she discovers her heart palpitating the way it always would have, regardless of whether she's wearing her hair in two braids or in a carefully curated updo. Anne is caught in the crosshairs of who she's been and who she's becoming, but Gilbert is right there with her, this intelligent boy, this kind man who had been forced to grow up and take care of himself far too young.
He pulls away first, leaving Anne to chase after him, not quite finished kissing him yet. Gilbert rests his forehead against hers, pulling her close into an embrace and letting her keep a hand on his jaw, her fingers resting against the smooth skin there. One day it'll have stubble, she realizes, and she will be there to feel it. She will press her lips against it, maybe watch him shave, maybe help him, and she will know that she has grown with him.
Butterflies come to life in her stomach. Anne closes her eyes. Lets the breeze playfully tousle her hair.
"Did I ever tell you about the time a butterfly landed right on my hand?" she murmurs.
"No," Gilbert replies, "but I think you're one of the only people who I'd believe that story from, Anne Shirley-Cuthbert."
She opens her eyes to see if he's teasing her and finds that he is not.
"It's true," Anne says, somewhat indignant despite herself. "Right on my fingers. As though we'd been the dearest of friends in another life and she was paying me a visit."
"I think," Gilbert muses, "that you could make friends with anyone in the world. Including animals. Butterflies, horses, people-"
"Let's not forget my fox."
"Never," Gilbert says, stepping back so that she can see him crossing his heart resolutely. Anne takes his hand again, so he brings her knuckles to his lips and presses a kiss against her skin, eyes firmly affixed on hers. "Never," he says again, and really, from the way it makes her heart hammer in her chest, she thinks it means always. He'll always believe in her. He'll always trust her. They'll always be the two kids from Avonlea who fell in love and grew up together no matter how far they go now or who they become.
Gilbert makes to grab her hand again to resume their walk and move away from this old, elegant tree, but Anne stops him.
"Wait," she says, feeling her heart picking up speed in her chest at what she's about to do. "One moment. I want to… see."
She squints one eye and carefully moves her hands to block her peripheral vision, framing the image of his soft, puzzled face with the tree nudging against his shoulder. Then she steps forward and places her hands in his, anchoring herself as she gazes at him, trying to put together all the pieces of who he has been to her over the years and who he is now.
There'd been a small niggling fear, the moment he drove away from her, that her imagination would get the best of her and she would create something of nothing in her head. She doesn't want the Gilbert on paper, the one in daydreams and letters and golden tinged memories. She wants the real one, who had almost missed his train to college to make absolute certain that the two of them were in the same place.
She breaks out into a smile at his expression, perfectly content but simultaneously lost in his own project of staring at her without interruption, and all of the angst wriggles itself free from her body. Anne moves in to kiss Gilbert at the same time he moves in to kiss her. When they finally begin walking again, their arms swing easily between them, playful and buoyant.
"So you were saying," she says, as though they'd never been interrupted, "about your anatomy course."
They finally happen upon a knoll that is sunny enough for their picnic and agree without words to settle there. Anne feels something of a thrill as Gilbert lays out the checkered cloth, his cheeks a bit red, just tinged enough that she can tell how carefully he had planned their date today. She decides, when he refuses to let her help, that she'll contribute in her own way, wandering around the grass until she has collected enough wildflowers to make a cheery addition to their tableau.
Gilbert has brought two thick slabs of rhubarb pie, some blueberries, and a carefully wrapped hunk of cheese, which he is slowly unfolding from its cloth.
"Bash made this from scratch by himself," he says, gesturing towards the cheese with his chin. "I can't promise it will taste good."
Anne takes a seat on the blanket, her heart in her hand as she reaches out for one of the slices of rhubarb pie.
"I'm sure it'll be wonderful," she says, feeling like she should sing it out. "Nothing could ever be terrible on a day as beautiful as this one, don't you think?"
Gilbert looks up at the crystal clear sky, the kind of bright blue that only fall could boast.
"I swear I wouldn't stop and think twice about half of these things without you to remind me to."
"You're more focused on the utility of nature," Anne explains, popping a piece of pie into her mouth. "Whereas I can find less practical applications for use of nature, but still equally as necessary, if you ask me."
"I feel like we should… talk." Gilbert hesitates. "Really talk. Not like we are right now, I mean-"
"About the fact that two weeks ago I thought you were betrothed to someone else?"
"And now we're sitting on a picnic blanket together," he finishes. "Right."
Anne presses her lips together, not sure if she wants to laugh or brush it off or communicate to him the deep heartbreak that she had forced herself to recover from as quickly as possible. She doesn't know quite how to communicate to him that, when she had seen his letter on her nightstand, heat had risen in her body until she hadn't been able to feel her fingers, her toes, her teeth. It somehow seems intimate to the point off too much.
She thinks about the way Josie's mother used to curl her hair every night, never letting her show the real parts of herself if they were less than desirable. Anne doesn't want to hide herself. She also doesn't want to be too much, and she's never quite been able to find the line. But Gilbert is looking at her with worry on his face, regret settled in his brow, and she can't have that. It's not his fault.
"What stopped you from doing it?" she asks curiously, leaning all the way forward. Her pie is temporarily forgotten as she rests her chin on her closed fist. "If it wasn't my note."
"I still only half believe that note exists," he teases. Anne laughs.
"Well, if that was the case, I'd have to give Diana immense credit for being so quick on her feet." She raises an eyebrow. "Are you avoiding the question?"
"No, I…" He trails off, shaking his head. "I told you. In the letter that you ripped up. I just keep forgetting you never read it."
"Oh." Her face burns with shame and Gilbert reaches out across the blanket to squeeze her fingers, making sure she knows that it's long forgiven. Anne would give just about anything to read that letter; she's frequently thought about the scattered pieces on her front porch and what the picture would have looked like had she puzzled them together correctly.
"I told you that I wasn't engaged, and that I wouldn't be… unless it was to you." Anne looks up at him. Suddenly, she is full to the brim. "There would never be anyone for me but you. My Anne."
She breathes out in a long, laborious breath. When it's gone from her, she feels like she's floating. A little woozy, a little lightheaded, and so incredibly in love with the nervous look that Gilbert is offering her.
"Well then," she replies, simple as that, and she stretches out onto the grass, face turned up to the sky, heart singing along with the birds, a brand new melody created just like them.
Gilbert's shoes appear by her head, and then he's laying in the grass with her, his shoulder nudging hers gently. Anne turns her head to kiss him and finds that a few blades of grass are already in his hair. His eyes are just as beautiful as they were the day she had noticed them for the first time, standing in their old classroom, face to face.
They lie there nose to nose. The clock stops ticking. Time lies still, there in the grass with them.
There would never be anyone for her but him.