“How do I love you?”
“Yeah.” She nods, and she pushes off my chest to look down at me. She shuffles, dropping her legs on both sides of me, holding on to my face like she needs to know that I’m being serious. She swipes at her eyes before she says, “I mean . . . It’s not hard, is it? You don’t find it difficult?”
I swallow. “The way I love you is the furthest thing from difficult. It feels like breathing.”
She sniffles. “Because it’s easy?”
“Because I can’t live without you.”
The dam breaks, and her entire face crumbles as she cries, dropping her face into the crook of my neck. She clings to me like she’s never been held before, her nails pressed into my skin like she’s afraid I might disappear. I hold her impossibly closer to me in hopes that I can tether her to me forever. I whisper “I love you” over and over again until she stops crying. I keep saying it until she’s asleep. Long after she’s drifted off, I find myself still saying it into the night, as if the three words can work their way into her dreams so she’ll know that I’ll always love her.
I always have.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO: SCARLETT / EVAN
SCARLETT
International Kennedy Day is April 20th.
I’m pretty sure the first conversation I had with her when we met was about her birthday and what she expected on the day. People either hate their birthday or love it. Luckily for Wren and me, Kennedy is the latter half of the two extremes. I’ve always loved that about her. She doesn’t half-ass anything. And when she loves something, she loves it deeply. When it comes to her birthday, or celebrating literally anything, she turns it into a blockbuster.
The only problem?
She hates surprises.
Kennedy has to be in control of nine out of ten of her birthday festivities. She limits us to only one surprise throughout her entire birthday week, or else she’d go crazy. It’s understandable. She likes when things go to plan, and surprises can often mess up the idea of something you’ve created in your head, and not always for the better.
Still, there’s nothing like the look on her face when she opens our apartment door to find all of her friends standing in the living room dressed as their favorite celebrities and characters.
“You didn’t!” she yells, turning around to us in the doorway.
“We did,” we say at the same time, laughing at the way Kennedy’s eyes bulge out of her head. She jumps into our arms, squeezing us so tight we almost stop breathing.
“You guys are the best,” she says, the corners of her eyes pinching with how hard she’s smiling. “Ah! I have to find a costume.”
Wren rears back slightly, eyeing her up and down. “You just have costumes lying around?”
“Well . . . yeah.” Kennedy beams before rushing off down the hall to her room.
I let out a deep breath watching our best friend basically bounce with joy as she runs toward her room. Wren and I knew the right people to invite to our apartment, so there’s nottoomany people here, but enough to make Kennedy feel like we’re having a rager.
“She’s going to freak out when the main event arrives,” Wren says, tugging on my arm like an excited child.
“I think she might pass out.”
Wren and I know Kennedy better than anyone. We know exactly the right things that make her laugh, and the surprise we have planned for later might alter her brain chemistry.
“You look good, Jennifer,” Wren says, bumping her hip into mine.
“You too, Barbie,” I laugh, taking in her pink costume. My go-to Halloween costume has always been some sort of Megan Fox character. The girls have compared me to her for years, and it makes perfect sense. Wren, on the other hand, is the epitome of Barbie. All blonde hair, bright eyes, a million cute outfits to wear. It was a no-brainer for the two of us.
Evan steps in behind me, wrapping his arm around my waist and pressing a kiss to my shoulder. Wren’s smile doubles in size when she catches the encounter, and I’m trying to fight off the butterflies that swarm in my stomach. It’s been a while since we’ve all been together, and especially now that Evan and I are dating I’m not sure how to act around my friends with the guy I’m supposed to hate.
“I’m never going to get used to this,” Wren says, wagging a finger between the two of us.
“You won’t have to,” I mumble, squirming out of Evan’s grip. He doesn’t take the hint because he grins at me, standing by my side and slipping his fingers between mine. “I don’t like PDAs,” I tell him, squeezing his hand back.
“Yes, you do,” Evan argues.
