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Grant laughs. "Wow. Okay."
I sit up to really connect with him as I explain.
"I don't know ... I don't think true love exists. It's all an illusion we're sold in bookstores and movie theatres to keep us hoping for our own happily-ever-after ending. To convince us that love is all we need to solve our problems."
"Are you going to start singing?" He chuckles.
I shove at him playfully. "Anyway, I didn't believe in it."
"Didn't? And now?"
"Well ... after the magical brownie ride, I heard what Squirrel said. His explanation made more sense, and I can't believe I'm saying that. But it did. More than anything else I've been fed. When he said love isn't something we're given outside of ourselves. That we don't need anyone else to experience it, because ... we are it--I understood that. I just wish he could have called it something different. Because everyone else's love gets all tangled up in romantic gestures and waiting for someone to come rescue them. I've seen what that can do to a person."
"Your mother?" he asks quietly.
I nod. "I won't be her." I let out a slow breath. "True love is bullshit."
Grant's deep, raw laughter, that I adore so much, rumbles around us. "Then I'll just remain an idiot." I smile at him. He glances at me affectionately. "If it really bothers you, I won't say it."
I swallow. "Doesn't this feel like it's happening too fast? We've only known each other a few weeks. How can we know it's re
al?"
Grant looks out at the fireflies and watches them for a bit. I fear I've been too honest again. I don't want to dismiss whatever is happening between us, because I know it's something. I'm overcome by it, and even though the word love drives me insane because of its commercial misuse, I know that's where this connection comes from. But ... it's only been a few weeks, so how is it possible? How can I honestly believe it'll last? How do I know it'll be strong enough to withstand anything? Even something as simple as the start of the school year?
"How long have you known Ashton?" he asks, still focused on the fireflies.
"As long as I've known you."
"And you tell her things, right? You trust her with your truths?"
"Most of them."
He turns toward me. "But you care about her. Feel protective of her. If you used the word, you maybe even ... love her?"
I nod slightly.
"It's the same amount of time as you've known me. So why is it different? When you're connected to someone, time doesn't matter. It can feel like you've known them forever. And even though I don't know your details, like when you lost your first tooth, or your favorite ice cream flavor, I know you. The rest is just ... well, details. The most important thing is that feeling I have that lets me know that I can trust you. That you're a good person. That allows me to see through your cynicism and recognize that you really do believe in love. You just don't like what other people have done to abuse it.
"We're connected, Lana, and despite where we came from, who are parents are, or what we were doing a month ago, it brought us here ... together. And that's pretty fricken amazing if you ask me. Because I didn't know you even existed until a few weeks ago. But the moment I met you, it was like you've always existed in my life. You always belonged there. So we don't have to say love, but I feel it."
My chest is thumping so hard, I wonder if he can hear it.
His words linger in the air between us. They come from a place so real and honest; it's like I can reach out and touch them, hold every letter in the palm of my hand and believe in them.
"I feel it too."
I don't just say the words; I give them back. I want him to hold them too. To believe as much as I do.
I reach up and brush my fingers along the sculpted lines of his jaw, over the definition of his cheekbones, and through his hair. He blinks his eyes closed, absorbing it. I lean in and taste his lips. Gentle and soft, a breath of a kiss. He inhales a broken gasp. His hands cup my sides, leaning me into him, until I have to adjust, placing my knees on either side of his thighs. His eyes ease open as if he's been dreaming--they look into me, through me, beyond me.
My heartbeat has taken over my entire body, pulsing and thrumming through my core to my toes. Our eyes remain locked for a slow inhale, then I close mine and find his mouth again, pressing harder, running my tongue along the tender give of his lower lip. His hands slide across my back and cradle me like I am the most precious thing they've ever held. I can feel his pulse pounding in time with mine. His lips skim along the sensitive flesh of my jaw to my neck, nipping at the beating under my skin. My hands slide into his hair and I move into him, closer, tighter.
He lowers me onto my back, gazes down at me, observing, admiring, searching. I am exposed beneath his stare, but I don't shy away. I let him see me, because this is the truth. And as he said, it can't be changed. His mouth captures mine, our pace increases. Our wanting becomes need. His hand skates along my hemline. He pulls back before he removes the fabric. "Is this okay?"
"Yes."
He lifts is over my head. And before he can ask, I remove the bra as well. His hands are warm; his tongue is gentle. I reach for the edges of his shirt and ask, "Is this okay?"
