“You have enough on your plate. I can be difficult.”
“You’re the easiest decision I’ve ever made.”
“You deserve better.”
“We deserve each other.”
“I’m bland and boring.”
“You’re every color I’ve been missing.”
I stare down at the white sheet that covers my pale chest, licking a salty tear from my upper lip. “I’m scared we’ll lose each other again, that the distance will eat us alive.”
“So am I.”
“And that doesn’t bother you?”
“It bothers me less than the idea of a life without you.”
I stew on his words while he sketches. That’s it in a nutshell, so succinctly put. I’ve overthought it so much, I’ve forgotten that all of this boils down to a simple decision. Life without him in it, or a future together.
And I don’t know whether it’s the look in his eye, the vulnerability of my position, or the fact that he’s here in front of me, but I feel the churning cogs in my mind slow down. I feel my overactive brain roll toward a decision.
I’d rather be terrified at his side, than fearless and alone. My smile is watery. “You really want to watch me do crosswords until I’m old and gray?”
His hand flies across the paper, but he’s looking at me. “It’s everything I want, Twist.”
“I want it, too. But—”
“We’ll figure out the logistics another day.”
“I get stalked like it’s an Olympic sport.”
He stifles a yawn, the corners of his mouth tipping up in a boyish grin. “Boring. Stalkers are boring.”
“Not when they’re trying to stop us getting a happy ending.”
“They’reespeciallyboring then. Your stalker, my mom, the girls, your fear of flying, the distance, my father, the media. We’ll figure it all out.”
I wave my hand, like these are just tiny things and not the giant obstacles most couples split up over. “Minor semantics.”
He laughs. It’s hoarse and genuine and happy. “Nowyou’re getting it. We’re young and stupid, but I know we’ll work it out.”
He stands, admiring his handiwork. I sit up, but he pins me with a glare, sliding onto the stool for the second easel. “What are you doing?”
“Seven tickets. Seven drawings.”
“There’s only so many times I can watch you straddle that stool and keep breathing.”
He sketches the next one in silence, and the next. I understand why he’d watch me do crosswords until we’re too old to remembereach other’s names, because I could watch him do this until the sun sets on this miserable planet for the final time.
He swipes the excess white chalk on his finger over the corded muscle of his forearm, a muted rainbow of oranges and blues and pinks across his raven tattoos.
We’re doing this, giving this a real try. The excitement outweighs the terror.
The moan that slips past my lips when he sits on the stool again has him adjusting his slacks, eyes blazing. “You’re dirty, Ophelia.”
“And the thoughts running through your head right now are perfectly innocent?”
