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Ally,
God, Ally, I'm sorry I wasn't there for your premiere. You were so great, and I promise I'll do whatever I can to make it up to you. Even if it means shelving all serious conversations about where are relationship is going.
I've felt lucky every day, ever since that glorious moment when you told Ryan to go fuck himself with your engagement. Ever since you chose me. But I've never felt luckier than last night.
I still can't believe my luck that you want anything to do with me. I pinch myself when I wake up, because I think I'm dreaming.
I'm sorry I keep trying to rush you. I didn't do things well before either. But, God, I love you so fucking much. I feel it everywhere, all the time, wherever I go. I love you so much, and every single inch between us hurts. I want you to live with me. I want you to be my wife.
But I know I'm getting ahead of myself.
I just want you to know I'm in it for the long haul, Ally.
You're the best thing in my life. I don't even know what my life was before I met you, because I can't imagine it without you. I can't imagine not coming home to see you glued to your Kindle again, pretending not to gasp over the dramatic twist in whatever it is you're reading. I can't imagine not arguing over what to watch on TV. Or not mocking old movies with you. I can't even imagine waking up and drinking all my tea, instead of losing half of it to you. I'd so much rather you have that half of my tea.
I'm sorry I'm here. I promise it has nothing to do with us. I'm still all in.
And I promise that when I get back to Los Angeles, I'll make this up to you in a much more... exciting way.
I'm all yours.
Always.
Love,
Luke
CHAPTER SEVEN
Samantha almost shrieks when I pull out the Cabernet. It's not a bottle. It's a juice box. Well, a wine box.
Her jaw drops. "I thought you were joking."
"I'm not that cruel." I
place two water cups--flimsy plastic things--on the table attached to her bed. "When are you getting out of here?"
"Tomorrow."
That doesn't leave much time to make sure she's not going to do this again, but I'll make do.
I pour the wine into the tiny cups. It's such a violent, vibrant shade of crimson that the whole room fills with color.
She brings the cup to her lips and takes a tiny sip.
"Is it acceptable?" I ask.
She smirks. "I'm not in a position to be choosy."
The wine stains her lips the same vibrant shade. Her whole face floods with color.
She takes another sip, a greedy one this time. "Better than I expected from a juice box."
"It's easier to smuggle than a bottle."
"There's nothing in the hospital policy that specifically forbids wine."
I run my fingers over the edge of the cup. "What would your doctor say about it?"
