I lean my head on his shoulder, which softly rises and falls with his slow breaths. It’s peaceful out here. The chaos of the city is a muted hum. The air is crisp, but not cold. I can see why Elise likes to spend her days on this bench.
“I will quit,” he says, putting a second cigarette between his lips. The lighter battles the breeze, illuminating the hand Alex cups around it. He looks so tired. “I will. Just not this week.”
I take the box off him, because two is enough, and slip it into my pocket. He offers me the one between his fingers.
“No, thanks. I like normal-flavored air. Just plain, original, vanilla air.”
He laughs. “Fuck me, then.”
I grin back at him in the soft orange glow cast by the porch light. “Fuck you, then.”
“Evie texted me to say that you’re cool.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh. If I could pick one adjective that I’m not, it’d becool. When I was twelve, my mom asked my grandma to say something nice about me and the best word she could come up with wassturdy. She slapped me on the thigh like a retired man slaps his old car and said,She wouldn’t blow away in a strong wind, that one.
Nothing like a female family member to humble you at an early age.
I miss them all now, though.
“Your sisters are great. I like them all, Fleur included.”
“They are. I don’t know how they’ve not turned out terrible.”
I swing my legs where I sit, the garden quiet save for the sporadic noise of my feet catching the tile beneath us.
“I might never get better, Ophelia.”
This is unlike him. I’ve seen a lot from Alex, but never much insecurity. “Alex. I’m miserable. Cynical. Grumpy. Glass half empty. In the future you envision for us, am I a cheerful, happy-go-lucky optimist who skips her way down the stairs every morning?”
He almost shudders, which makes me laugh. I don’t know why he is so charmed by my grumpiness. “Fuck no. You grumble all day.”
He snuffs out the cigarette on the metal arm of the bench and drags me onto his lap, rinsing his mouth with water from the glass.His hands run over my thighs, over the soft fabric that covers them. He leans into the curve of my neck and takes a slow inhale, like he needs me in his bloodstream more than the nicotine. “I’m frightened by my love for you.”
“I’m frightened by the idea of not having a slice of toast in the next five minutes.”
His laugh is warm and rumbly against my throat, and his fingers sink into my hips as though he can’t bear to let go. “One more minute.”
I drop a swift kiss to the top of his head. “If all you could ever offer me is quiet weekends and difficult mornings, that’s more than enough.”
“You’re just grumpy, though. I’m depressed. It’s a different beast. Depression is exhausting to be around. Grumpiness isn’t.”
“I know it’s a different beast, but it’s the same love.”
Finally, he meets my eyes. His are full of worry, but I don’t need a mirror to know that mine are full of certainty.
“The same love,” he repeats, like it’s an unfamiliar concept. Like he’d never considered the fact that I might love him just as unconditionally as he does me. Somewhere, two car horns beep. Someone shouts. Our eyes stay completely locked, like no one exists but us.
“DO YOU WANTanything for your birthday?” I ask, sitting on the stool at the kitchen island, watching Alex put four slices of bread in the toaster and push the button down.
“You. Backward. Forward. Sideways. In the shower. On my desk.”
On his desk.Fuck.My knees press together. “Alex.”
“You’re present enough for the next hundred birthdays, Ophelia.”
“If you don’t say something, I’ll have to go rogue. I’ll get you interpretive dancing lessons.”
He’s grinning, at last, as he pulls a jar of chocolate spread from the cupboard that very clearly saysMia’s – DO NOT TOUCHon it and opens it. “I’ll interpretive dance for you any day of the week, Twist. No need to pay for lessons.”
